Santo Domingo Spice

Ryan had no rhythm. None. His company's team-building retreat in Santo Domingo had exposed this painfully.

Then Carmen appeared. Thick and fluid, all rhythm and curves, her body a symphony of movement.

"Private lessons," his boss had arranged. "Save yourself."

Carmen looked him up and down. "Mi fix yuh. But yuh have to trust mi."

Day one was disaster. Day two was worse. Day three, she changed tactics.

"Stop thinking." She pressed her body against his. "Feel mi. Move with mi."

Her thick curves against him made thinking impossible anyway.

"Better. Again."

Again and again until moving with her was the only thing that made sense.

Night three. After the resort closed.

"Yuh learning," she said. "But yuh still hold back."

"I don't want to—"

"Want to what? Touch mi? Yuh touching mi already." She rolled her hips against his. "Yuh want mi?"

"God yes."

"Then take mi. That's the next lesson."

Merengue on her bed was the advanced class. Every hip roll, every step, translated to pleasure.

"Yes! Ryan! Match mi rhythm!"

He matched it. Found it. Made it his own. Her thick thighs guiding, her moans the music.

"Don't stop! Yuh dancing now!"

The team-building showcase went viral. Ryan moved like he was born Caribbean.

"How?" his colleagues asked.

"Good teacher."

Carmen smiled from the audience. She'd taught him more than merengue.

"Come back," she texted. "Advanced class continues."

Ryan's remote work agreement has him in Santo Domingo six months a year.

Dancing every night.

Sometimes vertical.

Mostly not.

Santo Domingo spice.

The rhythm that changed everything.