Stepping Out
Chapter 3 – The Dance of Love
He swallows hard as he hands her the towel, and watches, agog, as she delicately pats herself down, dabbing at her forehead, her temples, her upper lip, her neck, and down, down in between the soft swell of her breasts which are coated with a slick sheen of perspiration. Damp curls frame her face, and he itches to reach out and brush his fingers through them, blinks slowly instead.
She looks directly at him, licks her lips, and dumps the used towel back in his hands. He resists the urge to press it to his face and inhale deeply, but only because he hears her call his name.
"Castle, you coming?"
He just might be, he thinks, trembling. But then he drops the towel and obediently follows her onto the floor.
The class is gathering, everyone paired off, the losers, the class action gang; they're all standing, waiting patiently for the teacher to begin instructing them in the next dance.
Kate's made her way to the front (teacher's pet), and Castle follows her reluctantly. Like they really need to be in the first row to follow this chump's high-pitched screeching? He's pretty sure there are dogs in New Jersey that know how to dance thanks to this guy.
He looks over at Kate. She's still hanging on the instructor's every word, absorbing each vowel he strangles and abuses with his phony Latin accent, a look of delighted excitement on her face. And suddenly Castle feels like a heel, for being so churlish, for wanting to deny her this fun interlude in her dark, death-filled life. At least she's here with him, right?
Wrong!
Because Fernandez is asking for a volunteer, actually not so much calling for one as pointing at Kate and now…oh, just stepping forward and taking her by the hand. She throws Castle a look, part apology (the smallest part), part delight, part 'what the hell, let's live a little'. And so, he's left standing, partner-less and alone, in the middle of the front freaking row (her fault) when Fernandez announces,
"Now, we do zee Rumba. Zee dance of luuuuve!"
The class mutters excitedly, and a frisson of something risqué passes through the room, accompanied by a few nervous giggles and a couple of manly groans.
Castle, on the other hand, is rudderless. So he steps out of the line, and off to the side. But before he can make it all the way to that hole in the floor he hopes might just open up and swallow him, a hand grasps his elbow - cool, strong fingers that stop his progress, and halt him on the spot.
"We dance, you and me. And don't worry, I catch you if you fall," says an exotic voice, close to his ear.
Castle's head whips round so fast he thinks he might have pulled something, but what he sees when he turns around is worth the pain and the effort. Oh yeah! Two can play at this game, Beckett. Because he's staring straight into the dark, smoky eyes of a Latin Dance goddess.
Bring it on!
"Marietta," she purrs, extending a slim, tan hand for him to shake. Long red nails graze his palm. The studio lighting reflects off her oiled, black as ebony hair, which is pulled low, and tight into a bun at the nape of her long, sensual neck.
"Rick," he answers, drawing out the r in a manner suspiciously similar to the one he's been criticizing Fernandez for using. But who cares if this woman's prepared to drape herself around him like this?
Rick Castle can do Latin Lover in his sleep…'yeah in your dreams, Castle.' He hears Beckett taunt him in his head, pushes her out of his brain long enough to let his hands fall to this temptress' curvy waist, encircling her with his large palms as the Cuban beat starts up, vibrating through the floor, tickling his toes and waking him up.
Arms are fluid, extended, fingers stretched, like they are transmitting electricity Fernandez explains, and Marietta demonstrates for him, snaking a slender arm across the front of his body, brushing his chest, his…Jeez lady! Shit that was hot. He's awake now and sparks are definitely flying!
Ladyboy has moved onto hip action, something about stepping onto a straight leg just as 'zee beeeet' breaks. But Castle's getting muddled already, his brain fogged by the slide and play of this woman's body over his. She's standing in front of him, her back pressed against his chest, and she's placed his hands back at her waist. Now she's wiggling (it's the only way he can think to describe it), up against him, her rear brushing against his manhood, yip, definitely how he'd describe that, snaking her body down the length of him as she twists and swivels on bent knees, and then works her way deliciously back up, wiggling all the way.
He's temporarily forgotten all about Kate Beckett, but his brain clears long enough to check back on her progress with lover boy. And what he sees is not what he expects to see. Because while he and Marietta are getting to know one another rather well, instead of the 'no one puts Beckett in a corner' display he thinks is going down, Kate looks rather stiff and uncomfortable, and she's staring directly at him.
Busted!
But, oh…Marietta is purring in his ear again, telling him to step on two and three, he thinks…maybe…but what about one and four? He's losing the ability to count, and concentrate, because while a complete stranger in red and black lace is rubbing her body up and down his, and counting in his ear…yes, counting! (Math was never this hot in Miss Kominsky's class), Kate Beckett is staring at him like he just slept with her best friend and then bragged about it on Twitter.
But she's had her fun, floating around the floor with Javier Bardem, and this is his turn, right? Because it looks like Salma Hayek, sorry Marietta, hasn't finished with him yet. The music is reaching a crescendo and he feels her leg hook around the back of his thigh as she hold onto his hands and bends over backward, her mons pubis pressed against his…
"Castle, you ready to switch?"
Damn! He nearly drops Marietta in his flail to peel her off his body and distance himself from this hot, Latin tramp, like a cheating husband caught in the arms of the teenage babysitter.
"Switch?" he asks dumbly. Have they inadvertently landed in the middle of a swinger's party? Because nothing about today would surprise him anymore.
"Dance partners," she explains patiently, holding out her hand to him. An olive branch?
He gladly takes her hand, blinking when she smiles shyly at him, always on the back foot with her – whether they're dancing or not.
He's not sure when she left exactly, but when he looks around, Marietta is nowhere to be seen, and the class is reforming into rows, preparing for more torture.
The music changes - Pink Martini's version of Amado Mio filling the studio with delicious sensuality as Kate Beckett drapes herself around him, determined to show him just what hip action is all about.