by Susan Arden
“Really? You’ll take him back to the ranch? Thank you. See, you’re not the bad guy you pretend to be.”
“You see what you want to see. I’m not complaining, mind you. I’ll take what I can get.”
Christ, what had he just promised? This pup would have to stay with him. In his house. No way could such a miniscule animal stay in the barn. He’d get trampled, and there wasn’t anyone on site at this time who could deal with the dog. Dog…he wasn’t any bigger than Stephen’s palm, his ribs were countable, and his eyes were almost as big as his head.
“Stephen, you always seem so sure of yourself. I wish I had some of that. He sure needs some of that.” Gillian tenderly rubbed a knuckle on the side of the dog’s face.
“The little mutt needs someone in his corner. Don’t we all, at one time or another?”
“I owe you.”
“Naw. Not a thing. I’ll figure out something.” He thought of Miss Louisa. She was a woman who always knew what to do. Part of his family since before he was born, she still helped out when she wasn’t involved in some charity. Miss Louisa was the person who he pestered with cuts and bruises when he was growing up. Patient and kind, he’d never heard her say a cross word. She lived in her own house and was retired, but she still came over to the house to help out. Never married. He was closer to Miss Louisa than any of his aunts. She was more like a sage and grandmother mixed into one. Jesus, the talk he’d have with her the moment she returned from visiting her family.
“Well, I’ll bake you something. I’ve a new recipe for a chocolate lasagna.”
“Fine. Sounds like a bargain. I’ll take him home with me. Even if we find his mother, he’s sickly and needs medical care.” He gave the dog back to Gillian to hold.
“It’s getting late. I think we should go. Look, he’s starting to shiver.”
“I know how we can warm him up.” He turned her into his arms, the pup between them. He wasn’t about to run the risk of bumping into Gillian’s friends, nor was he willing to wait to get back to the parking lot to do this. Slowly, he ran his hands over her arms, the feel of her skin under his fingers enticing him. She shivered slightly, evoking the need to rub warmth into her flesh. “Darlin’, your skin is so smooth. Pure silk, like your hair.”
“Your hands always feel so good on me,” she whispered. Her chest rose and fell, the little dog having fallen asleep nestled against her breasts.
“Beautiful, kiss me.”
There was no use in pretending, since she’d confided she wanted him as well. He had to taste her mouth fully. He intended on giving himself something to hold on to until she came to him. His lips grazed along her jaw; capturing her face within his hands, he turned her to meet his mouth. The tremble of her lips under his set his whole body on a path toward claiming what she possessed. He had to have more of her.
Her lips pressed against his; he didn’t want to leave her without the memory of him. This kiss was meant to remind them both of what they desired. He sucked her bottom lip, taking the softness between his teeth for a gentle nip. She moaned his name.
Her body pressed closer and, without planning his next move, his hands were cupping her bottom, hiking her hips into him. His cock thrummed, so ready to explode, and this act had him almost at the point of no return. Her lips relaxed, her mouth opened and he swept his tongue inside her. And then he did what he’d promised not to: his fingers crept lower, trailing down her leg. He lifted her skirt in the barren alley.
He groaned, half at his lack of control, and then at the feel of her smooth thighs opening for him.
“Damn,” he swore. Stephen unleashed a low growl, finding the lace between her legs was damp. He ran the tip of his finger along her crevice, over her clit that poked outward. She swayed into his finger, gasping into his mouth.
Gillian moved one hand up until her fingers were woven in his hair. She pulled, tugging strands between her fingers. The pain kicked up his need to feel her slickness against his skin. “I want to feel you. Let me.”
“How can I refuse? You’re driving me wild.”
He pulled the elastic edge back, exposing the soft wetness he longed to own. Slowly, he drew a circle around her opening. This was going to be his. She was going to be his. Fuck, he was going to come in his pants.
She whimpered, writhing in his arms. He stroked her, running his thumb against her clit, over the metal bar, pressing against her harder and harder. Wishing he could plunge into her pussy, he already imagined the sound of them yelling, climaxing together. His finger moved against her opening, making her convulse. Heaven above, how much he craved her; he clenched his jaw, fighting the need to thrust his finger inside her.
