Wait. Wasn’t a Zumba class offered at the community center tonight? The body-pumping, sweating action with loud music blocking out all her crappy, crabby thoughts was exactly what she needed.
She parked the truck and trailer in the fenced-in lot at the WNRC and hopped in her Jeep. Since she had her gym bag with her workout clothes she drove straight to the community center.
The class was jammed with women of all ages. The mood in the big gymnasium buzzed with high energy even before the class started.
Rory wasn’t familiar with the routines so she picked a spot in the very back of the room. When Heather, the class leader, bounded in, headset on, hands clapping in the air, the room went wild.
Huh. She never got that kind of reaction at the start of yoga class. Then again, Heather was one of those itty bitty pocket-sized women—five foot one, ninety pounds of solid muscle, gleaming red hair, alabaster skin, infectious smile. Rory could hate high-energy Heather if she wasn’t the most genuinely sweet person she’d ever met.
“All right, ladies! Let’s get this party started. And pay attention because I’m gonna sneak in some new dance moves.”
The music blared from the speakers and bodies started gyrating to the beat.
Forty-five minutes later, Rory was sweaty, gasping for breath and much happier. As she waited in line at the drinking fountain, laughing with other class members, her yoga student Ricki nudged her. “Don’t turn around, but that guy who came to your yoga class that one time is here.”
“Dalton?”
“Uh-huh. And if his eyes could talk they’d be yelling at you to strip and get on all fours.”
“Ricki!”
“I’m serious. He hasn’t taken his eyes off you—I mean off your butt—since the moment I saw him. With the way some of the women were looking at the doorway the last ten minutes of class, he must’ve been standing there watching you then.”
“Why were women turning around?”
“Duh. Because the man is sex on legs. And he’s wearing a skintight wife beater and my god, have you seen his freakin’ chest and arm muscles? What does he do for a living? Lift cars?”
“No, he lifts logs, actually.”
Ricki’s eyes widened. “You know him?”
Rory mopped her face with her towel. “Yep. I’m sleeping with him.”
“I kinda hate you a little bit right now.”
She laughed. She took several long drinks of water before she walked over to where she’d left her gym bag. Knowing Dalton’s gaze was on her, she twisted her shoulders as if working out some kinks in her neck. Then she set her hands on her hips and slowly leaned forward, until the top of her head touched the floor. Hanging upside down, Rory sent him a look that said, baby, I’d love to work out some kinks with you.
The depraved man grinned at her and crooked his finger.
So, yeah, maybe she added an extra sway of her hips as she sauntered over to him. And maybe she hooked her arm around his neck and gave him a big smacking kiss in front of everybody, her he’s mine vibe readily apparent.
Dalton’s blue eyes shone with male amusement. “Kiss me again. I don’t think those two women in the corner quite got the message that you’n me are a couple.”
“Gladly.” This time she hooked the towel around his neck and tugged him closer, her mouth snaring his in a steamy kiss.
When Dalton emitted that sexy rumble in the back of his throat, she broke the kiss with a quick laugh.
“You feelin’ ornery, Aurora?” he whispered in her ear. “’Cause I’ve got a cure for that.”
“So do I, but it’ll cost ya.”
He leaned back and raised an eyebrow. “Whatcha got in mind?”
“How long were you skulking in the back watching me dance?”
“Skulking,” he snorted. “The damn door was open. And sugarplum, your ass is like a goddamned beacon for me. I started watching it and couldn’t look away.”
“Aw, such a sweet-talker.” Rory slid her hands up his chest. “You like the way I dance, cowboy?”
“Yes ma’am.”
She twisted her fingers in the damp tendrils on the back of his neck. “Remember that night I picked you up after the bachelor party and you asked if I’d give you a lap dance?”
“Vaguely. Why?”
“Then when we were in Deadwood and you were Mr. High Roller, begging me to give you a lap dance, peeling twenty dollar bills off the stack of cash saying, ‘I make it rain, I make it rain, I make it rain’?”
Dalton grinned. “All in good fun.”
“I know.” Rory pressed her body to his. “Well, I’m in the mood to give you that lap dance tonight. But like I said, it’s gonna cost ya.”
“I’ll pay it.”
She cocked her head. “Just like that? Without asking the price or the parameters?”
“Parameters?” His eyes narrowed. “Lap dances don’t have parameters except for no touching.”
“My lap dance has parameters ’cause it’s not your money I’m after, McKay.”
“Then what do you want?”
“Your soul.” Rory laughed at his skeptical look. “Kidding.”
He clamped his hand on her ass and pulled her closer yet. He angled his head and placed one soft kiss below her ear. “You want my soul? It’s yours. Since you’ve already got my heart.”
Oh, you suck, Dalton McKay, with your sweetness and fire and always knowing the perfect thing to say, and how the hell was I ever supposed to resist falling for you?
“You were saying,” he murmured against her throat. “What parameters were you talkin’ about?”
“You have to be naked.”
“Ah, Rory darlin’, that ain’t how lap dances work.”
“My parameters, remember? If I can get you off during the lap dance, without using my hands on your…pole, then you’ll agree to be my sex slave for two hours.”
“What if you can’t get me off? What’s my reward?”
Uh, yeah, Dalton wouldn’t be able to hold off. No way, no how. Rory fought a cocky smile. “Then you get to do anything you want to me. Except for demanding a threesome. Not into that. Ever.”
“Never happening, because no one—” he got right in her face, “—and I mean no one, ever gets to put their f**king hands on you but me. Understand?”
Holy balls. Talk about intense. Talk about possessive.