Stripped

by Allie Juliette Mousseau

  Laughter.

  Pure, unforced, perfect laughter.

  He observes me with a playful grin and I double over.

  I feel my face grow hot with the exertion—sex with him would be like having sex with a god! A sex-god! He knows it. I know it.

  Who is the male god of sexuality? Is there one? High school mythology is eluding me at the moment. But, I can imagine Stone seated on his sex-throne, in a robe of gold, ready to bone!!

  I snicker. I’m rapping like a stripper’s MC—I have to get ahold of myself! Tears are spilling from my eyes and I’ve embarrassingly snorted several times.

  “Having fun?” he asks as he regards me with amusement.

  “Oh God, yes.” Wrong words. I break into another gale of laughter as he calmly sips at his water—his eyes fixed on me.

  I shake my head with lingering giggles. “My dad would kill me.” I’m not sure what I say this in reference to—either the idea of doing the deed with Stone the stripper-sex-god or doing some other form of dance—I’m pretty sure both would be equally contemptable to my father.

  “Why is that?” he says easily, as if he’s not trying to communicate with a woman who is obviously balancing of the edge of insanity.

  When I meet his eyes, I’m quickly reminded of how he publically—and humiliatingly

  —popped the cherry of my enormously long, famine-inducing year of no human to um… kitten contact. And—oh God—it had felt so earth shatteringly good!

  The very memory of it—especially with him standing right here in front of me—makes my body flush with heat and my knees tremble. Yeah, not only do I remember it as probably the best big O of my life—much as I’ve tried to remember the experience with loathing—his magic moves, body, and face have become the power source that drives my solo sessions.

  Sans the entire audience thing, of course.

  Trying to recover my composure, in light of the serious question. I take a drink and consider the ridiculously—there should be a law against these genetics combining—gorgeous man in front of me. His eyes are magnetic, Paul Newman-blue and smooth, like my most treasured, hardest-to-find, rare colored sea glass that I’d collect as a kid on summer vacations at the ocean.

  “Did you just say, Paul Newman?”

  “Yes…” I muse, then catch myself. “No!”

  Oh, then as if all the rest of his DNA weren’t enough, his voice is like golden whiskey—

  deep barrel-aged to perfection—deliciously rich with warm tones of caramel and vanilla. Strong. Intoxicating.

  And with an exotic Australian accent, so your panties peel themselves off.

  His jaw ticks. The tiny movement is sexy as hell under his five o’clock shadow.

  He’s wearing a loose fitting navy blue t-shirt with the logo for the Santa Monica Dance Studio embroidered on it.

  I know his glorious fantasy-adult-Disneyland body is just a layer of fabric away. I know I hate him. I know I lust after him.

  I know Vi is sick to epidemic, black plague proportions of listening to me whine and complain about my dealings with my dad.

  Maybe some stranger-psychiatric-services are just what the doctor ordered.

  I finally say, “My dad has spent the majority of his existence driving me to and from practices and recitals and paying hundreds of thousands of dollars to the most elite, renowned choreographers and ballet instructors in the world. He has a second mortgage out on the house and has flown me around the globe to study with masters…”

  Stone watches me quietly. I’m certain it’s his good intentions—insert sarcasm—that have him painting himself as a friend in need. What is his need? Doesn’t matter, I’ll leave here in the next few minutes and never see him again anyway. Might as well vent.

  “He won’t accept that the dream is over, that I’ll never be a prima ballerina again. Even after everything the doctors have told him. He won’t move on. He makes me feel so… guilty.” I ball my hands into fists. “As if I had some real responsibility in the accident. Like if only I would try harder and put more effort into it I could regain my position. I love my dad, but he won’t let me move on.”

  There! I finally said it. Out loud. He won’t let me move on. He’ll never let me move on. Every time I feel like I can see a way out, he pulls me back, and I let him reel me in. It’s easy—that life was all I knew.

  Stone Wright draws close. Really close. Take-my-breath-away close.

