Chapter 18: Dirty Dancing

Jamie hustled back toward the bungalow with the borrowed tiki torches under his arm. No doubt the crew would grumble about unplanned changes to the set design, but Jamie would worry about that in the morning.

Tonight, there were more pressing matters to attend.

He would have preferred candlelight to set the mood, but tiki torches would suffice. The night was warm enough to hold their ball outdoors. Jamie chose an area in front of the bungalow, relatively flat, with weeds and scrubby grass poking up out of the sand. He lit five torches with a match and arranged them in a semicircle to mark the edges of the dance floor. They filled the night air with their balmy scent.

Cora emerged from the bungalow just as Jamie finished ramming the last stake into the sand. He met his Cinderella at the bungalow's front stoop and offered her his arm. She wore a light blue slip dress, cut on the bias, that alternately skimmed and clung to every curve. Firelight glimmered against the silky fabric. She'd pulled her hair up in a twist to reveal the halter neckline and the creamy skin of her neck and shoulders.

"Where did all this come from?" she asked him, taking in his handiwork. "Did you set it up yourself?"

"My fairy godmother assisted."

Cora took his arm and let him escort her to the center of their makeshift ballroom. She looked him up and down, unabashedly taking in the view. "Nice tux."

He raised an eyebrow and finished tightening his tie. "Thank you."

"Did your fairy godmother pick that out, too?"

Jamie had attired himself for the occasion in a tuxedo jacket and black tie, with no shirt underneath. Pecs on full display. Only his boxer briefs down below. "I'm afraid she got distracted partway through."

"No, she didn't," Cora corrected him. She stepped closer and straightened his lapels. "Your fairy godmother knew exactly what she was doing."

"So did yours," he replied. With that, he pulled her close. Her dress dipped low in the back, and his hand slid across the smooth expanse of skin. One hand held hers while the other rested lightly in the hollow of her spine.

She rested her head against his shoulder, in the same spot she had placed it earlier that evening. She'd been standing in her bathrobe, when he put his arms around her and pulled her body against his. Jamie had been sorely tempted in that moment to slip his hands inside the terrycloth and dispense with any further pretense of foreplay. She'd only stopped him with the question she'd whispered in his ear.

"How do you know the names of all the characters and everything? Is Robbie feeding you the Cliff Notes?"

That comment had been nearly as revealing as the dress she had on now. It told him exactly how she viewed him. As if any sign of intelligence that tumbled from his lips could be no more than an illusion. One more bit of TV magic rigged up by the production crew. Certainly not real.

It came as no great surprise, the way she cut him down. She'd made little comments to the same effect since the day they arrived here. But still, it chafed in a way he hadn't experienced in years.

Not since his schoolboy days to be exact. A wisp of a lad on his first day of secondary school... The teacher had given a spelling test with the final word meant to be a stumper. An esoteric word with a silent 'g' that had no business being there, but Jamie had put the letters where they belonged. He had no idea what the word meant at the tender age of 12, but he must have seen it in print somewhere because he could visualize the way it looked in his head.

The schoolteacher had called him to her desk at the end of class. He'd expected praise, but instead she'd offered him a severe look over the rims of her glasses. "You saw the word list on my desk before class," she'd said. "Tell the truth and I'll overlook it today, but cheating will not be tolerated going forward."

He hadn't argued with her. He couldn't prove his innocence, and she wouldn't have believed the truth. Boys who came from Jamie's place of residence were not known for their academic prowess. So he stammered an apology and promised it would never happen again.

It never did. He learned his lesson. He made a point to keep his schoolwork believably subpar from that day on.

Jamie had long since banished those school days from his mind, but Cora's whispered words had brought it back. He felt the burn of his teacher's judgment all over again, deep in his gut. Shame and righteous indignation, all mixed together with the burning desire for the woman in his arms.

Lust came in many varieties, but Jamie had never experienced this particular flavor before. He had decided in that moment, he wouldn't let Cora go. Not yet. He'd promised to send her home in the morning, but he would have to break his word. To send her home now would be no different than walking out of that teacher's classroom long ago with his false confession ringing in his ears.

Jamie couldn't do it. He burned in equal parts to have his way with her and to prove her judgment wrong.

But he let it go for now. His dance partner made clear she only wanted him for one thing, and it wasn't literary analysis. So he indulged her. He matched his energy to hers, as he'd done his whole life with everyone he met.

If she wanted nothing more than a warm body for the night, then he wouldn't dress up for her like Prince Charming. He'd dress like Magic Mike.

Jamie shifted his weight from foot to foot, but the pantomime of dancing felt false with no music to accompany them. He cleared his throat and began to hum the tune running through his head. Cora stiffened and pulled back.

"Oh no." She looked up at him with those stern schoolteacher eyes. "No. You're not allowed to sing."

"Why ever not?"

"It's too much," she told him solemnly. "You're not allowed to look like that in a tuxedo jacket and have a good singing voice too."

He shrugged. "I mean, I can carry a tune."

"No. No singing. Absolutely not."

First kissing, now this. She certainly wasn't shy about her restrictions. He hardly had any room left to maneuver. "And if I disobey?" he asked. "Will you turn me to a frog again?"

She abandoned the hand holding hers and slipped both arms around his neck. The smooth silk of her bodice crushed against his chest. "No," she said with a tiny smile, "but you might turn me into a puddle."

Jamie fully intended to witness that transformation by the end of the evening, but he made no further comment for now. His pulse had quickened at the feel of her in his arms, the way her form yielded itself against his. He breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of her hair. Faintly lemony. Sweet and tart.