He swore. “Damn, I’m being a jerk. Sugar, you’re worth the wait.”
Stephen clenched his jaw, about to shatter his teeth. If he didn’t stop, he’d be the one reeling in pleasure. He couldn’t take her in a back alley, not the first time.
For her, he stopped. She deserved to be swept away in a room filled with candles surrounded by flowers. Not standing with a flea-ridden puppy in the arms of a man who was about to break his word. Christ, he had to stop. Now.
“Stephen, I want you too.”
“Baby, you’ve got to know, waiting until Friday to see you again will drive me insane. I can’t deny I want you riding my cock, but I’m willing to go slow.” He removed his hand from under her skirt, and wrapped her in his arms, pressing his mouth against the side of her head, hoping that his pulse might one day return to normal.
“You won’t have to wait. I’ll come visit you and see how the puppy is doing, if you don’t mind?”
“God, no.” He inhaled. Did she know what she was agreeing to? Alone in his house. On second thought, this little munchkin was turning out to be the prize of the century. “Yeah, you should, considering he’s really your dog and I’m watching over him.”
Holy shit. His house. What would she think then? His house barely contained enough furniture to entertain himself. At the moment he had a fully stocked bar and ice cubes. “But he might be down at the barn. We’ll have to see where he ends up.”
“Barn? With the horses?” Her eyes going all wide had him retracting.
“I don’t know. Probably not until he’s older. Come by the house.”
Chapter 6
Getting into her car the next morning, Gillian’s thoughts kept returning to Stephen. All night she’d fantasized about his body, dreaming about him and waking with the space between her legs swollen and aching. She stopped in mid-thought, considering the feel of his mouth on hers, when her phone began to buzz. Definitely, she was falling fast.
“Yes, this is Gillian Sinclair.”
“Hello, Miss Sinclair, this is Ely Fitzgerald. I’m calling about your application to Who Wants to Be Famous.”
For a second, Gillian looked back at the duplex, thinking Haden was oh-so-not-funny. She took the phone away from her ear and eyed it suspiciously. The telephone number displayed was not from around there. Long distance. No, this wasn’t her brother with his warped sense of humor. “Hello, Mr. Fitzgerald,” Gillian said slowly.
“Miss Sinclair, you’ve been selected to appear on our show next season. What do you say?”
Again, Gillian was speechless. With all the people in the world, why was this man calling her? “Mr. Fitzgerald, I’m sorry. I don’t understand. Why me?”
He laughed. Apparently this reaction was typical. “Rarely do we accept applications from family members. You are one of the few. A Mrs. Katherine Sinclair sent in an application along with a video of you dancing. We liked what we saw. I understand you’re the owner of a dance studio in your home town, and you are also quite the ballroom dancer. We were all impressed with your Samba, and even more so with your rendition of a Tango. Unusual, considering your training. Right? We know all about your studio, Light on Your Toes. Our program isn’t the usual Dancing with Stars. We’re looking for regular people with a compelling story. Our test audience responded favorably to you.�
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“Goodness, what did you show them?” He knew about her studio and classes; what else did he know? Her Nana was priceless, sending in an application. Since Gillian had been small, her grandmother had pronounced that one day Gillian’s dream of dancing on stage would come true.
“Some very impressive footage of you dancing in a performance in New York, and then working with your students. Very engaging.”
“Thank you. But I imagine there are several parts in this process. I just don’t know about the timing.” She saw a mountain to climb, topped with hurdles to overcome, to even qualify. She didn’t have time, with her spring recital coming up.
“No. You’re well past that stage. We want you. Consider yourself past interviews—this is the official call. If you like what we have to offer, we’ll book an air date.”
Her thoughts kept returning to Stephen. Being on national television, she’d have some footing in the world of excitement, a world where he’d taken up residence with his life blazing a motocross trail. He still rode, regardless whether he thought it amazing. Next month he’d be over at Diamond Don racing. What would she have to share? People in town talked about him, and not just his womanizing. He’d had a reputation as a hotshot on two wheels for as long as she could remember. He just didn’t get into the press hype.
