Pas De Deux: A Dance For Two

by Lynn Turner

  “Breathe.”

  Breathe. He’d been reminding her since they’d arrived. It was quite a task with him so close, but she managed it anyway, looking out into the garden. Trillions of droplets fell now, but slowly, like a shimmering curtain. The air cooled and stirred, masking the stale smells of the city heat with a cocktail of damp earth and Japanese chrysanthemums from Alex’s potted Eden. It was a perfect summer rain.

  Her leg felt better already, but she didn’t want to tell him that. It felt too good. She looked down at his hands in case mind reading was among his many skills. “You’re a choreographer, a playwright, a composer, and a masseuse? You make me feel so unaccomplished.”

  “I’m also old. You have plenty of time.” He gripped her calf with one large hand, his other over her shin, twisting them away from each other, moving toward her ankle.

  She closed her eyes. “Why do you live here, with Alex?”

  “That one’s easy. My job pays a pittance. No pressure, petite, but my whole life is riding on you bringing the house down on opening night.”

  Her startled moan cut off her response. It was low and deep, strangled from somewhere in her belly. His hands ceased their sorcery on her foot, but the sensation still thrummed like electricity through her body. Her gaze shot to his.

  Watching her intently, he slid his hand up her leg, lingering on her tight, muscular calf. He continued moving up, and her breath caught, his hand tightening on her thigh. Every molecule in the air seemed to be humming, not just with physical awareness—it had long gone past that—but a sense of wholeness, of profound connection. And she knew she wasn’t alone feeling it. She saw it in his darkening eyes.

  Need.

  “Mina.”

  She couldn’t blink because his face was closing in on hers, his lips brushing lightly against her cheek, sending tremors through her nerves that made her whole body tremble.

  “I want you,” he murmured, his lips tracing the line of her cheekbone. “I want you so fucking much, it takes effort to think of anything else, but I’ll cool it, petite. Just say the word.”

  With a soul-deep sigh, she closed her eyes, nudging her nose against his. “Non.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Zack felt, more than heard her. Felt her melt against him, filling and surrounding him with her yes. Smoothing his hand up her abdomen, he felt it tremble and tighten. He rested his palm between her breasts, over her rapid pulse, watching the rise and fall of her chest with her quick, shallow breaths. His eyes drank in her big, expressive eyes, the arch of her cheekbones, the pout of her mouth…Then his lips were on hers.

  Their moans collided as their mouths fell lazily together, soft and open. Slowly, his tongue moved over hers, touching the tip, circling it, licking the roof of her mouth, drawing from her another shuddering moan. Her mouth was pliant and sweet, her tongue velvet and searching. Blood coursed through him hot and thick, and he reached for her hand, bringing it urgently to his lap.

  “Petite.” He was hoarse, going mind-numb as she rubbed him until he was panting from dire need of the very thing she was giving him. “Jesus…Jesus…stop…”

  Clutching her hand as gently as he could, he took deep, steadying breaths. Except they weren’t steadying at all. They fueled his roaring blood with more oxygen, leaving him with whole-body vibrations he desperately needed to stop, but also continue forever.

  He wanted to take his time.

  Slipping from beneath her legs, he laid her down carefully, an arm cradling her back, parting her legs with his knee. Then he was over her, crushing her, the muscles and planes of his body meeting glorious curves and softness. His lips enveloped hers in wet consuming kisses, like he was dying of thirst, even as she gave him water, one excruciating drop at a time.

  “I want to taste you, petite.”

  Clutching his shoulders, she dug in with her nails, circling her hips against his erection to soothe the ache in her center with delicious friction. He felt so good, she sobbed, not realizing he’d tugged her dress straps down, exposing her breasts to his hungry gaze…until his lips wrapped around her nipple, his cheeks hollowing slowly. She gasped, shuddering violently as he caressed her side from breast to hip and back again, molding her in his hand.

  “Fuck, don’t you dare.” In one swift motion, he was on his knees on the Persian rug, shoving her dress up, tugging the wet scrap of lace down her hips, taking her legs over his shoulders. “I can’t believe you’d cheat me out of this,” he growled, kissing her navel and moving lower, his hair caressing her stomach.

