Close Up and Personal (Spotlight Series)

by JS Taylor

  “Good.” The hand moves higher. “Open your legs.”

  I part my thighs a little, and he plunges his hand between them, pulling them forcibly apart. I gasp.

  “You needn’t be anxious Isabella,” he says. “No-one can see us, and you haven’t given me permission to inflict any pain on you.”

  He works his hand higher, gently trailing his fingers along the inside of my thigh. “And as you can see Isabella, you bring out a gentle side to me.”

  My thighs tense at his touch.

  “Do you want me to stop?” He whispers it dangerously. I shake my head.

  “Say it,” he commands.

  I shake my head again. “No,” I whisper, “I don’t want you to stop.”

  As his fingers reach the apex of my thighs I almost cry out loud.

  “You’re so wet,” he murmurs. “I’m looking forward to fucking you later.”

  His fingers slide in and out of me.

  “Turn around,” he says, “and lie on your front.”

  I hesitate, uncertain of what he wants from me. And then he takes me by the hips and turns me so I am lying face down on the leather seat of the car, with my legs parted either side of him.

  “I’m not going to fuck you now,” he murmurs. “But since I’m about the afford you pleasure I think it’s only fair that you give me a view to make it worth my while.”

  He pushes up my skirt, and then tugs at my hips, pulling me so my rear is lifted off the seat.

  “Very nice,” he says, tugging down my panties.

  I feel a confusing mix of excitement and shame course through me. Facing down with my naked behind waving upwards is thrilling and embarrassing at the same time.

  Then I feel his fingers slide in between my legs and up over my clitoris, and all thoughts of embarrassment leave me. With the blindfold closing off my vision the sensation is heightened everywhere. And as he strokes his fingers, faster and faster over my wetness I feel the orgasm build.

  With his other hand he plunges inside me, and the combination of two movements is too much to bear. I tumble over the edge, letting out a deep moan of pleasure as he thrusts at me faster and deeper.

  I collapse forward on by belly, panting.

  He pulls me around and upright again.

  “We’re nearly at our destination,” he says. “Better you stay in a presentable state in case there are any paparazzi.

  Paparazzi? Where is he taking me?

  He slides up my panties and I wriggle gratefully back into them, wishing I had a spare pair.

  “I hope this evening changes your mind,” he says, “because if I don’t fuck you later tonight I’m going to explode.”

  I’ve been wondering about that myself. Even for a man of Berkeley’s obvious self-control it seems a lot to ask that he stay celibate whilst bringing me to orgasm.

  The car veers to the side, then slows and stops. My heart begins pounding out of my chest. Where the hell is he taking me?

  His strong fingers tug off the blindfold, and I am greeted with the welcome view of his perfect features staring down at me.

  He looks amused as I blink up at him.

  From behind the tinted windows I can’t see anything much. A London street with more warehouse type buildings. Are we back at his apartment?

  “We’re in Shoreditch,” he says, to my unasked question. “Can you guess why we’re here?”

  I shake my head.

  “I’ll give you another clue,” he says, reaching under the seat. “I realise you have raised an objection to my buying you clothes, but these, I’m afraid Isabella, are a necessity.

  He tugs out a shoebox, and opens the lid. Inside are a pair of beautiful hand-made shoes. They have a low heel and are made from deep red satin.

  Wonderingly I take them out.

  They look like… dancing shoes.

  “We’re going dancing?” I guess.

  His face breaks into a smile. “I am taking you to the La Catedral de Tango,” he says, his voice rolling expertly over the Spanish words. “And you will understand what it means to be an obedient partner.”

  Chapter 13

  The Catedral de Tango is a large building in the London Regency style, with a grand entrance of Greek columns. But rather than the glitzy frontages of London’s west end buildings, the Catedral looks a little scuffed and work-in. We enter a black marble lobby, which has been decorated with works from local artists.

  A modern sculpture depicts two tango dancers in an abstract way, and pictures on the wall are cartoon sketches and works of graffiti. The combined effect is young, contemporary and boutique.

  “This is a part of London the tourists don’t get to see,” says James, with a gleam in his eye. “The artist’s quarter and the music scene. It’s hidden. Only known to a few.”

  James pays our way in, handing a banknote to the punk-looking girl taking money, and leads me into the main room, still clutching my shoes.

  “You can leave your footwear there,” he says, pointing to a large shoe rack which has been artfully wrought from old bicycle parts.

  I lean on his arm, removing my footwear and taking in the room before us.

  It is only half-lit, with enormous ceilings leading up to a huge chandelier fashioned from car hub caps.

  Towards the back is a few large tables which obviously provide the bar. They are lined with chic-looking bottles of spirits.

  In the main body of the room is a huge circuit, and parading around and through it are hundreds of young tango dancers. They are dressed in a mixture of indy clothing, vintage and classic tango dresses and suits. And they whirl around the room at their own pace. Some are slower, still getting the feel for the dance. Others are expert, and dance at a dizzying pace, the men tumbling the girls to they sweep inches from the floor. As my eyes follow the edge of the group a beautiful girl in a green dress is held low by her partner. Her whole body slows, and her leg sweeps a large elegant tango circle outwards against the floor.