Her stomach rolled. National television. She’d have news of her own.
“But what would I do? Come on the show and just dance?” She couldn’t see how exhibition dancing constituted a whole show.
“This show presents a story theme. Your preparation is all part of it. Have you ever seen those business shows about apprentices?”
Who hadn’t seen Ivanka Trump? “Oh, yes. A lot of excitement. And tension.”
“Same idea, but geared toward real people living real lives. But there’s no competition between contestants. Audience participation and voting is where we differ. We have a panel of real-life people, sort of like a jury. We’d make arrangements to follow you for few days before airing. Live your life. Be with you. Over the course of the competition, we’d air the prerecorded segments. That’s how we build momentum for your story. This is how we build viewership. The voting is done online and with cell texting. Nothing short of the American people falling in love with you. And, in the end, you have the chance to make a difference. The prize is $25,000 that you get to donate to your favorite charitable cause. And, of course, you’ll have the chance to become famous in the process. Plenty of winners have received contracts for performances, or attracted investors to start or grow a business. This is a great opportunity, Miss Sinclair. May I make arrangements for you to come to L.A. to meet with our production team?”
The soft buzzing got louder and louder in her head. This is what she wanted…what she needed. Talk about a wish coming true. Mr. Fitzgerald was serving adventure on a silver platter. Absurd to let a chance in a lifetime slip through her fingers. She gripped her phone, staring at all the brilliant hues in her Nana’s garden. The garden she’d tended. What had Lori said…stop living the life of a senior citizen.
“Yes. I’d love to come out to L.A. Thank you, Mr. Fitzgerald.”
And then the image of bright blue eyes struck, dead center in her chest. She pressed her temple to keep from shuddering at the memory of a mouth so hot it could melt an iceberg. The expression on Stephen’s face as he held the puppy stabbed her bubble of glee.
“Wonderful. I’ll have two tickets available at the ticket counter for you to fly out next week. We’ll take care of hotel arrangements. So all you need is yourself and a companion. Is next Thursday agreeable?”
She tamped down her confusion. “Yes. That’s very kind. Thank you.”
“Splendid. Good talking with you, Ms. Sinclair. I’ll see you next week. Could you hold the line so my assistant can confirm your contact details?”
* * *
She’d had all day to sit upon a sharp pins-and-needles cushion after she’d gone to the market and gotten the ingredients for the chocolate lasagna she’d promised Stephen. Fussing over the recipe, she recalled their evening walk. She mentally swooned, thinking about his mouth and his fingers, and went as warm and gooey as the batter in the oven.
In admitting to him their attraction was mutual, in wanting more than hand-holding, she’d boosted her arousal. What would the next step be with a man with crazy-hot bedroom skills?
An hour later and driving into town, she continued reliving their evening walk and nearly drove onto the median. Rapidly, she pulled herself together and out of her lustful fog and starkly reminded herself of her appointment in a Hollywood producer’s office coming up soon. The jumble in her stomach grew ten times worse.
A plane ticket to Los Angeles had already been emailed. Mr. Fitzgerald’s team worked fast. Haden would be amazed. She should be jumping for joy at this opportunity, not hyperventilating over a man known as the local MVP of countless women’s bedroom fantasies. Those desires contradicted each other. Sharply. And she felt the pinch.
Floundering in fantasyland—handsome stud or Hollywood—was less than helpful. Gillian picked up her bag and resolved to proceed with her day, keeping her head on straight. This would be a perfect time to complete some bookkeeping and make plans for a summer dance camp. She’d finally finish sewing the last few costumes. Plenty to keep her head out of the clouds.
That sentiment lasted for about five minutes. During her day there was little sitting, with much pacing going on. Her mind skittered about, wondering where in the world she’d find a dance partner mingled with remembrances of hot kisses with Stephen.
She’d get hold of herself and be back on task for a few minutes, and then find herself gallivanting in some blazing memory involving Stephen’s body. It was no use. Really. Instead of fighting her compulsion to ponder, she set some limits. Anything related to dance, approved. Stephen and sex, not.
