Even now, as close as we were, he hadn't crossed a line. He'd definitely gotten into the moves, and I was so far in I was drowning, but his hands didn't roam. He kept one forearm securely across my pelvic bone and the other across my clavicle. Every once in a while, I'd hear him sing a line or two of the lyrics and wonder if he'd chosen those particular words to hum in my ear, or if they'd just hit him at the moment he'd wanted to voice them. The longer we stayed together like this, the more screwed up my head became. I questioned every tick of his finger, flex of his arm, swivel of his hip. Each word he said, song he sang, I wanted to know if any of them were for me.
But I couldn't ask.
I couldn't turn around and press my front to his. My longing to look him in the eyes and see what I
