Over the next two weeks, Rachel fell further in love with Tarin. Every day, they worked together, and not just on the university project. He brought her in on several other major initiatives that he was working on. She felt as if she were part of the team, especially when he asked her for her opinion. Even his other advisors came to her for assistance, asking for feedback and for her organizational capabilities. She analyzed the financials for the various projects, offered her feedback, provided options, and felt more alive than at any other time in her life.
At night, Tarin took her into his arms and made love to her. She never knew if their lovemaking was going to be wild and frantic, or slow and languorous. Every moment in his company was filled with pleasure of one kind or another.
And after he’d make love to her, he’d turn on music, pull her into his arms and teach her about dancing. She learned the foxtrot and the two step, swing dancing and, one night, he showed her the tango.
“It’s a love story,” he explained, guiding her into position.
“A dance is a love story?” She looked at him with that teasing glint in her eyes.
“Don’t mock,” he told her sternly. “This is a battle between the sexes, a love story of the ages.” He took her hands and placed one on his shoulder, the other in his own. “It’s all about a battle for control.” He stepped forward and she instinctively moved backwards. “A battle of love and hatred.”
She laughed, but by now, she could anticipate what he would do merely by the way his hands felt on her skin. “A love story about hatred?”
“Absolutely,” he replied. “The tango is about the dichotomy between emotions. Hatred and love. Happiness and sadness. Life and death. It’s a back and forth, with each emotion, each person, battling for control.”
She stumbled a few times, but he merely steadied her against him, causing them to pause as their skin on skin contact aroused them.
“I push you one way, then you push me back, forcing me to listen to you.” She moved forward, “pushing” him backwards. “And then I confuse you with a twirl,” and he spun her under his arm. She twirled again and again. “But I’m always there to unravel the mysteries,” and he caught her in his arms. “But you don’t want my power,” he explained and pushed her outward, their hands clasping as she extended her arms, “but our love is too strong and we can’t fight the battles of the world without each other.” He spun her back into his arms. “And then we’re back to the dance, again,” he explained, moving her forward, then himself backwards.
By the time he dipped her at the end of the dance, arching her over his arm, she was breathless and more turned on than she could ever remember.
“Kiss me, Tarin,” she whispered urgently.
They didn’t make it to the bed that time and she gasped as he entered her. There was no more foreplay. Just the age old primal dance until they found their release in each other’s arms. As he lifted her up and carried her to bed, she leaned her head against his shoulder.
“Who won?” she asked sleepily, snuggling up against him as her eyes drifted closed.
Tarin watched her fade off to sleep, his heart hammering against his chest. “I did,” he murmured, turning off the light and holding her until the early hours of the morning, enjoying her soft breath on his skin as he considered the various ways he might convince her to stay with him. Forever.