Salsa Lessons

My feet were doing things I hadn't authorized. Again.

"No, no, no. You're thinking too much."

Rafael Mendez released my hands and stepped back, running his fingers through his dark curls in frustration. Not anger—he was too patient for that—but definitely frustration. After eight weeks of private lessons, I still moved like I was solving a math problem instead of dancing.

"I can't help it. I'm an engineer. I think in algorithms."

"Salsa is not an algorithm, Megan. Salsa is..."

He gestured broadly, searching for words.

"It's a conversation. Between your body and the music. Between you and your partner."

"Then I'm having a very awkward conversation."

He laughed. Rafael's laugh was one of my favorite things about these lessons. It came from deep in his chest, warm and genuine, and it made his whole face transform. At rest, he had the kind of brooding intensity that made women in the group classes forget their steps entirely. But when he laughed, he looked like a kid getting away with something.

"Let me show you."

He moved behind me, close enough that I could feel his body heat, could smell his cologne—something spicy and masculine that I'd started associating with Thursday evenings. His hands settled on my hips, and I concentrated very hard on not reacting.

"Close your eyes."

"That seems counterproductive."

"Trust me."

I closed my eyes. The music was still playing—a slow son cubano that had been one of my mother's favorites when I was growing up in Ohio, thousands of miles from anywhere this music made sense.

"Now. Feel the beat. Not in your head—in your body. Let your hips move with it."

His hands guided me gently, showing me the figure-eight motion that came so naturally to Cuban dancers and so awkwardly to midwestern engineers. Without my eyes to distract me, I started to feel it. The way the music wanted my body to move. The way Rafael's hands created a framework for that movement.

"Good. Much better. Now, when I step forward, you step back. Keep your eyes closed."

He moved around to face me. Took my hands again. And we began to dance.

It wasn't perfect. But something clicked. For the first time in eight weeks, I wasn't counting steps or worrying about where my feet should be. I was just... moving. With him. With the music. Like a conversation, he'd said. And for once, I wasn't stumbling over my words.

"See?"

His voice was soft, close to my ear.

"You can dance, Megan. You just have to get out of your own way."

I opened my eyes. We'd stopped moving, but he hadn't released my hands. His dark eyes held mine with an intensity that made my breath catch.

"Why do you keep teaching me? I must be your worst student."

"You're my most stubborn student. There's a difference."

"That's not an answer."

"Fine."

He released one of my hands but kept the other, spinning me slowly under his arm.

"You're beautiful. You're funny. And watching you fight your own body to do something it clearly wants to do is the most entertaining part of my week."

I stumbled—not from the spin, but from his words. He caught me easily, pulling me against his chest to steady me. We stayed like that for a moment too long. His heartbeat under my palm. His arms secure around my waist.

"Rafael..."

"I shouldn't have said that."

He stepped back, suddenly professional again.

"I apologize. That was inappropriate."

"It was."

I agreed.

"It was also nice to hear."

The tension in his shoulders eased slightly. "We should probably end the lesson here."

"Probably."

Neither of us moved.

Rafael Mendez had arrived in Miami from Havana fifteen years ago, smuggled across the Florida Straits in a boat that probably shouldn't have made the crossing. He'd been nineteen and alone, with nothing but the clothes on his back and a talent for dance that he'd developed on the streets of Centro Habana.

He'd told me the story during one of our earlier lessons, when I'd asked about his accent—Cuban Spanish softened by years in America but never fully Americanized. He'd built a life here. Started with nothing, now owned his own studio. Taught classes and private lessons. Choreographed for music videos and corporate events.

And somehow, inexplicably, he'd spent the last two months trying to teach rhythm to a woman whose idea of dancing had previously been "white girl shuffle at weddings."

I'd started lessons on a dare. My coworker had bet me that I couldn't do something outside my comfort zone every month for a year. January had been skydiving. February, a pottery class that resulted in the world's lumpiest vase. March, I'd walked into Mendez Dance Studio and asked about salsa lessons.

I'd expected to hate it. Expected to do my eight weeks, prove I could try new things, and go back to my comfortable routine of work and Netflix and occasionally texting my ex before remembering why he was my ex.

Instead, I'd found myself looking forward to Thursday evenings. Found myself practicing steps in my kitchen while cooking dinner. Found myself Googling Cuban culture and adding reggaeton to my Spotify playlists.

Found myself falling for my dance instructor like the biggest cliché in the world.

The next Thursday, I arrived early. Found Rafael in the studio alone, dancing by himself to something slow and old and scratchy, like it was playing from a vinyl record. His eyes were closed, his body moving with an ease I envied, and I stood in the doorway watching him for longer than I should have.

