Mel reaches for my hand and pulls me toward the makeshift dance floor. It’s basically just a living room with all the hand-me-down sofas and end tables shoved against the walls, but it works.
We weave through the crowd until we’re close to the center of the chaos, bodies moving all around us. Mel starts to dance, her hips swaying from side-to-side. She smiles up at me, encouraging me to move right along with her. But I don’t. I just stand stock-still. I must look like a statue. I’m a couple inches taller than most of the people in this room, and I’m the only one who’s not lost in the music. “Um…is now a good time to tell you that I have no clue how to dance?” I ask, bending so my lips are right next to her ear. She turns slightly, and our cheeks brush. Damn. Even that accidental contact has my blood rushing.
“That’s ridiculous. You’re an athlete.”
“And that’s a fallacy—that all athletes have rhythm. Because look, if somebody iced the floor over and got me a pair of skates, I’d be fine. I’d grab an umbrella and shoot a coaster right into that empty fireplace. But dancing is different. You want me to move to a beat on a regular floor? In sneakers? Nope. I don’t know what to do. I just move my arms and feet at measured intervals and hope for the best.”
“I’m going to tell you a secret,” she says, and I’d listen to anything she has to say, buy anything she wants to sell. None of this is real, but if Mel wants to share her secrets, I’m not going to stop her.
“Everybody can dance,” she tells me, and before the words are even out of her mouth, I’m shaking my head.
“Not me. I look like a zombie trying to run for the hills. It’s awful. I’m telling you I can’t dance.”
“That’s because you’ve never danced with me.”
I open my mouth to protest, but she moves her finger to my lips, effectively silencing me. “Just follow me,” she instructs, and I nod because I’d follow her anywhere.
Mel settles her hands on my hips, her grip firm, but not tight.
She begins to sway and I mimic her motions, but apparently, I put a little too much force into it because we sort of stumble to the left and nearly knock into a couple of girls next to us. They’re locked in a kiss, so I doubt they even notice, but I still feel like a jackass.
“See?” I say, resuming my statue position.
Mel just laughs. “Relax. We’re dancing, so deal with it. And try not to topple anyone, ok?”
I sigh as she puts her hands back on my hips. I’m trying like hell to concentrate on dancing, not on the fact that her hands are on my body. I channel all of my energy into not fucking up, as we start to sway again. The beat’s kinda fast, so Mel increases our pace, but we’re still just moving back and forth.
“What do I do with my hands?” I ask, looking around to see what other people are doing. But Mel reaches her hand up and cups my face, redirecting my attention back to her. She’s not bossy; she’s the boss, and I kind of love it.
“Hands are advanced and we’re not there yet.”
“Ok, but aren’t we supposed—” my words stall out as she puts her finger on my lips once more.
“That’s your problem, Will. You’re too worried about what you’re supposed to be doing or what other people are doing. Life’s too damn short for that. Just do what feels good, in dancing and in life. As long as you’re not knocking anybody down, you’re doing ok.”
I do my best to block out everything around me—the music, the people, the lights—and just concentrate on Mel. It’s not hard to do. She’s beautiful, all that long brown hair tumbling over her shoulders, skin still a little tan from the very end of summer, freckles that dance across her nose and cheeks. And her lips. God, they’re fucking perfect—full and pouty and pink with gloss. We’re swaying to the music, and I think Mel’s definitely onto something. When I quit worrying if I’m doing the right thing, it’s a lot easier to enjoy what I’m doing. Because objectively speaking, I still probably look a little stiff and out of place, but there’s a gorgeous girl in my arms, and for the next hour or so, she’s got all my attention, and I’ve got all of hers.
“See, you’re getting it,” she says, smiling and pulling me a little closer. Our bodies are pressed together, and god, it feels good. Possibly too good. She squeezes me tight before turning away. For a moment, my body freezes, unsure what to do without her guidance. But a second later, she returns, this time with her back pressed against my front and holy god, this dance might be the death of me. Mel’s boots have a bit of a heel to them, bringing her a little closer to my height. Her legs are long and her ass fits perfectly against a part of me that is very excited to be here right now. I’m doing my damnedest to get my dick to calm the hell down—this is just a dance, nothing more. But then Mel grabs my hand, grinds back against me, and drops us low in time with the music.
Jesus. Dancing is now officially my new favorite pastime.
We straighten up, then drop low again, just as the song ends. Mel turns again so she’s facing me. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” she asks as the deejay cues up another song.
“That was…pretty fucking awesome,” I tell her.
“That’s what happens when you quit worrying about what people think. You just do you, Will. And if other people don’t like it, fuck them,” she says, gripping my hips again. When she says it like that, I can’t help but agree.
I wasn’t sure what to do with my arms before, but I know now. I loop them around her so they rest at the small of her back. We’re moving to the rhythm of the song and pressed close together again. Every movement of my body echoes hers. I can feel her breath against my chest, feel every muscle as she moves. I wonder if this is what sex is like? Feeling so in tune with someone else’s body that you can sense their movements before they make them. Holding them so tight that it’s hard to tell where they end and you begin. Of course, sex is probably a lot more private than a crowded frat house. Well, most of the time, I guess.
The song switches again, but Mel and I keep doing our thing. It’s hot as hell in here, and we’re both a little sweaty, but I don’t mind. I could stay just like this until morning. My heart is beating fast, not because I’m nervous, but because being this close to Mel is electrifying. It feels good, natural, right. So, when she tilts her head up and brushes her lips over mine, I answer in kind. I don’t overthink; I don’t panic. I don’t suck or bite or any combination therein. I just kiss her back, like it’s my favorite thing to do, like I’ve been doing it for years. The press of her lips against mine is insistent, and I open my mouth to let her in. God all-freaking-mighty, it just gets better and better. Our bodies are tangled, and our tongues are too. I’m cupping the back of her head and she’s clutching my shoulders. We’re on a crowded dance floor, but that doesn’t slow us down. We don’t notice anyone or anything; we’re that lost in each other.
Which is why, when a voice hollers out, “Holy fuckin’ shit, Franconetti!” it almost doesn’t register. But then I realize the rest of the room is quiet. And the crowd has parted. And somebody switched out the black light for a regular lamp. We were on a crowded dance floor just seconds ago. But now we’re alone in the middle of the Sigma Pi living room with half of campus—and half my damn team—looking on.
In the now silent room, Ollie lets out a whistle. “I am one hell of a matchmaker!”
22
Mel