  Then her partner rights her, stepping her back in time to the music, and they dance away in dizzying perfection.

  “You took dance at college?”

  James mouth is by my ear, and I’m jerked out of my fascinated study of the dancers.

  “Yes,” I say, still mesmerised by the scene. The couples are so beautiful.

  “But not Tango?” he guesses.

  I shake my head and return to exchanging my shoes for the lovely hand-made pair he’s given me.

  Fumbling I tighten the straps. My feet now look perfect for Tango dancing. It’s the rest of me I have to worry about.

  I straighten up, and find myself locked against James, his arms holding my elbows, my eyes staring into his.

  “You took modern dance?” he asks.

  “No.” It’s hard to concentrate with his face so close to mine. Is the rest of him this perfect? I realise that although he’s seen me naked, I’ve hardly seen any of him. “My focus was on Spanish dancing,” I say.

  “Spanish dancing, at college?” his face contorts in confusion.

  “I learned it from my mother,” I say, still lost in his features. “Continuing my training was part of the conditions of my scholarship into drama college. Spanish dancing was what won me the audition.”

  “You must have been very good,” he says, “to win a drama scholarship for dancing.”

  “Spanish dancing,” I correct him. “It’s like an act all in itself. A lot of the dance is about the expression on your face.”

  I haven’t thought back to my first audition for years.

  He looks impressed. “Then you already have much of the requirement for Tango dancing,” he says. “Tango is the dance of love. The best dancers show in their features how the feelings are moving inside them.”

  I give him a little grin. “Then Spanish dance is the dance of sadness,” I say. “So perhaps I am not so adept as you think.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Real Spanish dancing – from my mother’s part of
Spain – it is a story of loss. You let your body move through a tale of pain and betrayal.”

  He gives a half smile, and his voice drops. “I would very much like to see you dance your own way.” He has pulled me a little closer.

  “Mr Berkeley,” I remind him, in a prim voice, “You have brought me here to dance your way. And I am not even sure I will be able to do that.”

  “Of course.” His face breaks into a smile. “How un-gentlemanly of me to forget. Well then Miss Green it’s time I put you through your paces. What do you understand of Tango?”

  “Not very much.” I am looking out onto the whirling dancers, feeling unease tighten in my belly. Spanish dance is performed solo. I have less experience of dancing with a partner, although it was a class at school. We learned the waltz – standard acting procedure since this dance is the most common in movies.

  “Isabella. I brought you here to show you how pleasurable it can be for a woman to submit to a man.”

  The words bring a tingling fear to my body. What is he suggesting?

  “In Tango,” he says, “the man takes the lead. Do you understand?”

  I nod, feeling my mouth dry.

  “There are certain simple steps which I will teach you,” he says. “These steps are always the same, but the direction in which we dance them is determined by me. You dance backwards, always. You must put your total trust in me that I will not lead you into danger.”

  Into danger? I look out into the dance floor and realise what he means. In the quick steps and movements of the dancers, plotting a course so as not to knock into anyone is tricky.

  “It is an exercise in submission,” he continues. “You submit your will to me. And in return I pledge to protect you and steer you through a pleasurable dance. Does that sound like something you can do?”

  “I.. Um. I think so.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I will show you the steps.”

  It takes James under ten minutes to decide I have grasped the basic steps, and he seems pleased with my physical memory. “College dance has obviously served you well,” he says, as he walks me through the eight step dance for the final time.

  “Now.” He takes me in his arms, straightening me against him in an easy jolt of his powerful arms. “There,” he says. “You are standing correctly. At the eighth step, Isabella, there is a pause. At this point I may do what I like with you body, and you must be ready for it.”

  Do what he likes with my body? I gulp.

  “You will feel slightest touch from my hand at your elbow, steering you the way I wish you to go,” he continues. “Do not hesitate to obey me. Any struggle on your part will interfere with my ability to steer you safely across the floor. And the last thing I want to do it lead you into another set of dancers. Understand?” His voice is stern.

  I nod. Suddenly the floor ahead of us with its riot of dancers looks incredibly intimidating.

  Before I have time to realise what is happening James sweeps me into the floor. My feet fall into the taught step, and for a moment I concentrate only on counting out the movements.

  We complete a set of eight, and James dips me, very slightly, before righting me again and twirling me around back into the floor.

  Dancers wheel either side of us, and heading backwards I have no idea where I’m headed. The proximity of other people is within inches, and I know I should be worried I’m about to tunnel into another couple.

  But held rigidly in James’s arms I feel safe.

  Now the steps have arranged themselves in my mind, and instead of counting I let the music take me. James has a natural affinity for the rhythm of the music, and the exotic sounds crash around us as he meets every step beat perfectly.

  I feel myself melding into his strong body, letting it guide me as my feet tap out beneath us. It is easy, effortless.

  In Spanish dancing every sinew of my body is in control, and every thought in mind fixed on the next move and then the next.

