Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86322 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86322 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
I figured I’d be turned on by watching her dance, but I wasn’t prepared for the swell of emotions deep in my chest that her movements evoked. The song and the way she matched her flow to the beat stirred something primal. It swelled, taking over my lungs, and I found myself holding my breath until finally the beats ended, and she touched her hand to her head and bowed to the speaker on the counter, as if tipping her hat.
Air whooshed from my lungs, and I started clapping.
She screamed at the first strike and whirled around, her hand to her chest. “Holy fucking shit, Lucian,” she gasped, folding in half and sucking down deep breaths before standing again. “Goddamn. You scared the shit out of me.”
I laughed, but kept clapping. “Sorry, princess. I didn’t mean to. I was just basking in finally getting to see you dance.”
She rolled her eyes and turned away, but not before I saw pink tinge her cheeks. “That’s not my actual dancing.”
“No?” I tipped my head, studying her. “How do you usually dance?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Like normal women do at the club.”
I hummed in thought. “I think I’d rather catch you dancing to those earthy beats than any club song. Although I’m sure your normal dancing would turn me on as well.”
“Oh, really?” she asked with a deadpanned stare.
“Of course, but nothing like that,” I said, making my way around the island, closer to her. I took advantage of her teasing response and leaned into the playfulness brewing between us like it used to. “That was bold and dynamic…raw.”
The corners of her mouth quirked up, and her eyes gleamed. “It’s called Bomba,” she said softly.
The light shining in her amber eyes acted as another reminder of how much I missed this carefree side of her. I wanted it last. So, instead of reaching for her as I planned, I perched on a stool and waited for more. At my clear interest in wanting to know more, her whole face lit up, igniting the familiar warm goo that spread through my chest more and more as the days went on.
“It’s such a beautiful part of our culture that I learned about when my mom and I went to visit her family.” She laughed, light and airy. “Walking around a market and coming across a crowd surrounding some musicians playing drums and maracas is one of my favorite memories of my mom.”
“What happened?” I asked, eager for more of her infectious joy.
Her mouth curved into an excited smile as she moved to the open floor. “She slipped off her shoes—which was shocking after all the times she told me to keep mine on when I was outdoors, so I didn’t get some disease.”
“My parents said the same thing,” I said, laughing with her.
“When she saw my shocked face, she explained afterward that it has to do with being grounded,” she explained.
She shook her arms as if loosening up. “Then she stepped into the circle the crowd made and moved around the edges to set the rhythm with the drummer. She called them basic steps, but they still looked complicated as hell to me.”
While she explained, she took small dance steps and moved her arms in time, slowly showing me how it came together.
“Then—I’ll never forget it.”
She closed her eyes and sighed wistfully, a soft smile curling her lips, and I wanted nothing more than to take a photo of her in that moment. She looked so happy, so calm, so peaceful. She was stunning.
Her eyes slid open, directing a coy smile my way. “She smiled at me and winked before turning to the drummer. She touched her forehead and bowed…and then she moved.” Aspen mimicked the moves she explained, holding me enraptured with each step and matching sway of her arms. “She had this chiffon wrap that she whipped around with each flowing move.”
Slowly, she came to a stop and leaned against the counter beside me, still holding that easy smile on her lush lips. My mouth watered, imagining leaning to taste the tempting curve.
“I’d watched my parents dance around the kitchen, but I’d never seen my mom move like that. It was beautiful and powerful. She controlled the beat, and it reverberated through my chest, filling me with the pride she always told me I should have about our culture. I’d just never listened. But I heard it then. She spoke through the music, and I finally heard her,” she explained, reverence softening her voice.
“Everyone watched her as the music moved faster and faster, keeping up with her dance moves, until she eventually stopped, laughing with so much joy, before she touched her forehead again with a bow to the drummer.” She demonstrated what she was explaining before turning to me with a cocky smirk. “Other people danced after her—and were beautiful—but my mom had something special.”