  “He’s backed you into a corner, Princess. Nobody puts Baby in the corner.”

  Chapter Six

  Stone

  Emelie Cartier

  “Did you just make a Dirty Dancing reference?”

  “Yeah. It seems to make sense in this instance. Her dad was holding her back too.” Except now that she’s spoken the words dirty and dancing together in the same sentence, my dick sparks like a match.

  Not the proper response after a woman pours out her heart to you.

  Just then the jingle bells on the door sound the alarm for reality to take back over. The Cooper twins, Molly and Mason, come bolting through the door.

  “STONE!” they shout in high-pitched unison.

  “Hey, tiny dancers, are you ready to shake it?” I spin fast, using my feet as if they were made of magic, and bend to tickle them both.

  M&M are always the first here, but it reminds me—taking a glance at the clock, I confirm that the rest of the five-year-olds in my experimental dance class will be piling in soon.

  The twins’ mum quickly wrangles her wild wallabies in an attempt to allow me to finish my conversation.

  “You teach kids?” my guest whispers, surprised.

  “Yeah, Love, it’s not all dirty dancing, you know.” I couldn’t resist. “Now, your private lessons, on the other hand…”

  She rolls her eyes before throwing a thumb towards the door. “I should go.”

  My mind scrambles to find an excuse for her to stay. Any excuse, because I know if she walks out of here she won’t be back. Also, since serendipity bent over backwards to bring this girl to me twice, I’d better step up my game.

  “I have a proposition for you,”

  “Of course you do.” Her eyebrow shifts up in the cutest accusatory way.

  “I didn’t mean it like that, dirty-girl, but if you want to go there…” I’m sure, serendipity is getting ready to kick me in the teeth.

  “I have no intentions to that end.” She turns on her heel to leave.

  “Alright, I’ll ice the innuendos if you’ll just hear me out.” That’s a little lie.

  She stops. She waits! It’s like spring and summer all rolled into one. Propping her hand up on her hip, she swings back around. With a tilt of her head she says, “Alright then, what?”

  This is when I need to think quickly—she’s expecting a viable answer, the kiddos are now scurrying around impatiently on the dance floor, ready for their class.

  I move up close to her ear so I can’t be heard by my class. And probably because I know I’ll fluster her. “Easy. Three things.” I turn on the charm. “One, my assistant for this class called in crook”—I catch myself throwing in Aussie slang and clarify—“sick, and I could really use a hand. How about you stay, watch over the class with me, and maybe even show them a few basic ballet steps. They’re a great group and would love to meet you.”

  Shifting her luminous eyes away from mine, she scans the room of children. That means she’s considering it. Her body even relaxes a little. I watch her shoulders loosen and her guard drop.

  Don’t fuck it up, Stone, I think, then continue, “Number two, to show you how appreciative I am, as soon as the class is over, I’ll take you out to lunch—your choice of restaurant.”

  My mystery woman straightens her back regally. “I don’t know LA very well, so you could choose the restaurant—if I were to agree to this. What’s number three?”

  Do I see curiosity burning in those beautiful baby browns? I believe I do. Why break the tension? It’s perfect foreplay.

>   “I’ll tell you about number three during our lunch.”

  Before she has an opportunity to tell me no, I announce loudly, “All right, dancers, I have a big surprise for you today! We have a guest joining us all the way from the New York Ballet!”

  The parents looked thrilled, and the kiddos scream and clap and jump around as if she’s a celebrity. My ballerina’s expression becomes soft and sweet towards them.

  “Thank you so much! It’s nice to be here and meet you all.”

  She turns to me, full of smiles, and whispers under her breath, “I’m going to kill you for this later.”

  Hey, later is later! That means she’s sticking around.

  I lead her over to the front of the room. “Okay, everybody! Why don’t we say hello to…?” I peer over at my ballerina slyly and feel the cocksure grin spread across my face.

  Gotcha. I had to get her to tell me her name one way or another.