He sensed me eventually. Stopped. Opened his eyes.

"Megan. You're early."

"Traffic was light."

Lies. I'd left work an hour early and sat in my car in the parking lot, trying to talk myself out of what I was about to do.

"Can we talk? Before we start?"

He nodded slowly, gesturing to the bench along the wall. We sat. Not touching, but closer than strictly necessary.

"Last week,"

I began,

"you said you shouldn't have said what you said."

"I shouldn't have. You're my student. There are boundaries—"

"What if I didn't want boundaries?"

He went very still.

"I've been coming here for two months. And yes, I'm learning to dance. But mostly, I'm looking forward to seeing you. To making you laugh. To the way you touch me when you're correcting my form—which, let's be honest, you have to do constantly because I'm terrible at this."

A small smile tugged at his lips. "You're not terrible. You're—"

"Stubborn, I know. But Rafael... I'm attracted to you. I think about you. All the time. And I need to know if that's just me reading too much into Thursday evenings, or if there's something here."

He was quiet for a long moment. The old music was still playing, some bolero I didn't recognize. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough.

"There's something here."

My heart did a complicated thing in my chest.

"But I don't want to be your—how do you say—your exotic adventure. The Cuban fling before you settle down with someone appropriate."

"Is that what you think this is?"

"I've been that before. The exciting foreign guy who's fun for a while but not serious. I'm too old for that now."

I turned to face him fully. Reached out and touched his jaw, making him look at me.

"Rafael. I'm thirty-four years old. I have a 401k and a mortgage. I'm not looking for an adventure. I'm looking for..."

I hesitated, then committed.

"I'm looking for someone who makes me feel the way I feel when you touch me. And if that's you, then I want to find out. For real."

He searched my face for something. Found it, apparently, because something in his expression shifted. Softened.

"You really are stubborn."

"I really am."

He leaned in and kissed me.

His lips were soft but insistent, coaxing mine apart. He kissed like he danced—confident, rhythmic, completely in tune with his partner. I melted into him, my hands finding his shoulders, his neck, tangling in those dark curls.

When we broke apart, we were both breathing harder.

"This is a terrible idea,"

he murmured against my mouth.

"The worst."

"We should stop."

"Probably."

He kissed me again. This time deeper, more urgent. His hands slid down to my waist, pulling me closer until I was practically in his lap. The heat between us was building, the air in the studio suddenly too warm.

"Not here,"

he said, pulling back with visible effort.

"Anyone could walk in."

"Then where?"

His eyes darkened. "My apartment is upstairs."

Of course it was. He'd told me once that he lived above the studio, that being close to his work was part of how he'd built this life. I'd tried not to imagine what his apartment looked like. What his bedroom looked like. Whether his sheets smelled like his cologne.

"Show me."

He stood, offering me his hand. I took it. He led me through the back of the studio, up a narrow staircase, through a door into a space that was smaller than I expected but impeccably kept. Old photographs on the walls—Havana, I assumed. A small kitchen. A leather sofa that had seen better days but looked comfortable. And through an open door, a bed with white sheets.

He was watching me take it in, suddenly nervous.

"It's not much—"

I kissed him to stop his self-deprecation. Pressed him against the door. Let my hands roam down his chest, feeling the muscles beneath his thin t-shirt.

"It's perfect."

His confidence returned. He spun us, reversing our positions so I was the one against the door. His mouth found my neck, kissing and nipping as his hands worked my blouse free from my skirt.

"I've imagined this,"

he admitted between kisses.

"Every week. Touching you like this instead of just correcting your posture."

"My posture is terrible. You should probably keep correcting it."

He laughed against my skin. "Later. Right now, I have other priorities."

My blouse came off. Then his shirt. His body was exactly what I'd imagined from glimpses during lessons—lean, defined, the body of a dancer. Tan skin, a dusting of dark hair on his chest, a trail disappearing into his waistband.

I traced that trail with my fingertips and watched him shiver.

"Bedroom,"

he said. Not a question.

"Bedroom."

We undressed each other with the same careful attention we'd given to dance lessons. Learning the choreography of each other's bodies. What made us gasp, what made us moan, what made us pull closer.

His hands on my breasts were reverent. His mouth followed, kissing across my skin like he was mapping territory. I arched into him, wanting more, wanting everything.

"Rafael, please..."

"Please what, mi amor?"

The Spanish endearment sent heat pooling between my thighs.

"Touch me. Really touch me."

