The Dixon Rule (Campus Diaries, 2)

Anything is a tango thing if you make it so

“DON’T FORGET—THE TANGO ISN’T A DANCE,” DIANA EXPLAINS, RESTING both hands on her slim hips. It’s raining outside, so we’re rehearsing in the Meadow Hill gym. Which normally wouldn’t be a problem, but the same way I now attract an audience in this damn gym, so does Diana apparently.

We’ve got three dudes here pretending to work out, which means three pairs of eyes glued to Diana’s ass as she saunters off to grab a bottle of water. She and I have set up camp on the mats where I usually do my deadlifts. We’re in perfect view of Ralph, who’s using the treadmill at the end of the row, walking impossibly slow. Liam Garrison is playing the role of “man who bench presses.” And rounding out the trio is Dave from Weeping Willow, who’s spent less time rowing on his machine and more time watching Diana stretch.

I don’t blame them. Her ass looks incredible in those skintight shorts. And although her sports bra offers some padding, it doesn’t stop her breasts from jiggling whenever she moves. Everything about her is worthy of ogling. Her bare stomach. Tanned skin. Hair in a high ponytail.

She’s utterly edible. And I want to take a big bite.

“Lindley, pay attention.”

I snap out of it. “The tango isn’t a dance. Got it.” I pause. “Wait. So what is it, then?”

“It’s a promise.”

“A promise of what?”

“The best sex of your life.”

Damned if that doesn’t make my groin clench.

“You’re dancing, but really, you want to be in bed. But you can’t, so you have to let out all that sexual frustration on the dance floor.”

She’s preaching to the choir. Sexual frustration has become the story of my life. Because of Diana Dixon, of all people. We’ve been rehearsing the tango every night this week, and it’s getting more and more difficult to have her body so close to mine and not take her clothes off.

I picked up the tango steps a lot faster than I did with the cha cha, so rehearsals are kicking into next gear. It isn’t long before we’re in position, marching up and down the gym mats in a routine I’m quickly becoming proficient at.

“And one, two, three, four, five-six, seven, eight. One, two, three, four, five-six, seven, eight. Perfect. Nice, we got this. Make sure you’re a bit quicker on the fifth count.”

Tango is a walking dance. In theory it sounds simple, but it’s more difficult than it looks. You need to bend your knees a lot. It’s very bendy.

“Oh my God, Shane, you’re doing amazing!”

“You’re such a cheerleader,” I grumble, but I’m not really complaining.

Confession: doing this with Diana is fun. She’s an endless well of gusto. A bundle of energy. She doesn’t stop, and I sort of love it when the cheerleader in her comes out. This woman just pumps you up. If I suffered from low self-esteem, I’d hire her to follow me around and boost me up all day, telling me how remarkable I am.

And another confession: I like to dance.

Sure, I still can’t get my hips to move exactly the way Diana wants them to, but I’ve always had rhythm, and I feel this dumb tango music in my blood as I lead Diana forward, then slide my hand over her upper back and dip her.

I wish we could do some cool lifts, but when I raise the idea again now, Dixon says it’s not really “a tango thing.”

“I think anything is a ‘tango’ thing if you make it so,” I retort. I twist around to the ever-present camera. “Back me up here, guys.”

“Do not back him up,” Diana says, angrily pointing at the tripod.

We’re not filming live, but it’s unsettling to think that this video will be seen by hundreds of thousands of people. Since our first viral video, Ride or Dance’s follower count soared from a measly 100K to over 450K. We’ve had three more posts with a million-plus views, and Diana’s been gushing about the ad revenue.

“We need to stick to the routine. It scored perfect tens from the judges on Dance Me to the Moon,” Diana says, naming the reality show she’s been stealing choreography from.

“Yeah, but we don’t want to copy it completely. Let’s think outside the box. One lift,” I beg. “Please?”

She caves. “Fine. Let’s try it. We’ll do those same two slow beats for a count of four, and on the quick five-six, you can lift me.”

“I like where your head is at.” I nod in approval.Ccontent © exclusive by Nô/vel(D)ra/ma.Org.

Diana raises her arms to tighten the elastic of her ponytail, which draws my focus to her breasts in that neon-pink sports bra. She wears a lot of neon. It suits her. And those perky tits suit her too. She’s like a sexy little pocket rocket.

I don’t mind that she’s still pretending she’s not attracted to me. I need someone who will make me work for it a little. I’m a man who loves a chase. But I hate that the ball’s entirely in her court. I made it clear the other night that I was down for…anything. Literally anything. But Diana’s too stubborn for her own good. I have no idea what it will take to win her over. She just needs to, I don’t know, swallow her pride. And then swallow my dick.

I choke on a laugh.

“What are you all giggly about?”

“Nothing.”

Diana narrows her eyes. “Are you having impure thoughts?”

“Of course. Me and everyone else in this gym.”

