“The texts I mentioned. It’s too bad you didn’t read them. I wrote some important information.”
“Oh. I’ll have to look at them later then.” She’s stirring compulsively.
Liar. “You could always ask me what I wrote, considering I’m here now. That would seem reasonable, right?”
She makes a small sound, sort of like air being let out of a tire.
“Is the coffee alright? Should we call a paramedic?”
“No, it’s… good.”
“Can I have it, then?”
Another noise, this time a little more squeaky. “Of course.”
Still, she doesn’t move.
“I’m sitting on your bed. Waiting for you.”
Em stutters a bit. “It’s just… super-hot and I don’t want you to burn yourself.”
“I love playing with hot items, Emelie. But you already know that,” I say as she finally turns around with a mug in each hand. I can tell she’s desperately trying to hold herself together.
Now that I have the full face view and she can’t lie to save her life because of her tell-all color-meter, I ask again, “Are you sure you didn’t see my texts?”
“Positive,” she says too fast.
Pretty kitten won’t meet my eyes. “My goodness, Em, your beautiful face is cherry red.”
“It must be the heat of the coffee.”
Or not. “Tell me how you pleasured yourself when you read them.”
Her eyes squeeze shut like that will help her escape. “Oh God! Can we please not talk about this?”
“That’s not possible.” I shake my head. “Did you do it right here on your bed?”
Another breath of air escapes her chest.
“I bet you did, Em.” I groan a little; can’t help it. “I can picture you—getting the first text, reading it, your gorgeous eyes wide. You lay back, spread your legs and your head rests on the pillow. Your right hand slowly pulls the fabric of your skirt up your leg, over your knee, past your thigh.”
“Don’t we—?”
“I’m not done just yet. Your fingers find their way to the throbbing, aching need between your legs. When you read the next one, you can only see me, working my hot, sure tongue over your wet, swollen clit.”
“YES! Yes! I did read your texts!” she bursts out. “Are you happy now? Satisfied?”
“Did you pleasure yourself?”
I’m greeted with silence. The heat in her face is positively nuclear. “Do I have to answer?” she groans.
“Fuck yes.”
She gives me a shy and simple nod.
“Oh, Em, that’s so fucking hot. I’m growing granite hard.” There is no place on the planet that I’d rather be than fucking here with her, right now. “And tell me, did you use your pretty little hand or this?” I now display in my palm the vibrator I’ve been holding behind my back.
Her body freezes in place. The delectable cherry shade spreads to paint over her ears.
“That isn’t mine,” she sputters. “It’s Vi’s!”
“Are you sure?” I bring it to my nose and take a deep whiff. “It smells like you. Maybe I should taste it.”
“NO! Okay, okay. It’s mine. There!” Ooo, she’s mad. Her nostrils flare and her eyes fill with rage. “You’re so…!”
I take a guess. “Sexy?”
“FRUSTRATING!”
“Well, of course you’re frustrated, look at this thing. What do you call him? Not-Enough-Norman?”
“Gimme that!” She lunges at me in an attempt to yank it from my hand. Like that’s going to work. I deftly evade her.
“Honestly, sweetheart, there is no need for these go arounds with Barely-Adequate-Barry, I am more than happy to service all of your needs.”
“OH MY GOD! This isn’t happening!” she shouts, her embarrassment at an all-time high. She’s so cute as she shoves her hands through her hair. “Can we just forget about all this, take the coffees and go… now?”
I Google adult sex toys on my phone. “Hey, look here! They have a nine inch Rebellious Ricky that looks like a real cock. Or a pretty pink jack rabbit with a G-spot stimulator and clit vibrator. Yeah, I think that would pet your kitten real nice.”
“Hey! You just… leave my kitten out of this!”
“There,” I announce.
“There what?” She drops her hands angrily to her hips while her gaze accuses me of wrongdoing—which I’m totally doing.
“I purchased it.”
“You BOUGHT it?!?” Her pretty coiffed hair is now a mess and she looks positively wild eyed. I’d love to fuck her right here, right now.