  After a subtle glance my way with the word, brutally, mouthed but not spoken, I figure she’s tacking that on to the she’s going to kill me later part. Because, really, who names their kid Brutally?

  “My name is Emelie. Emelie Cartier.”

  Emelie Cartier. I have imagined what her name could be for two weeks. I’ve tried fitting her to every name I could think of, but none ever felt right.

  I reach out my hand to her for a proper introduction—the kind with no orgasms or mobile phones. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Emelie.”

  What a beautiful name. It’s graceful and regal and fits her perfectly. Cartier she says with a French inflection—Car-tee-ay. I think of the opulent things the name Cartier is associated with—diamonds, perfume, luxury items. She is most definitely a luxury item.

  “You’re pretty.” Leave it to my girl, Molly.

  Emelie blushes, casting the sexiest shade of pink high across her cheekbones. “Thank you. That’s very sweet of you to say. I think you’re pretty too.”

  Molly giggles.

  “Are you going to dance with us today?” Ethan’s easygoing question brings my head out of the clouds and back to earth.

  I don’t know the extent of her injuries or what she can and can’t do, so instead of putting her on the spot I say, “Let’s show her what we’ve been working on!”

  They go ballistic. I’ll take it as a yes.

  I stride quickly to the soundboard and hit play. Their song is cued—One Direction’s “Drag Me Down.”

  “We should stand back.”

  Emelie and I move closer to the mirror to give the kids some space.

  Ten of the cutest children on the planet quickly take their places as if this were a recital. Each takes a knee and they create a large circle. They move one shoulder to the rhythm of the music while Ethan comes slowly to standing from within the middle. He incorporates some smooth waves of his body until the pre-chorus starts to rev the room. The kids holding the circle somersault backwards then bounce to their feet. Most keep dancing but a few get distracted.

  Ethan folds in half as he gets his weight to his hands. He hand-walks a couple paces forward and then leans up on just one hand, before rolling out onto his back and springing to his feet, giving room for Ava to come to the front.

  It’s almost impossible to believe these kids are only five.

  Ava shows us a sequence of pop and lock techniques.

  Finn comes up front with a spectacular backflip. Emelie’s hand flies to her mouth in surprise. Can’t help but smile—I’m proud of my crew.

  They spread out to give each other room—except for Ethan and Gracie, who have to jab each other with their elbows first—and start doing their own thing. From the corner of my eye, I watch Emelie. She looks so happy watching them. Her smile is wide and endless and I see her body moving to the music.

  I whisper in Molly’s ear some simple instructions and really hope she gets it right. I leap into the group of kids as we dance a sequence of knee lifts and arm swings.

  A moment later, I pivot, go down to the floor in a half-split—one leg bent at the knee under me, the other leg extended—and, with no hands, come up using the strength of my thighs.

  Mine and Emelie’s eyes lock—it’s a hot move—and I may or may not send her a look that says, imagine my dexterity during sex. I’m pretty sure she’s checking out my package, but that might just be me being optimistic.

  The kids bowl me down and take over.

  Molly cuddles up to Emilie then pulls her onto the floor. Emelie is a good sport and indulges the class with a few basic ballet positions, bends, pliés, and stretches.

  The kids are ultra-adorable as they try to move their little bodies to copy her. Of course, they all laugh hardily at me when I take a shot at mimicking those sleek and pretty positions.

  When all the songs end Molly asks her, “Will you come back again and dance for us?”

  Emelie’s mouth makes a small oh in surprise. “I’ll… try.”

  Molly’s smile lights the studio. Guess she liked the answer.

  Parents collect their offspring and soon it’s just me and Emelie again.

  “So… Emelie Cartier.” I let the words tempt my tongue—I’m very ready to let another part of Emelie tempt my tongue.

  “How do you say, underhanded, in Australian?”

  How could I answer? I wasn’t sorry. I was actually pretty—

  “Pleased with yourself, aren’t you?” she says, hands on her hips.

  “I was just thinking that.”

