by Melody Grace
“Really?” I move closer. “Was it very different?”
“No.” She looks thoughtful. “There’s more traffic, of course, and everything seems to move faster. But in some ways, it’s like no time has passed at all.”
“I love the city,” I admit, gazing out at the beautiful view. Rome is lit up in the darkness, cathedrals and squares bathed in gold. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Mademoiselle nods. “It’s a gift, to be able to travel like this. To share your dance with the world.” She pauses, thoughtful. “Your mother never liked it, as I recall. I could never understand. She had the chance to perform anywhere, but she never liked to leave the city—even before you were born,” she adds.
“She was probably worried who would take her place if she left,” I reply, then feel guilty.
Mademoiselle gives a smile. “That sounds like her.” She turns to me, giving me a direct look, assessing. “You know, you’re really nothing like her.”
I blink, not sure how to process that comment.
“Her ambition, her drive, it was like nothing I’ve ever seen,” Mademoiselle continues. “She would have crawled over cut glass to succeed, clawed out the eyes of half the company to get ahead—and she did, in her way,” she adds, with a dark look. “But I suppose that’s how it has to be, for the best dancers, what pushes them on to the very top. Ballet was the only thing that mattered to her.” She pauses. “It was why we were all so surprised when she announced she was pregnant with you.”
What? I frown. “I don’t understand.”
“Having a child changes everything for a dancer,” Mademoiselle tells me, her expression still unreadable. “You can train, of course, get back to the physical level again, but mentally... Your mother kept dancing, very well, I might add. But it was different, everyone who knew her could see. That cutthroat ambition was gone. She had something else she loved in her life, and it was never the same.”
I blink. My mom always told me she’d retired because she’d reached the peak of her profession, that she wanted to go out on a high.
“Ordinary people don’t understand what it takes to live this life,” Mademoiselle continues. She looks out of the window again, almost wistful. “They see the pretty tutus, and the elaborate productions. They think it’s all galas and satin slippers. They don’t know how much we have to sacrifice to make it this far. And sometimes, even the sacrifice isn’t enough: dancers can work their whole life, and never have it, that raw talent, that will set them apart.”
I fight to keep my rising insecurity at bay. “I’ll be perfect for the performance,” I tell her. “I won’t let you down.”
Mademoiselle turns back to me, almost surprised. She gives a nod. “Of course you will be. Now, you should get to the dorms. Curfew will be soon.”
I check my watch. I didn’t realize it was so late; I’ve been here for hours.
She gestures for me to leave, so I scramble for my sweater and bag, and head downstairs.
I walk home, my thoughts whirling – not just with my fight with Karla this morning, but Mademoiselle’s cryptic stories, too. What was she trying to tell me? Is it a good thing or bad that I’m nothing like my mother? And is she saying that I don’t have enough ambition, or the drive to make it to the top?
What if she’s right? A voice whispers in my mind. Isn’t that what you’ve been scared of, all this time? That you can work and work, and still just be good enough – not great, not dazzling, but just good.
I shiver with fear. Good won’t cut it, not in the company. Anyone can be good. My mother raised me to be great.
No. I stop my doubts before they cloud my mind completely. I can’t think like that. I won this solo, and I’ll dazzle them all at the big performance. Dancing with Raphael is what helped me nail that audition in the first place. He’s not hurting my dance, he’s helping it.
I can have them both. I have to have them both.
Because if I have to choose...
It’s unthinkable.
16.
Rehearsals start in earnest for the ballet performance – and with Raphael, training for his audition. From the moment I wake in the morning, to last thing at night, all I think about is dance.
Dance, and Raphael.
“You nearly had it that time,” Raphael hits the pause button on the music after we try a lift for the hundredth time. We’re both sweating, breathing heavily in thin T-shirts and shorts despite the cool night breeze wafting through the open windows of his loft. My Odette/Odile solo is tough, but this is a whole different kind of challenge.