She glances toward the trio of men, and they all quickly swing their gazes away. Liam fiddles with the weight. Dave starts randomly punching buttons to change the setting on his rower. And that shameful Ralph, father of three daughters not much younger than Diana, pretends to be on his phone.

“All right. Let’s do a practice lift,” Diana says. “I want to gauge the height we should aim for.” She moves to stand in front of the wall of mirrors. “Come behind me.”

Yes, please.

I step up behind her.

“Hands on my waist.”

God, why are we wearing clothes for this?

I swallow through my dry mouth and obey her, planting both palms on her hips.

“No, like this.” She covers my hands with hers and drags them an inch lower. “You need to lift me from here. It’s a more stable base. Okay, on the count of three, lift straight up. Not too high.”

I do what she says, holding her suspended in the air, and we examine ourselves in the mirror. Her arms are extended, legs together, toes pointed downward.

“Good form,” I say.

She laughs. “Stop talking shit.”

“Actually, excellent form. And check out this landing technique,” I rave after I set her down.

“Let’s do it again, weirdo. I want to see something.”

I grip her hips and heave her up.

“Don’t put me down yet.” She looks thoughtful as she studies our reflection.

I admire her flat stomach and the perfect lines of her body. The way my fingers curve perfectly around her waist. My cock twitches behind my joggers.

“Is it just me, or are you picturing us naked too?” I ask the mirror.

Diana groans. “Oh my God. Put me down.” She slides down my body, and I don’t know if she does it on purpose, but her ass presses against my dick in a torturous glide. “This is important. We’re filming in a week.”

“I think we could film it now and we’ll do okay.”

“‘Okay’ is not going to cut it.” She gasps. “Are you trying to sabotage us? Are you a saboteur?”

“I’m not a saboteur, you fucking psycho. All I’m saying is, I think we’re decent enough to show the judges we’re not going to embarrass their stupid organization. Isn’t that the whole point of this audition? Because a bunch of ballroom snobs got pissy that all these shitty amateurs were entering their precious competition?”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean I’m half-assing the audition. We don’t take chances with dance.”

“Dance is all about risk-taking.” I turn toward the camera. “Back me up, guys.”

“Do not back him up,” she orders. “Dance is about discipline. And passion. Passionate discipline.”

I stare at her. “Why are you like this?”

She ignores that. “Let’s run through the entire routine one more time and then call it a night.”

For the last time this rehearsal, we run through our tango routine to the music pouring out of Diana’s external speaker. By the time we get to the final dip, we’re both breathing hard. We finish to a smattering of applause. I look at our audience consisting of three men who just want to bone Diana and give them a little bow.

“Thank you, kind gentlemen.” I walk to the bench where I threw down my towel and wipe down my face. Diana does the same. Her neck is arched as she dabs her towel over the sheen of sweat on her cleavage.

I notice Ralph’s eyes glaze over.

“Dude,” I reprimand, “you have three daughters. Show a little respect. Or discretion.”

He sheepishly hurries out of the gym.

“Dinner and FoF tonight?” I ask Diana when we’re back in Red Birch. It’s sort of our routine now.

“Can’t. I’m grabbing dinner with Will.”

A frown touches my lips. “You’re going out with my teammate?”

“Yes.”

“And I’m not invited?”

“No, it’s a him-and-me thing.”

I don’t know why, but that makes my shoulders tense. “But I’m your boyfriend. Is he trying to take you on a date?”

“Of course not. We’re friends.”

“But I’m your boyfriend,” I repeat.

“My fake boyfriend,” she corrects.

“He doesn’t know that.” I scowl. “Why is Will asking you on dates?”

She stops outside the door of 2A. “He asked me, as a friend, to have dinner with him tonight. It’s not a date, and I am the most loyal fake girlfriend you will ever have. I fake love you, Shane. I want to fake marry you and have your fake babies. Okay?”

I glare at her. “Uncalled for. I can’t believe you brought our fake children into this.”

“Why are you like this?” She huffs out a breath. “I’ll see you at rehearsal tomorrow.”

She leaves me in the hall staring at her closed door.

I unlock my own door and stomp into my apartment, not quite sure why I’m so riled up. Am I annoyed that Larsen might be making a move on a woman he believes is my girlfriend? Or am I bothered that Diana is choosing to hang out with him tonight instead of me?

Motherfucker.

I think it’s the latter.

I think this unpleasant sensation slogging through my veins is jealousy.

What if she decides she actually likes Larsen and wants to date him for real? My brain has finally reconciled with the fact that I might be a tiny bit interested in starting something up with her. Fine, not a tiny bit. Ever since I accurately guessed her kinks, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about fucking her.

I saw it in her eyes, how badly she wants to relinquish control, and that intrigues me to no end. I’ve never met a woman who might want to explore that kind of stuff with me. Lynsey sure didn’t. But Diana wants a guy who will take charge. Someone who can fulfill her darkest, dirtiest fantasies.

Why the hell should Will Larsen get to explore that with her?

Nope.

If anyone is getting that honor, it’s going to be me.