Dare to Love by Penny Dixon Page A

she see me. I dance close by her. Her friends on the floor too, dancing with other men. She smile at me but keep dancing with the man. Next dance I move a little closer. Let her know I would like a dance but I don’t want to move in because that might be her man. I have to let her show me she want to dance. I keep smiling at her. At the end of the second dance I hold my hand out to her in a way that she can ignore or step to me if she want. She look me straight in the eye, part those lips again and step to me.
    All her shyness gone. She lively, teasing, really into the music, She’s a little wild, not the way some people from England get, arms and legs all over the place. She really feeling the music. A slow track come on, I pull her in gently, my hand in the small of her back, she step easily into me. I’m not one of those men who start whine up on a woman as soon as they start to dance, like they trying to get everything before the three minutes up. Most time it put the woman off and she don’t want to dance with them again. Too familiar too soon. I always start with a gentle sway, a few steps if she know them. If she don’t resist I start to probe with my hips. Next I slide my crotch across her front, all the time I check for her reaction to see how far I can go. It can take two or three dances before I get to that stage. If I get there, it worth the wait.
    Once in a while I find a woman that ‘fit’ me, can sense and respond to my moves. When I rock forward she lean back, when I dip she dip with me, when I slide she slide with me. When that happen I get rock hard. I’m rock hard now.
    I want to know more about her but she more interested in dancing than talking. She here from England for three weeks on holiday. She here tonight with her friends. I don’t know if she mean just at The Plantation or on holiday. Her friends sound Bajan so she probably mean the nightclub.
    I play with her wedding ring when the DJ play “Wok Up Pon Me” but she don’t say anything about it. For true the song might have been written about her. I see her friends pointing and laughing, but she don’t notice. She lost in the dance and she dancing with the same hip movement I was watching before.
    She can make her hips move separately of the rest of her body. Circle them left, circle them right. She hot and wet with sweat but she don’t leave the floor for a sit down. She on those shoes all night. She apologise, say it’s really hot but she came out to dance. I don’t mind. I’m hot and wet too. I don’t leave in case somebody else try to muscle in.
    One song she stand in front of me, make big circles with her hips, then with her belly, her breasts, and her head, then she do it the opposite way. It’s like I’m watching a giant corkscrew, winding up and winding down. I can’t take my eyes off her and neither can half the men in the room. I’m sure I’m not the only one hard.
    She can feel my hard on when we dance close. She know I want her. She pull me into her smile, pull me right into her eyes. She say, ‘I want you’ in little ways people can’t see. She slide her breasts across my chest, squeeze my hands tight, stroke my fingers, breathe hot breaths in my ear. I’m lost in all this when the house lights go on.
    I’m shocked. It just feel like half an hour we dancing yet three hours pass. Her friends waiting for her. She whisper, ‘Thank you,’ in my ear and start to walk away. Shoot, she can’t just walk away like that.
    ‘Can I see you again?’ I don’t want to sound too eager, but I think I do.
    She don’t answer, just smile.
    ‘Do you have a phone number here?’
    The sweat on her skin in the light look like she rub down in baby oil. She shining. If she was wearing make-up it all wash off. I have to see her again. She look into my eyes, like she trying to make her mind up.
    ‘Give me your number.’
    There’s just the two of us on the dance floor, everyone else leave. Her friends waiting by the door for