Salsa After Dark

Salsa Después de Medianoche

The club had emptied an hour ago, but Valentina still moved like the music was playing—hips swaying, feet gliding across the wooden floor in patterns she'd learned before she could walk.

"Otra vez," she called out. Again. "You're still too stiff, papi."

Daniel wiped sweat from his brow. "I've been here three hours. My feet are crying."

"Los pies no lloran." She clicked her tongue. "Feet don't cry. They dance or they don't. Yours?" She looked down at his expensive shoes. "They're thinking too much."

She'd agreed to private lessons because he paid triple. Some tech guy who wanted to impress a woman at a wedding. Valentina had seen dozens like him—men who thought salsa was just steps, not feeling.

"Come here." She beckoned him to the center of the empty dance floor. "Ven acá."

He walked toward her like a man approaching his execution. Americanos, she thought. So afraid of their bodies.

"The problem," she said, circling him, "is that you dance with your head." She tapped his temple. "Salsa lives here." Her hand pressed flat against his stomach, feeling his muscles clench. "En el cuerpo. En el corazón."

"En el corazón," he repeated. His accent was terrible, but his voice had dropped an octave.

"Sí." She stepped closer than professionally necessary. "You want to impress this woman at the wedding, yes?"

"That was the plan."

"Then stop trying to impress me and start trying to feel me." She took his hands, placing one on her hip, the other clasped in hers. "Siénteme."

She began to move, and this time she didn't count. She hummed—an old Héctor Lavoe song her mother used to play—and let the rhythm take her.

"Cierra los ojos," she murmured. Close your eyes.

"I'll step on you."

"Then step on me." She pulled him closer. "No me importa."

His eyes closed, and something shifted. His grip on her hip tightened, not directing but responding. His feet stopped thinking and started following.

"Así," she breathed. Like that. "Muy bien, papi. Ahora sí."

They moved together, and for the first time all night, it felt like dancing. His thigh slid between hers on the turn. His hand pressed into the small of her back. When she dipped, he caught her without hesitation.

"Abre los ojos." Open your eyes.

He did, and they were darker than before, his gaze dropping to her lips.

"You're getting it," she said, her voice huskier than intended.

"I have a good teacher."

"Soy la mejor." She smiled. "I'm the best."

"Modest too."

"La modestia es para los que no saben bailar." Modesty is for people who can't dance.

The music she'd been humming faded, but neither of them stopped moving. They swayed in the silence, their bodies finding a rhythm that had nothing to do with salsa.

"Valentina," he said, and her name sounded different in his mouth. Reverent.

"Dime." Tell me.

"I don't think I want to impress that woman anymore."

Her heart stuttered, but she kept her face neutral. "No?"

"I think I'd rather impress you."

"Cuidado, papi." Careful. She leaned in until her lips brushed his ear. "I'm very hard to impress."

"What would it take?"

She pulled back to look at him, really look at him—the sweat on his brow, the hunger in his eyes, the way his hand had migrated from her hip to the curve of her waist.

"Sorpréndeme," she whispered. Surprise me.

He did.

His kiss was nothing like his dancing—confident, commanding, knowing exactly where to go. His hand tangled in her hair while the other pulled her flush against him.

"Ay, Dios mío," she gasped when they separated.

"That's a good sign, right? When you switch to Spanish?"

She laughed, a real laugh that echoed in the empty club. "Significa que me tienes sin palabras." It means you've left me speechless.

"Then let me keep you that way."

He lifted her, and she wrapped her legs around him—a move she'd teach in advanced partnering, but that he executed perfectly. He carried her to the mirrored wall, pressing her against it so she could see them both, tangled together.

"Mírate," he said. Look at yourself. "Eres la mujer más hermosa que he visto."

"Your accent is still terrible."

"Teach me to say it better."

"Eres hermosa." She pronounced each syllable against his lips. "Eres... her-mo-sa..."

"Eres hermosa." Better this time, because he said it while looking into her eyes, while his hands slid beneath her dance skirt.

They made love against the mirror, then on the wooden floor where she'd spent thousands of hours practicing. Every touch was a dance, every sigh a song. He followed her lead and then took the lead, spinning her, dipping her, catching her exactly when she needed to be caught.

"No pares," she begged. Don't stop.

"Nunca," he promised. Never. "Estoy aprendiendo." I'm learning.

And he was—learning her body the way she'd taught him to learn the dance. Where she liked pressure, where she liked softness, the rhythm that made her cry out his name.

After, they lay on the dance floor, her head on his chest, watching the disco ball catch the streetlight through the windows.

"So," he said. "Did I impress you?"

"Me impresionaste un poquito." A little bit.

"Only a little?"

She propped herself up to look at him. "Maybe you need more lessons."

His grin was slow, satisfied. "Private ones?"

"Muy privadas." Very private. She kissed him softly. "Every night until you get it right."

"I'm a slow learner."

"Qué bueno." How nice. "Because I'm a very patient teacher."