Losing My Balance (Fenbrook Academy #1.5)

by Helena Newbury

  I did a little mental check of what I was wearing. Tank top and sweat pants. Not good. But I opened the door anyway.

  He stood there in silence, watching me, the tension building. I wanted to ask How did you find me, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. I stepped back, and he moved inside.

  I closed the door and leaned back against it. We stood there watching each other, the tension still rising.

  “Are we alone?” he asked. His voice was incredible. Warm honey poured over hot coals.

  It was a simple enough question, but the answer wasn’t simple at all. “Yes” implied something. It said “We’re all alone here and we can do what we want.” Or even “…and you can do what you want to me.”

  Maybe he just wants to talk privately.

  Yeah, right.

  “Yes,” I said, my voice catching.

  “Take off your top.”

  The words seemed to echo through my brain. I had to replay them a few times to make sure I hadn’t mis-heard them. But no: a guy I barely knew, a guy whose last name—Eliasson—I only knew because I’d found him on Darrell’s Facebook friends, really was expecting me to take my top off. No romance, no foreplay. He just expected me to do it.

  The really disturbing thing, though, wasn’t that he was giving me orders. It was the hot throb that reverberated through my body as he said it, the heat changing to moisture as it slid down between my thighs. It wasn’t the order. It was that I wanted to follow it.

  I started to protest, unsure whether I was genuinely protesting or putting on an act. But it didn’t matter, because almost as soon as my mouth opened, he killed any debate.

  “Clarissa. Take off your top. Now.”

  My brain screamed at me, asking what the hell I thought I was doing. But I could feel my breath hot in my chest and the room seemed to fade down around him, until it was just the two of us standing in a void. Jesus, I want to. I really, really want to. I’m going to. I’m—

  My fingers lifted the hem of my tank top, my arms criss-crossing in front of me, and I pulled the thing up and over my head. I had left my hair down after my shower, but hadn’t really done anything with it and it fell in a tousled mass down my back. I hung on to the tank top, my fingers toying with the ribbed fabric. I watched his eyes slowly lower to my breasts in their white bra, and then back up to my face.

  “Now the bra.”

  This is ridiculous, I thought. This guy turns up at my apartment unannounced. I barely know him. We have nothing in common. I am not going to fuck him. I am not going to take my bra off!

  I took my bra off. My heart was racing like I’d just thrown back a triple espresso and every tiny hair on my arms was standing on end. I didn’t know until then that it was possible to be utterly terrified and hugely turned on at the same time. And it wasn’t him I was scared of; it was me. My own helpless response.

  “You can’t just come in here—” I said in a tight little voice. “You can’t just come in here and expect me to—”

  He moved just fractionally closer to me—a half inch, at most. Six feet something of hard muscle and leather. My eyes flitted all over his body, taking in the massive, curving pecs, the flat stomach, the thickness of his arms under the jacket. I felt my nipples tighten.

  “What are you going to do to me?” I asked, and my voice was a full octave higher than normal. I was aware that saying it in that way was giving him permission. I was asking what and not if. Because I wanted it as much as he did and, worst of all, he knew it.

  I was still looking at his chest. I realized I couldn’t lift my eyes to meet his. That alone sent a deep shock through me. Why can’t I look him in the eye?

  “What makes you think I’m goin’ to do somethin’ to you?” He asked, his voice a low rumble. “What makes you think you’re not goin’ to do somethin’ to me?” His eyes tracked down over my naked chest and one hand came up to rest, very lightly, on my breast. His thumb stopped just short of brushing my nipple and I knew it was deliberate. Inside, I was begging, aching for him to touch me there.

  His eyes flicked downward and I fell to my knees. There was a sense of unreality about it as I unfastened his jeans and freed his cock. I can’t be here, doing this! I’m Clarissa Forsberg-West and I like men who have a car and a job and plans for the future and make me feel like I’m worshipped and sure as hell not a filthy biker who’s arrogant and pushy and expects me to service him and—

  I put my hand around him, his weighty thickness making my mind do back flips. And as I knelt there staring at him, it hit me that he wasn’t filthy—he actually smelled really good, like soft leather and sandalwood. And he did make me feel worshipped, in a completely different way to some fawning Wall Street suitor—they wanted me, but Neil needed me in an almost primal way. And he was arrogant and pushy, but I swore there was something else, underneath—I had this deep certainty that he’d never ever hurt me.