With him, my movements aren’t meant to be so polished, it’s the fluid rhythm that counts. Sensual, free. I’ve never danced like this before, and it’s a new kind of thrill – unleashed, instead of constrained; pouring myself outwards, instead of containing, controlling, holding back. He’s a brilliant choreographer, and every beat is infused with passion, a new kind of energy taking over my body. I have to go against all my training and instincts, moving my hips with loose abandon, snaking and sinuous. Whereas Odette’s dance is light and wispy, a spirit in the winter woods, my dance with Raphael is passionate and wild. I have to hit my beats with total commitment, throw myself into the story of our dance.
I know the steps by now, that isn’t the problem. It’s finding that fire inside me, going all in, despite my fears. Being brave enough, bold enough, to pour myself into the unknown, and let the rhythm take me over, completely.
I bend double, recovering from the exertion of the routine. “Nearly isn’t good enough. We have to be perfect.” I’m frustrated with myself for messing it up again. I should have it nailed by now, but the steps are so unfamiliar: sensual and sinuous when I’m used to crisp precision. “Let’s go again.”
“Take a moment to rest,” Raphael tells me. He gulps water from a bottle, and holds it out for me, but I shake my head, taking up position in the center of the floor again.
“No, now,” I insist, determined. “I’ll get it this time.”
“Not yet,” Raphael doesn’t move. “We’ve been working all night.”
“I can’t—” I start to protest, but then he’s in front of me, running his fingertips up the bare, damp skin of my arms.
“Not even ten minutes...” Raphael teases, a devilish smile quirking at the edge of his lips. “I thought you promised we would... relax?” He drops a kiss along the sensitive skin of my neck. “Is this helping you unwind?”
I shiver. “Not fair,” I protest.
He answers with a dark chuckle.
“How about this...?” he whispers, his fingers tracing lower, sweeping under the neckline of my tank. My pulse kicks, and suddenly, the routine is the last thing on my mind.
I loop my thumbs under the waistband of his shorts and yank him against me. He laughs, reaching to claim my mouth with his. The kiss is hot and fierce, our sweaty bodies melding together, the endorphins from rehearsal overtaken with the racing quicksilver of new desire.
A part of me has been waiting for this all afternoon, watching him move with such strength across the floor. Every turn, every leap, every time he’s clasped me to his body, I’ve felt the tide of desire rise, and now it spills through me, unleashed. I tug impatiently on his shirt, lifting it up over his head and tossing it aside. I sink into the taste of him, the rasp of his tongue in my mouth, running my hands greedily across the slick planes of his torso, damp with sweat.
His body is a work of art, chiseled as if from the finest marble, and with every touch, the ache inside me coils tighter, sharper, calling for more.
Raphael strips my thin T-shirt over my head, bending his head to kiss a blazing trail over the slope of my tender breasts. He places both hands on my hips and backs me determinedly towards the bed.
I giggle, letting him scoop me in his arms and throw me down on the soft covers. “I can’t stay late,” I warn him, even as my stomach twists with lust to see him, poised above me in the dim light. Shadows cast across his face, darkly beau
tiful, a wicked angel, tempting me astray. “I only got a few hours sleep last night, I was a zombie all morning.”
“I promise to get you back in time.” Raphael crosses his heart. “By the ring of midnight, my Cinderella.”
I giggle again, and then the laughter is wiped from my lips as Raphael swoops down, kissing me passionately until I’m breathless and writhing beneath him.
My nipples stiffen, my thighs clench.
“God, I want you,” he groans, his fingers digging into my hips. I arch up against him, and I can feel just how much; the thick ridge of his cock is pressed between my thighs, sending new shivers of awareness skittering through my body.
“I want you too,” I murmur, gasping. “But Raphael, I’ve never...”
