Before me stands not just Katrin. Before me stands passion incarnate—wild, untamed beauty with a force so potent it steals my breath.
The crimson top clings to her curves, accentuating the delicate slope of her waist, the elegant line of her shoulders. The fringed skirt shimmers in the soft light, swaying with every step, revealing just enough to ignite the imagination. Scarlet heels—not too high—lengthen her silhouette and lend her stride a feline grace, hypnotic in its confidence.
"You look breathtaking," I murmur, my voice roughened by desire.
Her eyes flare—bright as embers, smoldering with a dangerous, playful challenge. Yet her smile blooms slowly, tenderly, like petals unfurling in a warm breeze. Something deeper than passion pulses beneath it.
"You're beautiful too," she whispers, as if confessing it only to herself.
She steps closer, and the air between us grows thick with heat. The scent of her lipstick—sweet, tart like ripe cherries, with a hint of something spicy—wraps around me, dizzying.
"Tonight, I'll teach you a dance whose name has many translations..." My voice drops, velvet and low.
My palm slides down her back, tracing the silk of her top, the warmth of her skin beneath. She doesn't pull away—instead, she arches into the touch, craving it.
"Some call it the 'hard slap'—for the way the hips move," I murmur against her ear, lips brushing the shell. "Others, 'the touch'—because it's unbearably intimate."
A shiver races through her.
"But I prefer another name..." My breath hitched as hers does. "The passionate kiss."
Rebel Girl shudders. Her fingers dig into my shoulders—anchoring herself, or perhaps refusing to let go. Her eyelids flutter shut for a heartbeat, and in that suspended moment, the tension between us crackles like live wire.
Every movement of hers—fire against skin.
Every glance—a summons.
Every word—a new note in our shared melody.
The dance has already begun, long before the music.
"You've intrigued me so much, I can't wait to start!" Her voice trembles with excitement, eyes alight with impatient fire. She bites her lip, barely containing a grin, her breath unsteady with anticipation.
My hands settle at her waist, thumbs brushing the dip beneath her ribs. She leans into me, drawn by some invisible force. My heartbeat thuds in sync with hers.
"One more thing... This dance is banned in some countries," I say, locking eyes with her. A smirk plays at my lips. "Because it's like making love—fully clothed, in front of everyone."
"What kind of dance is this?" She frowns, but there is no fear in her gaze—only thrill, like standing on the edge of something wild and irresistible.
I step back, reluctantly freeing myself from her grip, and move to the speaker. The room holds its breath. Then—
The first chords of Kaoma's "Lambada" erupt, hot and rhythmic, saturating the air with the spice of summer, freedom, want. The music isn't just sound—it's movement, breath, a dare.
"Is this... Lambada?!" Katrin claps her hands, face radiant as if witnessing a dream made real. Her smile is pure sunlight.
"Yes," I reply, closing the distance. "And tonight, I'll teach you to dance it right."
"You sure I can do it?" A shadow of doubt flickers in her voice.
She bites her lip, as if chastising herself for hesitating, but I am already there—close enough to feel her tremble. My lips graze her ear.
"With me, you can do anything."
My voice is a vow. She doesn't answer, but her pupils dilate, her breath deepens. I take her hand—her fingers warm, slightly damp with nerves—and lead her to the center of the room, where the music pulses like a second heartbeat.
"Listen to me. If anything feels unclear—tell me. I'll guide you." My tone is gentle, unwavering.
She nods. Not submission—resolve.
"Okay," she whispers, the word quivering—not with fear, but raw exhilaration.
My palm glides up her arm, savoring every inch. When my fingers pause at her elbow, she arches into the touch instinctively, her body craving more.
My right hand settles firmly at her waist, possessive yet reverent. She melts against me, pliant, warm—as if no space should exist between us. Our hips align, my thigh slotting between hers, the contact intimate, electric.
Her breath hitches. Time stills. In that moment, I know—she feels it too.
"I'll lead," I rasp, desire roughening my voice. "Move your hips like you're tracing a figure eight. Don't rush—find your rhythm."
She nods, but her movements remain stiff, her focus locked on our feet as if a misstep might unravel everything. Anxiety flickers in her gaze—the fear of failing, of disappointing. She wavers, tentative, an invisible wall still clinging to her.
So I release her. Step back. Let the music halt.
"This won't do," I say firmly, heading to the speaker to turn the music back on. My resolve isn't irritated but calm—the kind that needs no words yet puts everything in its place.
"Sorry…" the girl whispers, her voice laced with remorse. "It's just… I feel like I'm in the way. And… we're so close…" The last words are almost exhaled, as if she's confessing something forbidden.
I turn to her. My gaze is direct and steady. There is no reproach in it, only the desire to teach her.
"Come here."
Rebel Girl hesitates for a moment but then takes a step—uncertain, yet brave. I pull her to me again, this time tighter than before. My fingers dig into her waist, not roughly, but just enough for her to feel it: I'm here, holding you, not letting go. Her body presses against mine, and in that touch, there is everything—trembling, trust, and a tension that seems to pulse in the air between us. I feel her rapid breaths. Each short, warm exhale burns against my neck.
"Right here," I murmur, slowly rolling my hips, making her follow. Gently, almost hypnotically. "We're supposed to be this close. Moving together. As one body."