  Holding her open with shaking hands, he nuzzled her with his nose. Her back bowed, and hoarse, incomprehensible pleas left her lips.

  “I love those sounds, petite,” he murmured, heating her wetness with his breath. “So sexy.”

  He teased her with light licks, and fluttering dips of his tongue. Tension spread through her body, tightening everything until it felt like she’d splinter under the pressure.

  “S’il te plait.” Clutching the edge of the cushions, she pressed herself to his mouth.

  He repeated his soft suction a few more times, and she bucked, whimpering in French, heated relief coursing through her shaking body. She came down from it gripping his hair, pulling his mouth from her sensitive core. He was next to her in a flash, taking her face in his hands.

  “My God, you’re so hard up,” he said against her lips. “It drives me crazy.”

  “Only with you. Takes me longer by myself.”

  His face drained of color.

  Giggling, she wrapped her hands around his wrists. “What?”

  “Gimme a sec, petite. I think my brain just short circuited.”

  “Men. Is it so hard to believe women like to give themselves pleasure as much as you do?”

  “Not at all.” Pulling her into his lap, he nuzzled her neck. “I’m a card-carrying feminist. I just didn’t expect you to be so direct.” He ran his hand up the inside of her thigh, cupping her where she was warm and wet.

  She moaned. “I-I am capable of intimacy, you know. It takes me some time, but when I’m comfortable with someone, I talk about everything.”

  Pulling away to look at her face, he twirled a wavy lock of her hair around his finger, then slowly released it. “Coincidentally, that’s exactly how much I want to know, but I need some things first. Promise me you’ll still be here when I get back.”

  She kissed his nose, then stiffened. “Alex! Is he—?”

  “That party animal won’t be back until six in the morning.”

  Her body went boneless, draping itself, half undressed, across the couch. “Oui, I’ll be here. I can’t move.”

  Laughing, he gently disentangled himself and left her alone with her fluttering heart, the winsome music, and the calming rain.

  He returned some minutes later with a comforter, condoms and wet wipes. He’d removed his bowtie and belt, and opened his shirt, the air cool on his naked chest. When he reached the pergola, Mina bit her lip, her eyes glued to his torso. She moved her hand down her body and between her legs, clamping her thighs together with a moan.

  “Miss me?” he teased, spreading the blanket down over the rug.

  “Oui.” Her voice was husky, her eyes hooded.

  He nodded to the condoms. “In case you’re not on anything.”

  Standing, she reached behind her to undo her zipper, stepping out of the amazing dress as it pooled at her feet. “You think of everything.”

  “I’m a thoughtful guy.” His voice sounded far away, his eyes devouring her naked body. “They’re new, petite. It’s been weeks for me.”

  She came to him without a hint of shyness, smoothing his shirt over his shoulders, humming as it dropped with a whisper to the floor. Her fingers traced the smooth ridges of his abs, and he sucked in his stomach. She grinned. “New? So, this is premeditated?”

  “More like anticipated.” He shuddered as her arms went around his waist, hugging every inch of her skin to his. “Very, very anticipated.”
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br />   “How many weeks?”

  “Eight, give or take.” Wrapping his arms around her, he rubbed his hands up and down her back. “Should we call my mother? She thinks my slaving over this production is preventing me from settling down.”

  “Non, I’m quite satisfied with your answer, merci.”

  “You sure? I think now is the perfect time to give you a detailed history of my considerable experience in this—oh shit…”

  She squeezed his ass at the same time her teeth tugged his lobe, her tongue flicking over the spot, her breath wetting his ear.

  “Fuck,” he moaned.

  “S’il vous plait.”

  He took her mouth again, loving her with his lips and tongue and teeth, urgent but not hurried. It was just the two of them in an empty garden. They had all the time in the world. Undoing his pants, he pushed them down with his briefs, brushing kisses on her face wherever he could. Walking them to the center of the blanketed rug, he lowered them with a supporting arm around her waist.