In thinking about possible dance partners, a couple of old students came to mind. They were local, both at Texas A & M. Those men would jump at the chance. This was an opportunity bigger than most offered in Annona, not to mention the world. Yet, there wasn’t the right connection with either of them. As her partner, each man lacked that special spark capable of making the act of dancing come alive. It was the one thing that kept her from the ballroom dance circuit—she lacked a dance partner. Many talented dancers existed, but the magical connection eluded her, and wasn’t something that she could fake.
Shaking out the last costume, she noticed the lace trim hung at an odd angle.
Jimenez. Her mind had been far, far away when she’d sewn that piece. She retrieved her scissors, snipped through her stitches, and re-tacked the trim. Her foot pressed down on the pedal of her sewing machine, and she focused on keeping her fingers from getting jabbed by the needle. So far, she’d only come close. She removed the costume and inspected her work. Sighing, she snipped the thread and stood up, stretching, before going to iron the flower appliqués on the neckline of the costume.
After hanging the leotard up in the storage room, she was done for the day. Her body had tightened in all the wrong places. She glanced around her studio. With a well-worn pair of jazz dance shoes on her feet, she walked across the floor, focusing upon the ballet bar. Gillian bent over the wooden rail, seeking relief in stretching out her lower back muscles. The tension had moved from her neck and shoulders all the way down to her hips. She held on to the bar, breathing and relaxing.
Her fingers curled around the wood, smooth and firm under her fingers. Gillian closed her eyes, willing the stress from her body. Her fingers stroked the bar as she relaxed, lowering her head, and slowly her muscles loosened, becoming more limber. And then the image of Stephen’s erection filled her imagination. Gasping, she tore open her eyes and released her grip on the wooden bar. She stood clutching her throat, her heart thudding as though she’d danced the watusi.
She stared at her fingers as if expecting to see blisters. Ever since she’d rubbed her hand over Stephen’s body, the image of
him kept reappearing without warning, branding her hotter each time. His form was utter perfection. And not some statue from a museum. Oh no, warm flesh and hard muscle had lain under her fingers. Twice. And since last night, she’d breathed him into her being.
Tonight, she’d see him. He’d called her already, confirming the puppy was doing fine. His voice describing the pup had captivated her; so much so that she listened mutely to his relaying the puppy was a Chihuahua mix. He’d taken Chance—the nickname he called the puppy, making her laugh—over to his sister-in-law for a check-up, and a few of his family had stopped by to see the dog.
Golly, what would any of his family think of her? She’d met Carolina a couple of times in town with Cory, and she’d seen Stephen’s brother, Matt, fawning all over Carolina at the diner. That man had been absolute hell on wheels when he was younger. She’d overheard Haden speaking of him in terms of getting involved with the wrong woman, and back then rumors had flown. The story had run its course when she was too young to understand, but now she realized the woman had used him terribly. Yet Matt had found a woman who was his match, or so it seemed, in Carolina.
Had she met her match in Stephen? Gillian lifted her leg, bending over her thigh to rest her forehead alongside her knee. She sighed, imagining how Stephen’s fingers had stroked her to the point of madness. Between her legs, her swollen flesh pulsed and she bit her bottom lip, wanting him to rub his finger over her piercing before he thrust his finger into her. Only this time she wanted him to pump it into her, over and over until she screamed his name. Gasping in need, she closed her eyes as she threatened to come apart. Just a fantasy, and the man stole her breath. She had to stop thinking of Stephen’s body and the ways he got her crazy-hot.
Forcing her mind to go blank, she held her position and found a measure of relaxation come with each new breath. She didn’t rush, but let her muscles warm up and release as she flexed and pointed her toes. Leaning back, she arched over until she could touch the hardwood floors. She repeated this routine on the other side, moving through the positions at the bar just as she instructed her students, the same sequence she’d performed for years. Her mind calmed and cleared. Nothing like bar work, her old teacher had always said, to prepare for dance and life.
