Blurred Lines

by Naughty Aphrodite

  © Copyright 2018 by Naughty Aphrodite- All rights reserved.

  In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher. All rights reserved.

  Respective authors own all copyrights not held by the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Blurred Lines

  MMF Bisexual Menage and Steamy MF Romance Book Bundle

  By: Naughty Aphrodite

  Table of Contents

  Passion Dance

  SEAL Stepbrother

  Pump It!

  Breaking Her Rules

  The Neighbor

  Were Bears Dare To Tread

  Dangerous Proposal

  The Memory Of You

  Billionaire’s Nanny

  Billionaire’s Fate

  Caring Billionaire

  Secret Confession

  Billionaire In Disguise (Part 1)

  Billionaire In Disguise (Part 2)

  Indomitable

  Passion Dance

  Chapter 1

  It was staring up at me from the table, taunting and teasing me: A gold lettered card that read, “Happy Birthday! Your friend, Ashley, has signed you up for 6 weeks of dance lessons at the International Ballroom Studio! Get your dancing shoes, and we’ll see you there!”

  It was a cute and personal little gift certificate, but the sentiment was more confrontational than anything. Ashley had been my best friend since high school, and had since moved to New York, but we still talked every other day on the phone about everything. Ever since she moved to The Big Apple, she thought she was an expert on taking chances.

  “You never do any of the things you want to do!” she’d cry. “You won’t even dance in public, and you’re an amazing dancer!”

  “Not yet... I need to take lessons.”

  “Then why don’t you take them?”

  “...Shut up,” I’d say. And the conversation would be over.

  But now, she’d thrown down the gauntlet. The lessons were paid for. She was the only one who knew about my secret aspirations. She was also the only one who knew about my crippling fear of pursuing dance. As such, she took it upon herself to make me face my fear. It was a terrible thing to do to me.

  When Ashley and I were in high school, I’d have her come over to watch the classical dance recitals on PBS. Being a good friend, she’d comply, though I knew she was bored to tears. I’d try to get her into it, and together we’d try the dance moves ourselves, performing ballet, tap, and -- what I loved more than anything -- ballroom dance. We’d tango around the room together and she’d trip over my feet as I did my best to lead her. I longed so much to dance with a real partner, but I’d always been so shy. Ashley was the only person in the world that I could really be myself with. So I danced with her or by myself, practicing the moves I saw over and over again until I got them right. Alone in my room, I’d strip to my bra and panties while I danced, watching my body sway this way and that, watching my muscles contract, doing my best to be as demanding and exacting as any dance teacher ever could be. But sooner or later, everybody needs somebody to watch them. And that was the thing I feared the most.

  Even at the school dances I always managed to have a terrible time. I’d have the right dress, the right date, the right friends to meet up with, but my crippling fear would ruin the evening for me. It consumed me. I couldn’t hear conversations, didn’t register compliments to my carefully chosen dresses, and generally made my date miserable with my nerves, thinking about that inevitable moment he would take me by the hand and lead me to the dance floor. One pervasive thought ran through my head at all times: When he sees me dance, if he makes a face, if he makes fun of me, if it turns out I’m not graceful, that all of my hours practicing alone in my room meant nothing, I’ll be shattered and humiliated.

  And, indeed, the moment always came. “Would you like to dance?” My face would grow hot with panic, even as I told myself to get it together. I’d scream at myself, Get out on the dance floor with the handsome boy who wants to be with you! But instead, I’d say, “I just need to go to the ladies room…” and then I’d hide from him the rest of the night. Every time. I started to get a reputation for being rude.

  It shouldn’t have been that big of a deal. It didn’t matter if I made a fool of myself at a school dance. I knew that. It was supposed to be fun -- we weren’t there to impress each other. Yes, I knew all of this. But it was a big deal to me. I had a vision of what I was and what I could be that was all mine. I had seen the way my body moved in the mirror -- effortless and beautiful. I dreamed of other people’s eyes on my body, taking it in with awe and respect as I told stories with my movements. I dreamed of the applause and electricity I could generate if only I ever put myself out there. But there was the dream, and then there was the possible reality. The notion that I had been delusional --that the truth was if I put myself out there, those watching would take me in not with awe and respect, but with disdain and a shake of the head -- was simply too much to bear. And so I never tried. The dream stayed locked in my mind, never to be tampered with by the judgment of others.

  My high school days had come and gone. Now, so had college, too. I was 22, living on my own, and yet I was letting fear continue to cripple me. The gift certificate taunting me on the table made it all too apparent what a child I was. This wasn’t the person I wanted to be --careful and fearful and always wondering what could have been. It was the time I decided what kind of woman I wanted to be. Would I be the kind of woman that took chances? That went after what she wanted? Presumably, there would be other beginners in the class as well. It would be unlikely there would be anyone I knew there -- it was as safe a place to fail as any. I picked up the gift certificate and stared at it as though it was a crystal ball that would tell me how to handle my life. The message was clear enough. I had been presented with an opportunity, and I would take it. I jotted down the time and place in my planner, and even that simple action made my heart pound nervously. I was really going to do this.

