I’ll Dance If You Watch

Jazz took me dancing last night to celebrate the fact — duh-da-da-da! — I managed to get my driver’s license! Yes, I’m totally legal now. So much so that Jazz let me drive to the club :)

The fact we went dancing is noteworthy too — and the reason for this post — because Jazz doesn’t dance. Not like this, anyway. He does the studly standing-by-the-bar-watching thing. You know the pose: Back to the bar, leaning on it on his elbows, one foot on the floor, the other on a rung of the stool, looking like a king surveying his domain, right? Every cowboy who’s ever been on a movie screen has done that. And OMG if he’d actually had a Stetson on, I’d have been on my knees right then! (You know how I feel about cowboys… {swoon})

I’m already feeling jumpy from caffeine and the bass thrumming through me. I’m out there dancing, not really with anyone, just moving with the music and hoping I don’t look like I’m seizing. But then I look over and realize my man’s liking what he’s seeing while he’s watching me. Seriously watching me. Those jeans were not that tight a few minutes ago. He’s hard. I can see it.

Hottest. Damn. Thing. Ever.

Jazz is watching me dance, licking his lip, frickin’ smirking at me, and now I’m wondering seriously naughty things like how dark was it in the parking lot? How much could we do without anyone seeing? Would it really bother me that much if someone saw? If he adjusts himself one more time, I’m going to–

Yeah, I pounced on him. There was an oomph, some chuckling, then lots of kisses and some really inappropriate public groping before the bartender interrupted us that the bouncer was about to kick us out. Having gotten way more than I’d intended out of this adventure, I dragged Jazz back out to the car…

And it turns out you can do a lot in the backseat of a Sebring ;) Jazz drove home.

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