I let her pull away, releasing her physically but not emotionally. My eyes keep her in this dance, even without music.
"This is… kind of like…" Her voice trails off, her cheeks instantly flushing as if she's just realized the nature of what's happening.
"Sex. Yes, it's an intimate dance. I told you. That's why it's banned in so many places. We're practically mimicking the act while dancing."
Her eyes widen. But there is no fear in them—only pure, unveiled curiosity, shifting into something deeper. Boldness. Interest. A hunger to learn.
"I get it. Let's try again."
She exhales deeply, as if releasing the last traces of fear. And there's no hesitation left in her voice—only a pulsing anticipation.
We take position again. Her hands rest on my shoulders a little more confidently this time, but I still sense that faint restraint in her touch. Her chest brushes against mine with every breath, that barely-there movement creating the illusion of dancing even before the music starts.
I lean into her neck—toward that line I'd rather feel with my lips than my eyes. A delicate, sweet scent rises from her skin, warm, almost honeyed, with a hint of something sharp and daring. Her perfume is like her—softness with fire inside.
Slowly, I drag my tongue along the sensitive skin at the base of her neck, gentle, almost accidental, but deliberate. Not a provocation—an invitation.
"Relax…" My lips graze her ear. "And let me bring you to the edge with just this dance."
Ever since she becomes mine—even if she will never admit it out loud—I allow myself to say things like this. And she… she blushes, bites her lip, her eyes igniting with that fire I love so much. It's not just any fire—it's a wild, magnetic flame, the kind that burns me up the moment she looks at me.
The music starts again, and this time, her hips move with more confidence, mirroring mine, gradually syncing with me in rhythm. But now, there are no walls between us. Just heat. Just breath. Just want.
Rebel Girl feels the music not with her body—but with her soul. And I feel her. Every shift, every curve of her body sends a tremor through me.
At first, she's still slightly tense—I notice her fingers gripping my shoulder nervously, her breath hitching at the unfamiliar closeness. She trembles, as if on edge, like she can't believe she's allowing this. But with every beat, with every roll of our hips, she relaxes. Her breathing grows deeper, hotter, and I hear it escape her lips in quiet gasps, as if she's struggling to hold back—both herself and what I'm awakening in her.
And now it's no longer me leading her—we're dancing together, a single mechanism of passion, where every movement is mutual, every touch deliberate, almost necessary. We barely move from the spot, staying within a single square meter, yet the tension between us only grows.
Katrin surrenders completely to the dance. Her hips sway to the music, pressing against me with bold confidence one moment, then teasingly pulling away the next. Her cheeks burn with a flush, and in her eyes—which keep meeting mine—there's something between shyness and a daring challenge. I watch as her pink tongue darts over her lips, as if she's already anticipating what comes next—or maybe she's teasing, playing, knowing she's driving me mad not just with desire, but with the power she holds right now.
I can't take it anymore.
Leaning in, I catch her lower lip in a light bite, feeling her shiver in surprise—but she doesn't pull away. On the contrary, her fingers dig into me harder, as if begging: Don't stop. Slowly, I release her lip, letting my teeth drag slightly before my mouth crashes into hers in a deep, searing kiss. This isn't just a kiss—it's a confession. A claim. A declaration. In it, there's everything: desire, anger, passion, tenderness, jealousy, and a mad, ruinous hunger to belong.
We don't stop moving. Our bodies keep dancing, no longer obeying the music—just us. Just our pulse, beating in sync.
Bolder. Faster. Hotter. Closer. To the edge.
We melt into a single surge, and all doubt disappears, dissolving into the music, the heat of our touch, this intoxicating feeling that the whole world has vanished—leaving only us, him and her, step by step, movement by movement, in perfect unison.
Our bodies move in a strange, almost hypnotic rhythm—hips still tracing figure eights, legs entwined, the kiss growing wetter, hungrier. I feel her chest press against mine with every breath, her stomach tensing in time with our movements.
"I agree with you," Katrin exhales, breathless after our lips finally part.
Her chest rises and falls, her cheeks burn, and her voice trembles—from arousal, from exhaustion, from something deeper that can't be put into words.
"About what?" I'm still dazed, struggling to grasp her meaning.
"That this dance… suits the translation 'Passionate Kiss' better," she says, licking her lips as if trying to savor the taste of me.
A faint smile plays on her lips, and I know—this isn't just a phrase. It's an admission. Cautious, like a step over an abyss, but so raw it sends a shiver through me.
We keep dancing until the music fades. The last notes linger in the air like a breath before sleep, but we don't stop right away. Our bodies still sway in a slow rhythm, as if unwilling to let go of this feeling of oneness.
When we finally still, I don't release her. My hands stay locked around her waist, fingers gripping the fabric of her dress like I'm afraid she'll vanish if I loosen my hold.
"This will be our love dance," I whisper, my lips almost brushing hers, eyes locked onto hers.
Something flickers in her gaze, and in that silence, there's more than the most beautiful confession could ever hold.
Because I don't need words. I already know what she feels. I know it from the tremble in her body, from her gaze, from the way her fingers clutch my shirt like it's the only reality left to cling to.
Sometimes, love isn't words. It's a dance. It's a breath. It's the silence between kisses.