  Chapter 2

  On the day of my first lesson, I was a frazzled mess. I left my apartment, came back, changed my shoes, left, came back, changed my outfit, left, came back and checked the stove burners to make sure they weren’t on before I finally made myself head to class. As a result, I was 15 minutes late. The greetings and introduction had all been done when I came bursting through the door. On the ground, the students were paired off and watching two people -- presumably the instructors -- dance the tango.

  I stood in the back and watched, trying not to make a bigger spectacle of myself than I already had. Both were tall, slender, and lithe, with lean bodies. In her dance leotard and transparent skirt, I could make out the soft curves of her breasts and hips, the outline of her abdominal muscles, her every ethereal and yet sexually intense movement as she was led around by her partner. He was tall and broad-shouldered with a small waist, showcased by his tucked-in white shirt, which led to a round, muscular ass that centered him, clad in tight black pants. His movements were sure, graceful and strong. He seemed to have complete control of the otherworldly goddess who danced with him -- a very impressive feat. I was mesmerized.

  The dance came to an end, and the students broke into applause. Unable to help myself, I was clapping the loudest, and it brought the two performers’ gaze upon me. I
froze as the students all turned around to see who they were looking at. But I was put at ease when the male dancer broke into a smile.

  “You must be Jessica!” he exclaimed in accented English. “We thought perhaps you would be a no-show and poor Josh would be left without a partner.” He gestured to an unassuming older gentleman in the first row who was sitting by himself.

  “Yes, I’m sorry. Car trouble,” I lied.

  “Not a problem at all, we were just making introductions,” the woman said. “We’re your instructors. I’m Stephanie and this is Lucas,” she explained, gesturing to her dancing partner. “As he said, you’ll be with Josh, and you may as well stay on your feet because we’re gonna jump right in.” She turned her attention to the rest of the class. “Okay! Grab your partners, stand up, and let’s get you guys moving!”

  Josh was a bit shorter than me, bald, probably in his late forties. He tripped on his own shoe as he approached me. I’d have my work cut out for me, but at least I wasn’t out of my league in this group.

  Apparently, Stephanie and Lucas’ dance had been a simple instruction on what we were supposed to imitate, as Josh explained. I immediately felt nervous, having missed most of it. But as Josh took my hand and began to show me what he had learned, I realized I knew exactly what to do. My years of absorbing dance recitals guided me through the simple beginner steps, and within minutes I was giving Josh pointers. “No, this way. Your foot goes here. Look in my eyes, not at your feet.” And I began to feel a bit of pride as we glided with more ease and Josh’s clumsiness began to subside with help from my instructions.

  Stephanie and Lucas were working their way around the room, making adjustments and giving pointers. Soon they would be coming up to me and Josh to appraise our work, and I felt that old familiar heart thunking panic begin to overtake me. But in spite of my instincts to flee, before they got to me and never return, I resolved to keep going. I would take their criticisms like a grown woman, dammit.

  “How am I doing? I’m worried about what they’ll say,” Josh confided. His nerves made me feel less silly about my own and I relaxed a bit, the pounding in my chest subsiding and something like confidence returning.

  “You’re doing great. Don’t worry, we’re just here to have fun,” I smiled at him.

  “Well, I see somebody’s not a beginner.” It was Lucas, standing behind me, smiling broadly. “Where else have you taken lessons?” he asked.

  “Oh, no. This is my first dance class ever,” I replied.

  “I can’t believe that!” he exclaimed, his Latin accent lending a joyful lilt to his voice. “A natural! I would have thought you had trained with the best instructors in Argentina!”

  “Oh, is that where you’re from?” I asked, smiling like an idiot. He was so handsome, he made me feel like a teenager. I wanted so much to know him more deeply.

  “Yes, I am Argentinian through and through,” he laughed. “Which is why I am qualified to say you are made for the tango. And Josh!” he exclaimed, clasping Josh on the shoulders. “You walked right into the door when you arrived, and now here you are, graceful as a swan!”

  “I just needed the right partner,” he beamed at me. I was elated. I wasn’t delusional. Maybe I could even be good at this.

  “Did you find out where she trained?” Stephanie asked Lucas, approaching us. “You’re a wonderful dancer.”

  “She claims it was gifted to her by God,” he said. “This is her first class ever.”

  “Well... I mean... I watch a lot of ballroom dance on T.V., and I practice it on my own,” I said, feeling stupid about the admission as soon as I made it.