“Overnight delivery—Fed Ex—I can’t be working with a testy, undersexed coach.” I shake my head in mock concern to needle her further.
“I’m just… done with this conversation.” She turns on her heel and dramatically exits the room. “I’m going to the car!”
I grab my jacket and follow her out. “When you get it, I’m going to have to watch you use it. You know, make sure it at least performs tolerably.”
I’m surprised she doesn’t slaughter me on the way to practice, but I figure she may be plotting other ways to exact vengeance.
“Level with me,” I say once we’re standing, ready to rehearse, at the empty Santa Monica Dance Studio. “What styles of dance are you familiar with besides ballet and swing?”
“A little Latin and contemporary,” she admits. “I love the sleek, sheer, sexiness of Latin and learned some of the main dances during high school—tango, salsa, mambo, cha-cha.”
“I’d definitely like to work some of those moves into a dance number for the competition.”
“Do you know the dances?” she asks me.
“Sure do. But working them into a choreographed routine with other styles is tricky. That’s another reason why I want your help.” I tinker with the sound system and cue up some music. “Tell me about your knowledge of contemporary.”
“That would be more like a confession, and I think I’ve already had enough of that today.” She taps her foot and folds her arms in accusation.
I’m not sure what look she’s going for; she might be trying for indignant, but to me she looks like a pouty, little sex tart.
I should tell her so.
Before I do, she spills. “Right before I was plucked up by the company, I’d been developing the choreography to a ballet-contemporary fusion routine.”
“You’re kidding, right? Is this the payback?”
“Oh no, that’ll come in some other devilish form,” she promises, kicking off her maroon Chucks in preference of bare feet. “It was pretty good—I even performed it in front of the school at graduation my senior year.”
“Why the hell didn’t you continue with it?”
“Because working with the company and ballet took up all my waking time and energy,” she explains. “I had to keep my eyes on the prize. There was no time for extracurricular activities.”
“Why didn’t you simply switch dance genres after your injuries healed? You could have been dancing all of this time.”
“Simply, huh? How often do you play footy?”
I nod solemnly. “Okay, I get it.” Sometimes the heart’s not ready to move on.
“Are we going to dance now? Or would you like to play Dr. Phil some more?”
I put on “Bailamos” by Enrique Iglesias, the powerful Latin infused ballad about feeling the rhythm and letting it take you over, dancing and fulfilling fantasies. Yeah, I know. Perfect.
“Show me what you’ve got.” I give her the seductive look that is called mirada—it evokes the invitation to dance the tango—while I hold out my hand as an offering in the classic language of salsa.
She places her right hand in my left, while her left hand rests seductively at the nape of my neck. Our chests touch in a close embrace.
We start with the turning step, sweeping the floor in ocho, or figure eight motions.
At first she seems a little rusty, but not by much. As soon as he
r confidence kicks in and she gets away from her own uncertainty and truly engages, Emelie begins to sizzle.
She knows how to pose and when to slide at just the right times. She creates gorgeous flourishes as she dances. Her free foot draws circles onto the floor in a move called lapiz. I spin her in my arms then pull her against me—her back to my front—her leg bends at the knee and comes up between mine in a caricia, where she caresses my arse with her bare foot.
Tango is making love on the dance floor, and we’re doing exactly that. The power between us is magnetic. It crackles potently. Our overheated body language goes way beyond the dance.
With today’s earlier riling, it’s voltaic.
In a dynamic move, she holds my hands, lifts her knee with graceful poise, swivels, and pulls away, bewitching me the entire time with the spell of her gaze, and in a beautiful and elegant maneuver, slides down to the floor on one knee—her other leg outstretched. She tugs, my cue to pull her back up. I do and she latches around me—her hair sensually tossed, her sexy, slender leg lifts and curls around my arse, her fingers splayed against my chest, and her gorgeous, ecstatic face—is nothing less than orgasmic.
I’m so fucked. The beast is becoming aroused.