“I know.” Raphael pauses, propping himself up on one elbow. He looks down at me, gently tracing the outline of my jaw. “I don’t want to rush you,” he murmurs, “if this is all too much—”
“No!” I yelp, then blush. How can I explain what I feel: the mix of lust and apprehension that dominates every spare thought in my mind? I want him so much, I think I’ll combust: even dancing with him, I get lost, so turned on, that by the time we’re done rehearsing, I’m wet, aching for his touch, desperate to taste and discover every inch of his body.
This desire is shocking, overwhelming me, but at the same time I’m holding back. Scared. Nervous. Not just for the act, but what comes after: the unknown. I’m already in free-fall, tumbling madly head over heels for this man.
What happens when I give him everything, when I share that much of myself with him?
What happens when I let myself lose control?
“Shh,” Raphael whispers, dropping a dozen light kisses over my eyelids, my forehead, my cheekbones. “It’s OK. I’ll wait. I’ll wait forever for you.”
My stomach twists again. I grab his head and kiss him hard, trying to pour all my doubts and emotion into the kiss, to show him that it’s me, just me, and my own stupid insecurities. I kiss him until he’s groaning again, until I’m dizzy and undone beneath his roving hands, arching up into him, grasping at his body, whimpering at his touch.
Raphael’s hands slide lower, roving wildly over me as he devours my mouth. He circles my tight nipples through the lace of my bra, making me moan and twist against his hands. His mouth wreaks havoc down the tender flesh of my neck, nibbling and sucking as one hand trails lower, lower, sliding under the waistband of my shorts to curl up against the damp heat pooling between my thighs.
There.
I gasp. Waves of pleasure spread as his fingers circle my clit, light at first, teasing, until I’m pressing against him, desperate for more. Raphael groans against my neck, and then his tongue is licking lower, over the soft swell of my breast, encircling my nipple as his fingers swirl harder.
God, it feels so good.
I moan, my head thrown back, eyes shut, utterly lost to the sensations crashing over me. Raphael’s lips close over my nipple, teasing and toying the peak between his teeth, and now the craving in me is wild, aching, calling out for something I don’t know how to express. But I want more, more than simply receiving the pleasure Raphael is so skilled at giving me.
I want to make him moan too, I want him coming undone beneath my hands.
I rise onto my elbows, reaching low between us to find his cock, thick and hard in my hand.
Raphael gasps, lifting his head to meet my gaze. I stare back, brave, slowly stroking along the length of him, solid through the fabric of his shorts.
His eyes glaze, hungry.
I grow bolder, peeling the fabric from his waistband, and sliding my hands beneath to finally touch him, skin to skin.
He’s so big.
My heart is in my throat as I explore the foreign landscape of his body: feeling the velvet softness of him and the steel encased beneath. Raphael shudders under my touch, but his fingers don’t stop their wicked pressure between my thighs. He strokes again, driving me wild, relentlessly slow, and I match his pace: exploring every last inch of his thick, hard cock. Caressing, teasing him, stroking slowly over the tip, then delving lower to cup and squeeze his balls.
“God, Annalise...” Raphael gasps for air.
I feel a surge of power to watch him like this, at my mercy. Then I feel his fingers flutter against me, circling my pussy, sliding up inside.
One finger, probing, and then, oh God, two. Stretching me, filling me up, plunging deeper with a gorgeous pressure, making me cry out with need.
I’m rising, closer to the edge, but I can’t fall, not unless he falls with me.
Before I can think, I scramble onto my knees above him on the bed, kissing lower down his chiseled torso, across his stomach, lower still. I feel him tense beneath me, but I don’t stop, I need this, desire driving me on with a momentum I can’t explain.
I strip his shorts away completely, and inhale sharply at the sight of him, so big, so thick. I’ve never done this, even the idea always seemed too much. Too intimate. But now the lust overwhelms my nervous apprehension, a deep erotic thrill snaking through my veins as I slowly lick up the length of him, tasting salt and pure Raphael.
“Oh God,” he groans, hips rising off the bed to meet my mouth. I settle deeper, swirling my tongue around his head, taking him into my mouth, then rising up off him again, my lips suctioned tight.