  He kissed across her chest, scraping her nipples gently with his teeth, toying with them before surrounding them with wet heat and suction. Her hands were wild in his hair, tugging his head away, then pulling him back to her, her breathless sighs tickling his forehead. Delighted laughter left his chest this time when she came. It seemed swifter and less intense than before, but she was grinding her hips up, taking his heated arousal between her thighs, and he couldn’t breathe.

  “Stop that,” he groaned, quickly opening and sliding on protection. “Wait for me, dammit.”

  “I can’t help it,” she panted, her head falling back.

  Trailing his open mouth over her throat, he licked her chin, capturing her lips again. “Look at me…look at me, petite.”

  He waited for it, the reflection of his own desperate need in those open, bottomless depths, and then he took her slowly. Crying out, she opened her legs wider and let him in again. Tracing sensual patterns on her hip with his fingers, he moved inside of her in deep, easy thrusts.

  “Mina…”

  The feel of her, silky and soft and warm, gripping him so tightly made his eyes water, blurring her beautiful face.

  “I knew it would be like this.” The tremble in his voice would have been embarrassing, if not for her own needy sounds. She started to flutter around him, and he blinked, hard. “I knew it when we danced Manon.”

  Tightening her legs around him, she dug her heels into his lower back, guiding him with gentle hands on his ass. “I knew it…before…that…”

  Her grip tightened suddenly, and her eyes flashed pure, mindless pleasure before snapping shut.

  “No, no, no… look at me, petite. I want to see your eyes when you come.” He reached between them, moving his fingers in time with his rhythmic thrusts.

  Sighing brokenly, she showed him eyes glassy and black. He saw himself in them, the ravenous look on his face, the wild disarray of his hair.

  “Lion!” she gasped, bucking her hips against him.

  He cursed into her neck, shuddering as she squeezed and pulled him into herself, until they fused into a single mass of pure, writhing ecstasy. Eventually, his breathing slowed, and she stroked his sweat-slick back softly, whispering soothing adoration in his ears.

  Full consciousness took the scenic route back to his brain, but when it returned, he whispered against her throat. “When did you know?”

  Almost an entire minute passed with no reply, so he lifted his head to look at her face. As he suspected, she’d been holding her breath. “Petite-”

  “In Paris,” she said in a rush. “On the loggia.”

  Her answer should have stunned him, but it didn’t. He remembered that night vividly, as if it’d happened minutes ago, and he realized she was right. She’d looked incredible in the moonlight and smelled even better. He remembered how soft and smooth her hand felt in his for the brief moment he’d held it…But mostly, he remembered the unfettered passion in her eyes, when the rest of her had been so composed, and how badly he’d wanted to manipulate it, to see it poured into something he’d created.

  Reality had surpassed the dream. He’d touched and tasted it, drawn it into himself, and he wasn’t ready to unpack the feelings tightening his chest in the aftermath. He had a sneaking suspicion she wasn’t, either.

  Tempering his expression, he gave her a lopsided grin. “Yeah, well, you’re an overachiever.”

  If relief had a sound, it was her laugh. “And you, are an-”

  “Asshole.” He kissed her cheek. “Yeah, petite, I know.”

  Afterward, he lay with his head in her lap, blowing raspberries into her belly button. He lifted his head to admire her breasts. They were flawless little mounds, her dark nipples pointing slightly up.

  “God, your tits are amazing. Two perfect mouthfuls.” He took a nipple between his teeth for a playful tug.

  “Leave me alone.” She gripped his hair, tugging gently. “I need to recover.”

  He gave the side of her breast a lingering lick, then returned his head to her lap and gazed up at her. Stroking her hair, his fingers snagged in one of her sex-mussed tresses. The rain had finally stopped, and the moon seemed to glow brighter, illuminating her face.

  “What?” she asked with a tiny frown.

  Her arm was draped across his chest, her fingers lightly tracing his ribs, and he curled a hand around her wrist. “How does an American get into one of the toughest ballet schools in Paris? Parisians can barely get in there.”

  “Good thing I was already a French citizen, then.”

  “So, your mother?”