  This is completely different. I feel as though I haven’t a care in the world or a thought in my head besides this powerful man, sweeping me along to the music.

  We reach the end of a set of eight, and this time James plunges me almost to the floor. His face is centimetres from mine, and in the final seconds of the pause he sweeps my lips with his, just slightly, so the skin brushes.

  The effect is an instant erotic surge which charges through my entire body.

  He only touched my mouth.

  As James sweeps me upright and back into the dance I am struggling to fit what just happened with the formal steps. Then we reach the end of the eight again, and this time James presses me tight against him.

  Caught up with the music, I let my foot sweep out, in the same low elegant loop I saw the female dancer complete earlier. My mouth is parted and my eyes half closed as my body arcs into the move, allowing my natural dancer’s flexibility to send my leg pirouetting low and wide.

  James gathers me up again and the expression on his face is hungry. The thoughts in his head are unmistakable. He pushes me back again, with his exact finesse of power and control, and I realise he is showing me what a relationship with him would be like. He is using the dance to explain to me what he means by obedience. Him in control, deciding the moves, me being swept along, carefree.

  What shocks me most about this dynamic is I think I like it.

  The thought almost floors me. If it wasn’t for James’s certain grip on me, propelling me forwards, I feel as though I would stumble. I want this? Do I?

  But I realise that I do. Or at least part of me.

  He sweeps me down again, and this time he presses across the line between and around my breasts with his thumb. For a tantalising second I feel his fingers take hold of my nipple, and the warm arousal floods over my body.

  Then he twists me back up again and I feel my skin begging for his touch.

  Is this how is would be? I remember his words. There would be times when you would beg me. Would he tease me like this? Something tells me he would.

  And then another eight step end arrives, and James holds us suddenly still. We stand, close and panting, the longing clear in both of our faces.

  The dance has unleashed something in me, and I can’t keep my desire for him from showing in my expression.

  “I want you,” he growls, leaning forward so only I can hear. “I want you to come home with me now. I won’t hurt you Isabella, you have my word. But I want to be inside of you.”

  I stare up into his handsome features, the dancing and his proximity overwhelming.

  “Yes.” I say. “Yes James. Take me home.”

  Chapter 14

  James’s car is waiting for us as we arrive outside, and he opens the door to allow me inside. I am expecting him to jump on me the moment the doors are closed. But instead he sits upright, looking straight ahead.

  I sit next to him wondering once again what is going on in his mind. How can he be so hot one minute and cold the next? A moment ago we were in each other’s arms, staring into one another’s eyes. Now he could almost be a work colleague sitting next to me.

  The car starts up and he leans in close, his mouth brushing my hair. The smell of him is intoxicating.

  “Is that a favourite dress?” he asks. I turn to him in confusion.

  “No,” I reply.

  “Good,” his voice is low, silkily. “Because I am going to rip it off that gorgeous body of yours just as soon as I have you in my bed.”

  Oh.

  I feel my body respond to his words.

  “It is taking every ounce of my self control not to touch you now,” he adds. “My hand is itching to slide into that delicious wetness which I know is growing between your legs.”

  I close my eyes for a minute, hoping it will prevent my blush from being too obvious. How does he know that? I suppose my face must show it all.

  Outside the bright sweep of London Bridge comes into view as the car pulls onto
it.

  “But I want every part of you ready for what I am about to do to you,” he concludes. “So I will not dilute the experience before we reach my apartment.”

  He turns to face front again, and I am left, red-cheeked beside him. My body, ever the traitor, is already imagining what will happen once we are inside his apartment. My mind is another matter. The turmoil of what it means to be involved with James Berkeley is dimly beginning to register. I am not sure if I can survive it.

  The car pulls up into the cobbled street of the apartment, and James comes around to help me out of the car.

  After a few curt words to the driver he performs the complicated code needed to open the sealed door, and half drags me inside.

  He pulls me against him for a moment, giving me a long kiss which tells of things to come. Then he presses the elevator door and leads me inside.

  The doors close noiselessly and suddenly he has me by the hips, pushed back against the wall. His hands slide up underneath my dress and round to hold my buttocks. His mouth is on mine, and his hands squeeze. Hard. I let out an involuntary groan and his kiss presses deeper, more urgently. My behind is torn between the pleasure of being held and the slight pain of his tight grip.

  The doors open and he releases me. Then, before I know what’s happening he scoops me up into his arms, and carries me into his apartment, using his free arm to open the door.

  In a few strides we’re in his bedroom, and this time, instead of throwing me, he lowers me gently onto the bed.

  He stands for a moment, looking at me.

  “Isabella,” he says. His voice has changed from the lust-charged whisper in the cab to something more like concern.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  I nod. Lying back there on the bed, arousal coursing through me, there is nothing I want more than for this beautiful man to take me as his own.

  “I told you before that you make me gentler,” he says, and there is something soft in his voice. “We have already worked on your body Isabella. It won’t be painful for me to be inside you.” His voice chokes slightly as he says this, and then he steadies himself. “But I want you to know that emotionally, I care for you.”