  And if I really liked men with cars and jobs and plans…why was it I hadn’t stayed with Roger?

  I touched my lips to his cock, my decision made. I watched him go from just hard to pure iron, felt him throbbing and ready on my tongue. And then he put his hands under my arms and lifted me to my feet…and carried on lifting. Before I knew it, I was upside down, my cheek against the small of his back. He was carrying me over his shoulder in a firefighter’s lift, one arm like steel across my calves to hold me in place.

  “Which one’s your room?” he asked.

  I told him and he carried me there, kicking the door shut behind us. When he dropped me onto the bed, I lay there staring up at him, my breath coming in quivering little pants. “I’m not like this,” I told him.

  “Yes you are,” he said. “You just didn’t know it.”

  He gave the sweatpants one tiny tug and they slid right off my legs. My panties were a little trickier—the elastic caught on my hips.

  So he ripped them off me.

  I took a deep, shuddering breath as his eyes licked over me. “Neil, I’m not—I don’t know what’s going on here.”

  His eyes met mine. “Do you like it?”

  All I could do was tell the truth. “Yes.”

  “Then don’t move.”

  And then his mouth was moving between my thighs and, for the next full hour, I didn’t move. I twisted and bucked and put my fingers in my mouth, knuckles clenched between my teeth to keep from crying out and, when that failed, I scream my throat raw as his tongue and his lips and his long, thick fingers took me to climax after climax.

  When he eventually shucked off his clothes and rolled on a condom, I was wetter than I’d ever been. I was readier than I’d ever been.

  We didn’t “have sex.” We certainly didn’t “make love.” I’m not sure it even qualified as fucking. He…ravished me. I was left gasping and trembling on my back, staring up at him as he withdrew from me, wondering if I’d gone completely insane.

  ***

  He didn’t stay. He quietly let himself out while I was still lying there in the afterglow and, as the apartment door closed behind him, I had the sudden, terrifying thought that I might never see him again.

  What the hell am I doing? I just had sex with a guy I barely know!

  Minutes later, I heard the door open and close again—Nat was home. Did she see Neil in the elevator?

  I was still naked. I throw on a robe and stuck my head around my bedroom door. “Hi,” I said as Nat came past.

  She stopped in the hallway, folded her arms and raised one eyebrow, and I knew she knew. I sighed and nodded.

  “Neil?” she asked. “Neil?!”

  I buried my face in my hands. “I know! Don’t!”

  “Neil?!”

  “Stop! I know!” I could feel my face flushing. Okay, no way could I admit to just sleeping with a guy I barely knew. “Nothing happened. We just talked.”

  She gave me a long stare.

  “What?” I asked innocently.

  “You just talked?”

  “Yes!” I put on my most ind
ignant voice. “And actually, Nat, I’m a little offended that you’d imply otherwise. I’m not Jasmine!”

  “Okay. Sorry. One small question,”—she smirked—“why are your top and bra on the living room floor?”

  Shit!

  Nat stood there mercilessly, grinning, waiting for an answer.

  “Okay, okay, yes. We…things happened,” I said, shamefaced.

  “But I thought you hated each other! All that shouting, at Darrell’s place!” I could see a trace of a smirk under her astonishment, and wondered if she’d seen us kiss. Had she known, since then, and she was just having fun playing dumb?

  “I do hate him!” I told her. “He’s rough and arrogant as hell, he’s an idealistic hippy, but….” But I think I’m turning into some sort of submissive. “But I like him,” I finished lamely.

  She pulled me into a hug. “Sweet!” she squealed.

  I stood there stiffly as she hugged me. Neil and I felt like a lot of things, but “sweet” wasn’t one of them.