  “Oui. She met my father in Tokyo, of all places. She was there on business. He was on a break from training in Okinawa. It was one of those crazy things. They fell in love in a week.”

  “Wow. Love at first sight?”

  “Something like that…Four months later, they were married. I was six when they divorced. He died two years later, during an extended tour.”

  Stilling her fingers, she looked away. He followed her gaze to a single, fat droplet of rain on the edge of a nearby leaf that would fall any second now. “Who would you stay with when your father was away on duty?”

  “Papa’s family is from Virginia. I stayed with them. When he died, they fought for custody, but I begged to live with maman. So, I moved to Paris and started at the ballet school right away.”

  “I’m sorry.” He raised her hand to his lips for a kiss. “We don’t have to talk about this if it’s too traumatic, petite.”

  “Non, it’s okay. I needed the distraction—and discipline if you ask maman. It was difficult at first, but eventually, I got better. It became…everything to me, even though I was always aware that I looked different.”

  Automatically, he looked at her hair. It was gorgeous, every thick, dark strand, every wayward curl…but, admittedly, a stark contrast to the textures that crowned the heads of his previous partners. “I get that. Was it hard for you, being different?”

  “Not all the time. I think puberty was the most difficult time. It happened early for me—I was nine when my cycle started, when my body began to change.” She shifted awkwardly, but she kept talking. “I was scared. The body requirements are so strict, especially for girls, even at eight years old. I felt like everyone was watching me, staring at my body all the time to see if my breasts would grow too big, or my hips too wide. That’s when I became fully aware of how different I was, because people expected me to lose my lean shape—as if black women only come in one body type.”

  Rubbing her arm, silently reassuring, he let her talk. He sensed she needed it, and he enjoyed listening to her, being privy to her closely guarded secrets.

  “I suppose it’s madness,” she said, “that I thanked God for not giving me ‘too much’ of the attributes most people find beautiful on a woman.”

  “Not madness. It was your reality. We’ve come a long way since Balanchine decided skin and bones was somehow ideal, but we still have a long way to go.”

/>   Moving her arm, he sat up, taking her face into his hands. “You’re incredible and determined and soft and strong—and beautiful. No fucked up, Jurassic ballet standards should ever make you doubt it.”

  He loved the color her skin turned when she blushed.

  “I-merci. I know that now.”

  “Doesn’t hurt to be reminded.”

  “Non, it doesn’t.” She pecked his lips.

  “It was a pretty inspirational speech, wasn’t it?”

  “Very.” Her eyes turned into molten, dark pools. “Zack?”

  “Petite?” he whispered, opening his arms to help her settle in his lap.

  Moving against him, her thighs hugged his waist, her voice a husky sigh. “Again.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The hours just past played over and over in Mina’s dreams. Touches, whispers, laughs, moans. Her name was whispered in her ear, a kiss pressed to her neck, and she couldn’t determine whether it was real, or a dream. Then she heard her name again, uttered, barely spoken, felt another lingering kiss. She shivered. The bedroom was draftier than her own, the sweet, rain-washed darkness all around her settling over them peacefully. Strange, the stillness. She was used to the noise of the city, the finest place to be alone among crowds.

  But she wasn’t alone now, nor was she dreaming. Strong arms tightened around her, and wonderful pressure warmed the length of her body.

  A hug.

  He pressed himself to her, so close she felt him pulse along her thigh.

  A naked hug.

  Sophie would be proud.

  He must have sensed when she’d completely awakened, because he released her, applying light pressure to her shoulder until she lay on her back. Half in shadow, the muscles of his torso were back-lit by the faint glow of the street outside the windows.

  Beautiful.

  His hair was a thick, silky mess from sleep–and from her fingers, his tawny skin so tempting to touch. Every move of that glorious flesh against hers had given away his strength, and a gentleness she’d never experienced with anyone else. His eyes were shadows, too, but she didn’t need to see them. She’d seen enough in the last several hours to take to her grave. They’d be a fascinating contradiction now, her favorite facet of his expressive eyes. Steely with intensity, soft with…something else.