  Her perfect smile says she isn’t really mad at me. Somehow I avoided catastrophe—for now—but there’s a whole lot of ocean still left to navigate.

  We stroll lazily down Santa Monica Pier. Being a mid-Sunday morning, there are a lot of people mucking about.

  “So, Molly is quite a corker, right?”

  “Yes, she is.”

  “What did she say to get you to come out on the dance floor?”

  Emelie levels a gaze at me. “She said, ‘Stone thinks you’re pretty. Will you show me how to be a ballerina?’”

  I choke-sputter on the water I’m sipping. That was most definitely not what I told her to say.

  But, I think, Emelie Cartier came out and did it anyway.

  “So, what’s your third proposition?” she asks with suspicion.

  “How about I tell you over the best lobster stew you’ve ever tasted?”

  “Okay.” She looks up at me from underneath her thick, dark lashes.

  “You keep looking at me that way, I might have to make a fourth and fifth proposition.”

  She blushes and drops her gaze to the wooden pier beneath our feet.

  “So, Emelie Cartier, what brought you here to sunny SoCal from the Big Apple?”

  “My best friend, Violet. She used to live in New York. We went to school together through high school. I was recruited by the New York Ballet right after my senior year. She always thought she’d attend New York University and we’d get an apartment and live together in the Village, but her mom got her interested in the arts program at UCLA. They came out after graduation to scope it out and she enrolled there.” As Emelie explains, she takes in our expansive ocean-view surrounds. “It felt like the end of the world when she relocated, but it didn’t change our friendship. She’s been trying to talk me into moving here since my New York universe was destroyed by a runaway meteor.”

  A moment later, her mobile blares the chorus of “Part of Me” by Katy Perry. She pulls it from her bag and almost apologizes, clearly flustered. “Vi insists on downloading ringtones for me that remind me of my… girl power. I never know what to expect. Last week was Miranda Lambert’s ‘Gunpowder and Lead.’” She shrugs. “I have to take it, excuse me.”

  “Hey,” she says brightly into the receiver, but her expression falls fast. “Can’t you call road service or something?” At this point, Emelie nods resignedly. “Okay, I’m probably about forty minutes away. Yes, I know that’s infinitely better than waiting three hours for road service. I’m coming.”


  Those are two pretty little words I’d like to hear explode from her mouth when I make her shout them.

  “Vi’s using her roommate’s car while I’m driving hers. It just ran out of gas on the other side of town.”

  “That sucks for her. No worries, I’ll go with you.”

  Her gorgeous porcelain face warms to the color of velvety rose petals. “Um, no. I’m not bringing you with me. She’d never stop talking about it, ever.”

  “Then how about, you go rescue your friend and meet me back here when you’re done?”

  I watch as consternation furrows her brow—I think about what the expression would look like transformed into orgasmic pleasure as her body writhed under my own. Right on cue, Fuck—instead of Puff ’cause that would just be weird—Fuck, the Magic Dragon, rouses at the prospect.

  “It’s going to take me at least an hour.” She shrugs. “Maybe we should just call it a good morning and…”

  I feel major Hindenburg-level crash and burn scenarios coming. I can’t let that happen.

  “You promised.”

  Her expression becomes quizzical. “Promised what?”

  I’m lying again. The way I see it, I’m not going to get her for private dance lessons—that’s just wishful thinking. I have to be smart… because truthfully my idea of proposition three has only been developed to the point of me kissing her until she’s whimpering my name and spreading her legs wide for me.

  “Stone?”

  “Em?”

  “Em, huh?”

  “Would you rather goddess?”

  She rolls her eyes, but a hint of smile tugs at her mouth. “What promise?”

  Now I’m stalling, trying to think.

  “I really have to go. Thanks for the nice morning.”

  “I need your help,” I blurt.

  “My help?” she asks skeptically.

  “I’ve only been working at Foreplay for the past three months. It was the only place I could think of to really prepare myself for the audition coming up with Then Prove You Can Dance.”

  “The celebrity hosted, nationally televised dance competition?”