He swayed with her to no other music but the gentle rhythm of the waves. "Are you thinking of a song in your head?" she asked after a time.

"Please tell me I'm still allowed to have thoughts." Jamie removed one of her arms from his neck and used it to twirl her in a circle.

"What song?" she asked when she finished spinning and returned to his embrace. "Don't sing it, just tell me so we both have the same one in mind."

He named the song title he'd started humming earlier. "I've Had the Time of My Life."

"From Dirty Dancing?"

"That's the one."

"First martinis with James Bond, and now I'm dancing with Patrick Swayze. How is this real life?"

He swooped her in another circle. "It's not. But I can be your Patrick Swayze for the evening, if you like."

"No." Her body molded itself against him again. He put both hands low on her waist and pulled her tight against his hips. "Something slower," she murmured. "I want to slow dance."

The night air had turned cooler, but her heat warmed him as it seeped through the thin fabric of her dress. Jamie's hand dipped below the silken edge at the base of her spine and followed the curve of flesh concealed beneath. He closed his eyes and savored the sensation. No doubt she could feel the way his body had reacted, but he kept his voice unbothered.

"Unchained Melody," he proposed. "I'll be Patrick Swayze as an undead pottery instructor."

Cora arched backward to look up at him, furrowing her brow. "You've lost me."

"That scene from Ghost?"

She shook her head. "I never saw that movie."

"Surely you must know the famous scene. With Demi Moore and the pottery wheel?"

"Maybe," she said. "Vaguely."

"You should watch it when you get home," Jamie instructed her. "'Perfect movie for you, come to think of it. No kissing allowed."

Her eyes flicked up to his, inviting him to explain. Jamie painted her a picture with his words.

"Patrick Swayze is a ghost, and Demi Moore is his widow. He's dead and gone, but she can still feel him haunting her. The whole movie, he wants desperately to kiss her one last time. But he can't. He's a ghost. He has no physical form or substance. So he has to find other ways to make contact."

"Like pottery lessons?" She sounded skeptical.

"Here, I'll show you. Close your eyes and make your mouth like you're about to kiss me."

"No."

"Don't worry. I can't actually kiss you. I have no mouth. No lips..."

"Is this really necessary?"

"Close your eyes. No peeking."

He felt her flinch away.

"Trust me," he whispered. He let go of her and repositioned himself behind her back. Her shoulders had tensed, but they relaxed again as the threat of his disobedience receded. Jamie stood directly behind her with his arms at his sides, close enough for her to sense his presence without touching any part of her.

A bow at the nape of her neck appeared to be the only thing securing the top half of her dress. The ends hung loose down her back—a pair of satin ribbons begging to be pulled. Jamie made a mental note to revisit them later.

For now, he craned forward to whisper in her ear. "Now, imagine it. The man you lost, back from the other side. Determined to make you feel his love again."

His hands traced along her sides, his touches feather light, following the outline of her dress from thigh to hip to waist. He heard her gasp as he made contact. He slid his arms around her waist and hugged her close. Skin to skin. Her back against his chest. She covered his forearms with her own, gripping hard so that her fingertips pressed into his flesh.

His mouth hovered a hair's breadth from the exposed skin along her neck. Every instinct urged him to close the distance. He longed to taste her salty skin and press kisses from her shoulder to the baseline of her jaw. Instead, he pursed his lips and blew gently, caressing her with his breath in all the places he would have kissed her if he could.

Her chest rose and fell more quickly as he reached the space behind her ear. Her head strained to the side to give him access. Jamie kept one arm locked around her waist and smoothed the other hand from her elbow to her shoulder and across her collarbone. Then dipping lower, below her dress's neckline, skimming his fingertips along the boundary where bone gave way to pliant softness.

Her shoulders trembled. Her fingernails dug into the arm that held her at the waist. Her breathing came fast and harsh, and Jamie's own chest rose and fell in time. The torches crackled around them as a  breeze whipped up the flames, and each in-drawn breath seared his lungs with smoky heat.

Jamie fought the urge to pick up speed. Slowly, he found the sensitive space behind her ear. He let his mouth go soft and blew a smoke ring. She responded with a sound from the back of her throat. It could have passed for agony as easily as bliss.

She wrenched free from his hold then. Cora twisted around in his arms. She buried her face in the crook of his shoulder, clutching at his lapels.

"Should we go in?" His voice was low and husky, no longer making any effort to conceal the unmet need.

She made a sort of mewling noise by way of answer. She kept her face averted but raised her arms around his neck. Jamie took it as all the encouragement he needed. He picked her up clean off the ground, and she wrapped her legs around his hips.

Jamie carried her inside, pulling the bow at the back of her neck undone with his teeth. The knot came free easily. The silk cascaded down around her waist.

The bedroom was pitch black but for the faint illumination of the torches through the window. Jamie didn't bother with the lights. He found his bed and laid her on it. She tugged at his jacket. He shrugged it off and felt her arms go round his waist, dragging him down on top of her.

The need to be with her was all consuming now. Jamie straddled her hips and reached for the small foil packet he'd left on his pillow earlier. The metallic wrapper picked up a spark of reflected torchlight from the window.

For a moment, the light danced across her face, and Jamie caught a glimpse of it. Streaked and shining. He touched her cheek and found it damp.

Crying? Jamie froze, uncertain. "Are you alright?" he whispered.

Her voice came back to him choked and hollow, a thousand miles away, haunted by some other ghost than him.

"Steven," she whispered back. "No. Please, no."

***

Dear Readers:

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P.S. Here's a clip from Ghost, in case you're like Cora and haven't seen the movie 😍

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