  ***

  When Nat was back in her room, I did something that I hadn’t done in a while. I stripped off the robe and stood naked in front of my mirror and just looked at myself.

  I like my body. Not many women can say that. It isn’t because I have a nice body—my boobs are way too small for most guy’s tastes, I don’t think my legs are in proportion and I have weird, sticky-out shoulders—but I like it. I have to like it.

  My mom is a doctor of psychology and writes a sex and relationships column online—fortunately, she calls herself “Doctor Kath” and most people don’t pick up on our surnames being the same. But alongside the embarrassment of having a mom who’s always talking about sex (high school was all sorts of fun for me, particularly when she did a special on how to deal with daughters getting their first period), there have been other effects. One of them is that I was never allowed to have anything other than a positive body image. If I expressed even the slightest qualm about being too fat or too thin, too tall or too short, my mom had me naked in front of a mirror, reciting affirmations.

  I understand, looking back. She was paranoid about me being anorexic, for one thing, given that a worrying number of ballet students are. And annoying and embarrassing as it was, I did come out of it with a grudging acceptance of my body—I don’t feel I’m battling against it, as some women do. Doesn’t stop me from wishing for bigger boobs, though.

  As I stared at myself in the mirror, though, I wasn’t hating myself or loving myself. I was examining myself. I was looking at the marks.

  They weren’t anything serious—I mean, he hadn’t hurt me or anything. I wasn’t about to let some guy abuse me. The marks were only faint and they were fading fast…but they were there.

  My breasts bore the faintest indentations of pink, regular notches, where his teeth had lightly bitten. The lips of my sex were plump and engorged from my arousal and the lengthy—I flushed—pounding he’d given me. The marks I was most interested in, though, were on my wrists. There was a faint pink area on my right wrist where the watch on my left wrist had pressed into it. That had happened because he’d held my wrists one on top of the other, over my head, as he’d taken me.

  I swallowed.

  Holding me down on the bed. What worried me wasn’t that he’d done it—I’d had no doubt, throughout, that if I so much as formed the word “No,” he’d stop immediately. I never felt like he’d do anything I didn’t want. What worried me was my reaction.

  I’d climaxed harder than I ever had before, as he took me. I wasn’t sure what that meant.

  I looked again at my ravaged body. How was it that, all of a sudden, the perfectly nice, normal sex I’d had with men in my social circle was all relegated to…ordinary? And what I had with Neil—almost stranger sex, and kinky, with it—blew my mind? I wasn’t that girl. I wasn’t into that stuff. Was I?

  Chapter 4

  Clarissa

  The next day, Sunday, I went with Nat to hear Karen and her quartet play in Central Park. There was still virtually no breeze, but at least being outdoors and away from the traffic made it feel a little less muggy. Sitting there on the bench, I watched Nat grinning to herself and really started to worry.

  It was crazy: ever since I’d known her, I’d been encouraging her to get out there and meet somebody. Now she finally had and, immediately, I was nervous. But Darrell didn’t know her like I did. He didn’t know about the cutting and, if I knew Nat, he never would. She’d keep it a secret and he’d either have to accept that, or they’d break up.

  And Darrell didn’t strike me as the sort of person who could live with his girlfriend having secrets. He was far too inquisitive, too determined. Look at how he’d tracked her down after meeting her at the audition.

  On the other hand, what right did I have to question her choices? Look at what I was getting myself into.

  Then Nat started to dance, right there in the park, and I really began to worry. That was it: she was clearly smitten. Next she’d be singing in the rain.

  Or maybe…maybe I just needed to stop being such a killjoy worrier and start living a little. Maybe I should just relax and enjoy the moment.

  The hell with it.

  I stood up and danced as well, gliding past Nat as she came back towards the bench, and it felt good to just let it go for a moment—to stop trying to control everything and just enjoy it….

  …

  Something about that thought, about the sensation itself, niggled at me, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I jumped onto the bench across the path and went into first arabesque and then into a promenade, twisting slowly on one leg while Nat did the same. Ballet’s always so serious—it felt good to be doing it with a smile on my face, for once.