His hand slid between my legs, finding me already wet, already aching. He groaned at the discovery.

"Megan... you're..."

"I know. I've been thinking about this for weeks."

His fingers explored me with the same precision he brought to dance. Learning my rhythms. Finding the spots that made my hips buck off the bed. He watched my face as he worked me, adjusting based on my reactions, building me higher and higher.

"Like this?"

"Yes—fuck—exactly like that—"

He added his mouth, kissing down my body until he reached my center. The first touch of his tongue made me cry out. He was as good at this as he was at dancing—attentive, responsive, maddeningly patient when patience drove me crazy.

"I need—I'm going to—"

"Then let go. I've got you."

I shattered. The orgasm rolled through me in waves, cresting and retreating, and he stayed with me through all of it. When I finally came down, he kissed his way back up my body with a satisfied smile.

"Okay?"

"Better than okay."

I pulled him up to kiss him, tasting myself on his lips.

"But I need more."

"I have condoms in the—"

"Get one. Now."

He retrieved one from the nightstand, rolled it on while I watched with hungry eyes. Then he was positioned above me, the head of him pressing where I needed him most.

"Tell me what you want, Megan."

"You. Inside me. Now."

He pushed in slowly, giving me time to adjust to his size. The stretch was delicious—that perfect edge of too-much that made everything feel more intense. When he was fully seated, we both paused, breathing together.

"Dios mío,"

he murmured.

"You feel..."

"I know."

Then he started to move, and words became unnecessary.

He made love like he danced—with rhythm, with passion, with an intuitive sense of how our bodies fit together. Each thrust was deliberate, designed to draw maximum pleasure from both of us. His hips moved in that figure-eight pattern he'd tried so hard to teach me, and now I understood it completely.

I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. He groaned, picking up the pace. His forehead pressed against mine, our breath mingling, our eyes locked.

"You're beautiful,"

he said.

"So beautiful. I've wanted this for so long."

"Me too. God, me too."

He shifted angles, hitting a spot that made me see stars. I cried out, nails digging into his shoulders, and he stayed right there, working that spot with every stroke.

"Rafael—I'm going to—again—"

"Yes. Come for me, mi amor. Let me feel you."

The second orgasm was even more intense than the first. I clenched around him, my whole body shaking, his name torn from my lips. He worked me through it, his own rhythm faltering as my contractions pulled him toward his own edge.

"Megan—I can't—"

"Don't hold back. Give me everything."

He thrust once more, twice, and then stilled with a groan that seemed to come from somewhere primal. I felt him pulse inside me, his whole body trembling as he came.

We collapsed together, tangled and sweaty and breathing hard. His weight on me was comforting rather than crushing. I stroked his back lazily, feeling his heart race against my chest.

"That was..."

he started.

"Yeah."

"Better than dancing."

I laughed. "I'm definitely better at this than salsa."

He propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at me with a tenderness that made my chest ache.

"You're better at salsa than you think. You just needed the right partner to unlock it."

"Maybe that applies to other things too."

He kissed me softly. "Maybe it does."

⏳ Six months later

The music was faster now—a rueda de casino that had the whole studio moving in synchronized chaos. I was in the center of it, spinning from partner to partner, my feet finally doing what I wanted them to do.

Rafael watched from the sidelines, arms crossed, a proud smile on his face. When the song ended and everyone scattered for water, he caught my hand and pulled me close.

"Look at you. My best student."

"Liar. Maria's way better than me."

"Maria's been dancing since she was five. You started eight months ago. The progress you've made..."

He shook his head.

"It's remarkable."

I leaned into him, comfortable with casual affection in a way I'd never been with anyone before. "I have a good teacher."

"You have a teacher who is very motivated to see you succeed."

"And why is that?"

"Because,"

he lowered his voice so only I could hear,

"he wants to dance with you at your wedding."

I pulled back to look at him. His expression was serious but hopeful.

"Rafael..."

"I know it's fast. I know we haven't even been together a year. But I've never been more certain of anything, Megan. I love you. I want to spend my life with you. Will you—"

"Yes."

He blinked. "I didn't finish the question."

"You didn't need to."

He laughed—that wonderful, warm laugh—and kissed me right there in the middle of his studio, surrounded by sweaty dancers and Cuban music and the life we were building together.

Sometimes the best adventures aren't the ones you plan. They're the ones that start with a dare, grow into something unexpected, and end up being everything you never knew you needed.

I'd walked into this studio looking to prove something to a coworker.

I walked out with the love of my life.

And I still couldn't do the figure-eight thing quite right. But I was getting better. We had the rest of our lives to practice.