“Like that, Annalise. Fuck!” Raphael’s voice is hoarse with need, so I take him deeper this time, reveling in the sensation, letting instinct guide me as I flick my tongue against his tip and slide my mouth quickly up and down his thick shaft.
He groans again, fisting my hair in one hand, speeding my rhythm with thrilling control. I suck him down greedily. It’s so hot, I can’t stand it. My clit aches, throbbing for release. And then just when I think I’ll die without his touch, Raphael reaches between my thighs again, his fingers thrusting up inside me, and I can’t think anymore. There’s nothing but sensation and pressure and white-hot, clawing desire, driving me on, matching his rhythm with my own.
I take him deeper, desperately thrusting against his hand as he curls his fingers up inside me, sliding in and out, circling, pressing, pulling me apart at the seams. I’m gasping, shuddering against his touch, needing all of him.
Deeper. Harder. Now.
Raphael bucks off the bed against my mouth, and the pressure rises, an exquisite agony, driving us on. I hear myself moaning against him, my desperate cries of pleasure mingling with his groans, both of us gasping, trembling, united in desire and mindless need.
I’m tumbling closer to the edge, every nerve alight, every muscle tensed and reaching, but I can’t let go, not yet, not unless he’s right there with me. I angle my head, sucking him deeper than ever, swirling my tongue over the ridge of him, feeling him tense and tremor in answer and loving every moment of it.
“Oh God,” Raphael cries. “Annalise—” His body stiffens, and he tries to pull me away, but I close my lips around him, sliding my mouth down again along the hard length of him, over and over again. His fingers surge inside me, stroking me relentlessly, every touch a miracle, and I’m almost undone, barely hanging to the edge.
And then it’s too much, too good. He lets out an animal cry, thrusting off the bed as his whole body shudders, spurting hot juices down my throat. I greedily swallow him down, lost in the overwhelming sense of possession, of surrender. He’s everywhere, inside me, around me. There’s no holding back.
I shatter with a cry, pleasure slamming through my body as I hurtle into the stardust delirium, coming and coming and coming until there’s nothing left to give.
17.
I float back from Raphael’s, light as air. I barely register the late-night revelers crowding the streets, I’m still so lost in memories of our dance together, so perfect and real; the look in his eyes as his body moved with mine, the feel of him on the dance floor, more in sync than anything I’ve known.
The taste of him. The feel of his body as he lost control.
M
y head is still spinning, and I can feel a huge grin stretched across my face, but I can’t help it. I want to spin tournes down the street, leap grand jetés as I cross at the lights.
I’ve never felt so close to anyone in my life before, never even imagined I could lose myself like that, could finally quiet the critical voice in my head, turn off my doubts and insecurities and just be. Myself, free and whole and perfect.
Memories flash across my mind, so intimate, I feel my cheeks flush red. I let myself into the dorms a moment before curfew, humming to myself.
“Annalise Taylor.” A familiar voice rings out through the lobby, full of disapproval. “Where on earth have you been?”
I look up, my joy turning to liquid ice in my veins as I see Mademoiselle and Gilbert clustered around in the lobby – with one more person by their side.
A figure to strike fear in my heart, gazing at me with barely disguised rage.
My mother.
TO BE CONTINUED
Will Raphael and Annalise dance together, or is their pas de deux over for good? Find out in the stunning conclusion to the series, THIRD POSITION, out 12/1.
DIRTY DANCING #3
THIRD POSITION
The explosive conclusion to the red-hot new series from New York Times bestselling author Melody Grace.
He taught me a dance beyond passion. He showed me the pleasure my body was made to create.
Now I have to choose.
Raphael or my future?
My passion or my one true love?
There’s no hiding from the truth any longer.
Everything changes tonight.
*The third and final part of the sexy, seductive romance serial*
THE DIRTY DANCING SERIES:
FIRST POSITION
SECOND POSITION
THIRD POSITION
Also by Melody Grace, discover the Beachwood Bay series.
