My Latin Dancer Wife - Chapter 1: Chapter 1
You are reading My Latin Dancer Wife, Chapter 1: Chapter 1. Read more chapters of My Latin Dancer Wife.
Having a Latin dance performer for a wife is... complicated.
Every damn day, I watch her press against other men—bodies tangled in holds that look way too intimate for my liking. But the worst part? The way she helps her partners "relax" before performances, all sweet and accommodating, just to ease their nerves.
My wife, Bianca Valentine, is stunning—the kind of woman who turns heads without trying. Heart-shaped face, curves that could make a saint sin, and legs so long and smooth I can't keep my hands off them. The first time I saw her on our blind date, I was done for. Took every ounce of charm I had to win her over.
Tonight, I came home early. She has a big performance tomorrow, and the night before a show is always our time. Apparently, Latin dancers need to... release tension beforehand. Something about avoiding accidents on stage.
Bianca walked in a little after eight, her body poured into that tight dance dress—every curve on display except for the jacket tied around her hips, hiding the best part.
"Baby, I'm exhausted," she groaned, flopping onto the couch with a dramatic sigh.
I smirked, handing her a glass of water. "Then let me do the work. Big day tomorrow, right?" My fingers traced her waist, and she rolled her eyes but didn't push me away.
While she sipped her water, I untied the jacket.
Just like I thought—nothing underneath.
White stockings, the tiniest scrap of lace, and miles of smooth skin. My blood ran hot just looking at her.
Bianca bit her lip, cheeks flushing. "Not in the living room," she murmured.
I didn't argue. I carried her to bed.
And God, was she wild—a side of her only I got to see.
They say it best, don't they?
Lady in the streets, freak between the sheets.
The fact that she let go like this with me? That's how I knew she was mine.
Afterward, she curled against me, breath steady, already asleep. I didn't have the heart to wake her.
I was about to turn in when my phone buzzed—Drake Langley, video call.
Declined it fast, not wanting to disturb Bianca, and stepped into the living room.
Drake—a security guard at Bianca's troupe—sent a follow-up video with a voice message, laughing like an idiot.
"Bro, hit the jackpot tonight! Just banged a Latin dancer—holy shit, that body! That clam—un-fucking-real!"
I'd befriended Drake back when I used to pick Bianca up from rehearsals. Call me paranoid, but with a wife like her, I needed eyes inside that place.
Curious, I tapped the video.
And froze.
The woman was a Latin dancer—long legs in white stockings, just like Bianca. But her chest was fuller, marked with a bold rose tattoo. The guy in the video was rough, forcing her into a full split, leaving nothing to the imagination.
I shut it off before it got worse.
No faces visible.
"Right? Total smoke show!" Drake's voice crackled through. "Latin dancers—that flexibility? Chef's kiss."
I scoffed. "Lucky bastard. Who was it?"
He just laughed. "Yeah, no way I'm telling. Ruin my chances for round two? Nah. Let's just say she's from the troupe. Catch you tomorrow!"
The call ended.
I stood there, jaw tight.
Back in the bedroom, I stared at Bianca—peaceful, innocent in sleep.
No way I'd wake her now.
But one question burned in my mind:
Who the hell in that troupe has a rose tattoo?
Every damn day, I watch her press against other men—bodies tangled in holds that look way too intimate for my liking. But the worst part? The way she helps her partners "relax" before performances, all sweet and accommodating, just to ease their nerves.
My wife, Bianca Valentine, is stunning—the kind of woman who turns heads without trying. Heart-shaped face, curves that could make a saint sin, and legs so long and smooth I can't keep my hands off them. The first time I saw her on our blind date, I was done for. Took every ounce of charm I had to win her over.
Tonight, I came home early. She has a big performance tomorrow, and the night before a show is always our time. Apparently, Latin dancers need to... release tension beforehand. Something about avoiding accidents on stage.
Bianca walked in a little after eight, her body poured into that tight dance dress—every curve on display except for the jacket tied around her hips, hiding the best part.
"Baby, I'm exhausted," she groaned, flopping onto the couch with a dramatic sigh.
I smirked, handing her a glass of water. "Then let me do the work. Big day tomorrow, right?" My fingers traced her waist, and she rolled her eyes but didn't push me away.
While she sipped her water, I untied the jacket.
Just like I thought—nothing underneath.
White stockings, the tiniest scrap of lace, and miles of smooth skin. My blood ran hot just looking at her.
Bianca bit her lip, cheeks flushing. "Not in the living room," she murmured.
I didn't argue. I carried her to bed.
And God, was she wild—a side of her only I got to see.
They say it best, don't they?
Lady in the streets, freak between the sheets.
The fact that she let go like this with me? That's how I knew she was mine.
Afterward, she curled against me, breath steady, already asleep. I didn't have the heart to wake her.
I was about to turn in when my phone buzzed—Drake Langley, video call.
Declined it fast, not wanting to disturb Bianca, and stepped into the living room.
Drake—a security guard at Bianca's troupe—sent a follow-up video with a voice message, laughing like an idiot.
"Bro, hit the jackpot tonight! Just banged a Latin dancer—holy shit, that body! That clam—un-fucking-real!"
I'd befriended Drake back when I used to pick Bianca up from rehearsals. Call me paranoid, but with a wife like her, I needed eyes inside that place.
Curious, I tapped the video.
And froze.
The woman was a Latin dancer—long legs in white stockings, just like Bianca. But her chest was fuller, marked with a bold rose tattoo. The guy in the video was rough, forcing her into a full split, leaving nothing to the imagination.
I shut it off before it got worse.
No faces visible.
"Right? Total smoke show!" Drake's voice crackled through. "Latin dancers—that flexibility? Chef's kiss."
I scoffed. "Lucky bastard. Who was it?"
He just laughed. "Yeah, no way I'm telling. Ruin my chances for round two? Nah. Let's just say she's from the troupe. Catch you tomorrow!"
The call ended.
I stood there, jaw tight.
Back in the bedroom, I stared at Bianca—peaceful, innocent in sleep.
No way I'd wake her now.
But one question burned in my mind:
Who the hell in that troupe has a rose tattoo?
End of My Latin Dancer Wife Chapter 1. Continue reading Chapter 2 or return to My Latin Dancer Wife book page.