  “Self-taught. Very impressive,” Stephanie said, genuinely.

  “But Josh!” Lucas exclaimed, his every statement animated and endearing. “You mustn’t be afraid of her just because she is very pretty. In the tango, you must hold your partner very close. Like this. May I?” He was holding out his hand to me and I realized he wanted to demonstrate with me. I felt my cheeks grow hot, and I gave him my hand. He pulled me in very close until my breasts were pressing into his hard chest. He led me through the steps with such sure hands and stance that it felt effortless. He even threw in some more complicated moves that were too advanced for such a class, but taking his lead, I was able to perform them with ease as our bodies swayed together.

  “Just beautiful,” Stephanie said. “You really have something, Jessica.”

  Lucas dipped me so low I was hovering over the floor, Lucas’ face hovering over my breasts. I felt dizzy in the moment with pleasure. Then he pulled me to my feet and I realized the magic moment was over.

  “You must come to our private rehearsals,” Lucas said, overjoyed. “We’re competing in the World Championship. We could use another set of eyes.”

  “Yes, please come!” Stephanie echoed.

  “I’d love to,” I agreed. I wanted very much to spend as much time with these two as possible.

  “You’re a lucky man to have gotten such a great partner,” Lucas said to Josh. He patted Stephanie on the ass as he made his way to the front of the classroom, and I realized they weren’t just dance partners, but a couple.

  “Okay, everyone, gather round! We’ll show you the next steps!”

  Chapter 3

  The next three weeks were a blur of dancing, laughing, and making fast friends with this beautiful, interesting couple. Between watching them dance and getting individual coaching from them, I found out that Lucas had grown up in Buenos Aires and moved to the States when he finished school, with dreams of becoming a dancer. Stephanie was a small town girl with similar aspirations. The two of them met at a dance club where they’d found each other and blown everyone in the place away with their moves. They’d been in love ever since. It was easy to see why. She was beautiful, warm, and funny. He was handsome, passionate, and animated. And somehow, together, they emitted an unparalleled sexuality. When I watched them dance together, it almost felt too intimate. You could feel how much they wanted each other with their every move and touch. I chastised myself frequently for feeling my pussy grow warm when I watched them, imagining their bodies moving in tandem as I visualized, one by one, items of clothing being removed from their agile bodies. Their performances left you wanting more. Their performances left you wanting both of them, to devour and touch as you pleased.

  Today they were trying to master the lift. They rehearsed the moves leading up to it over and over again, wanting to make sure they were ready for the climactic moment that, if done incorrectly, could go disastrously awry. If they pulled it off, it would win them the competition. If they failed, they were done for.

  The lift was complicated because of the muscle control involved. It was a very dramatic slow lift. They began on the ground, dancing close, body to body. Gradually he would begin to inch her upward. He’d dance with her limp body, her feet off the ground. She’d curl up in his arms as he got down on his knees, walking her around the stage as both the reduced man who worshiped her and as a caregiver. Together they would begin to rise back up as he came to his feet, lifted her over his head, and she lay limply staring up at the ceiling as he triumphantly carried her to where the two characters they’d created would make love. He’d then drop her, letting her fall a good two feet, before catching her again and laying her down on the ground. The dance ended with him slowly lowering himself down on top of her, the music fading out, the lights going to black as he closed in on her. It was dramatic and beautiful. A tango that told a story.

  Watching the two of them was excruciatingly exquisite. I wanted to be them and I wanted to be with them. Their grace and poise were infused with wild, passionate grabbing of each other. You could see how their fingers dug into each other’s flesh. Their dancing was somehow delicate and crass at the same time. It was the attitude that sold it. It was their emotion that left me aching to run home and touch myself, seeking relief.

  Now, she was above his head. They were about to do the drop. They’d
been at it for hours, and I could see Lucas’ muscles straining. I told them they should take a break, but they were vehement that they could improve -- they just needed to keep at it. I didn’t know what they were talking about -- I saw no way they could improve their incredible performance. But still, they had persevered. And I watched as, for the first time, Lucas’ arms began to shake. His hand slipped, and she began her descent sooner than intended. I watched in slow motion as she came crashing to the ground. She came down on her knee hard, and I heard her howl out in pain. Her scream echoed in the empty rehearsal room dramatically.

  It seemed like nobody did anything for an eternity, but it was really only a fraction of a second before both Lucas and I lunged for her, making sure she was okay.

  “Where does it hurt?” Lucas asked, cradling her head as she winced in pain.

  “Did you break anything?” I asked. I gently grazed the skin of her knee with my hand. She cried out again and I withdrew, feeling guilty for hurting her again.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I know it hurts. But we need to see if it’s broken. Can you wriggle your toes?”