  But as soon as it was over, I took one look at Nat’s face and it hit me. She wasn’t just smitten. She was full-on in love, after just a few days. I gawped at her. “You and your billionaire—you’ve—”

  “Don’t say it!” she said quickly.

  “You’re in—”

  “Don’t! I’m not. I don’t think I am. Maybe I am.” I could see her blushing. “I really like him.”

  I looked at her doubtfully. “Nat, you’ve known each other for no time at all. Are you sure you’re not going too fast?”

  “You’re the one who nearly used the L word. Not me. I never said I was,” she said.

  I folded my arms. “Doesn’t matter what you call it. It matters how you feel and you’ve fallen for him hard.” She dropped her eyes and I pressed. “Haven’t you?”

  She bit her lip. “I’m…happy. Happy in a way I haven’t been in a long time. He makes me feel stuff that…” She sighed. “I don’t know, okay?”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” I told her. “I like the guy. I really do. And far be it from me to counsel you on getting in too deep when I’m”—I blushed—“involved with Neil. But that’s different. That’s just sex. You and Darrell, that’s like some full-blown, kissing on a windswept cliff in the rain-type stuff.”

  “Is it really just sex?” she asked. “You and Neil?”

  I thought about it. I couldn’t tell her everything—not about the way I changed when I was around him, but she deserved an answer. “I’m not sure. It’s sexual and yet it’s deeper at the same time. I haven’t figured it out yet. Anyway, don’t change the subject. I’m trying to stop you getting your heart broken.”

  “I don’t think Darrell’s a heartbreaker,” she said quietly.

  Oh, you poor naïve thing. I gave her a hug. “A man doesn’t have to be a heartbreaker,” I said. “We do all the work for them. We unwrap our hearts layer by layer until they’re completely exposed and then lay them on the ground in front of them. All they have to do is step on them.”

  Less than a minute later, her phone rang. It was Darrell, postponing their date.

  ***

  While Nat moped in her room, facing a week without Darrell, I lay full length on my bed and fumed on her behalf. I’d liked Darrell, but now I wasn
’t so sure. Would he even go through with the date in a week, as he’d told her? Was he even in Virginia, as he claimed? Or was it all just an excuse to extricate himself when he realized Nat had issues he wasn’t ready for?

  If he hurt her, I’d kill him.

  It didn’t do wonders for my own situation, either. Up until that phone call, I’d been seriously thinking about heading over to Darrell’s place and quizzing him about Neil. He was my only link to the mountain of muscles and leather. I had no phone number, no address, nothing. I’d friended him on Facebook, but he hadn’t accepted yet and he barely shared any personal details publicly. Pretty much all that was visible on his profile was a headshot and the logo of a local motorcycle gang.

  Like all the other women throughout history who’ve been seduced by the wrong guy, I was powerless. Forced to wait for him to contact me, if he chose to. I’d seen Neil three days in a row—then today, nothing. I had no idea whether that meant today was the exception and I’d see him tomorrow or that the fling was over and I’d never see him again.

  I lay there bathing in misery for another few minutes before I felt it start. A twisting, glowing worm of anger deep inside my belly. Fuck this! I’m Clarissa Forsberg-West. I don’t let some guy play games with me!

  I bent my knees to my chest and then shot them out straight, launching myself off the bed to land in a crouch like a pissed-off cat. Fuck this!

  I fired up my laptop and called up Facebook. Neil’s minimalist page was still there, with the motorcycle gang logo taunting me. Mad Dog Riders.

  Well, fine. If that was all I had then Mad Dog Riders it was.

  Everyone’s on Facebook, even motorcycle gangs (they called themselves “a club”). There was even a picture of their clubhouse and an address.

  I grabbed my car keys.

  ***

  The biker ambled over to Bartholomew and rested one huge hand on the roof, the other on the window sill. I’d wound the window down so I could talk to him, but when he leaned almost inside and I smelled the beer on his breath, it started to feel like a mistake. “You wantin’ to get that fixed?” he asked.