Our faces are so close, our lips nearly touch. I can feel her breath on my mouth, and it’s all I can do not to go in the rest of the way.
We follow a pattern of quick steps in what’s technically called caminata.
Soon, our steps become more fluid, like we’re reading each other’s thoughts.
Getting my hands around her waist, I lift her off the floor and rotate her halfway. She arches her back, laying her supple spine against me and allowing her head to drop and extend behind my shoulder. Her lithe legs are twisted at my waist as she stills and holds the position.
Keeping her there, I glide across the floor with ronda, a series of revolutions.
The dance is so sensual, so passionate, and so is Em. She becomes more and more vibrant with every step.
Strands of her hair fall over her face in a sexy mess as she invades my dance space in a move called sacata. Her hand cascades down my jawline as her smoldering eyes meet mine.
I swear I’m going to die.
I can’t deny my hands the sheer pleasure of holding and caressing her body everywhere—her belly, her ribs, the very sides of her breasts—torturously—up her sensuous arms, over the length of her leg as it curls around my waist.
She’s so fucking flexible; able to bend and twist, kick incredibly high or slowly lift her leg up in the air and hold it there in a near split.
Her arms move just as gracefully as the rest of her. They’re taut, with slim, long muscles, as she extends and curls them, coiling them around me or arching through the air.
In another moment, she presses flush against me and again wraps her leg around me, but this time her hands flutter lightly over my biceps as she curves her back and drops her head, angling away from me while pushing her tantalizing breasts into my face.
I hold her mid-back so she can lean as far back as she’d like and then, like the gentleman I am—hey, it’s required in the tango—I lay my head on her breast.
Next time I do this with her, I want her wearing a tight little dress with a long slit up her thigh and a pair of heels.
Scratch that. I want her naked instead.
When she rises and her torso straightens, her forehead comes to rest on mine. Her eyes are sparkling with prowess as her hands sweep over both sides of my head.
This is foreplay in the temperature vicinity of molten lava. I had no idea she’d be this good. On top of that—I wish she were on top of me—she’s flirtatious and irresistible and absolutely knows what she’s doing to me.
Her long dark hair dances like ribbons around her as I spin her, lift her high in the air, then fold her back down quickly in my arms.
I set her feet to the floor, and starting at the small of her back, I let my hand travel up her spine to her head, then dip her across my bent knee just as the song ends.
There is such an intense connection between us. Not only here on this dance floor—it’s electrified the air around us from the moment we laid eyes on each other.
“Holy fuck, Em. I need to take you against that mirrored wall.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Chapter Fifteen
Emelie
Standing on not-so-solid ground
“Em…” he’s still holding me in the dip position.
I’m sure all the lightheadedness I’m feeling is not just from the blood rushing to my brain—I’ll blame it on that, though.
I lift my mouth to meet his and kiss him passionately. It’s lips and tongue and teeth, and his hands are everywhere at once. In a few more seconds I’ll be naked in front of that mirror.
“Stone, I can’t.”
“You mean, you won’t. I already know you can. Very well, I might add.”
He lifts me to my feet and continues working my mouth with his until my panties are the casualty of catastrophic conditions. I’m radiating unstable amounts of nuclear energy in the form of sexual tension that threaten a code red meltdown. I’m positive the only thing stopping me from ripping off his clothes is the fact that, although the dance studio is technically closed, it is still a public place, and any other coworker with a key could open that door just the same as he did.
Breaking the silence, I say, “You’re obviously a master at Latin.” An involuntary breath hitches in my throat. “Street, hip hop, swing, and contemporary…” I strip myself out of his arms and take a step back in resolve. “Let’s see what we can do to add a ballet component.”
“ARAAARRRRGGGHHHH!!!!” he shouts in complete frustration and uses the wide expanse of floor to pace it out.
I wait for a few moments, trying to recover my own bearings.
Once he ices his own fever, Stone comes back towards me. “Okay, coach. Let me have it.”
Pulling my laptop from its case, I plug the speaker in and cue up some Beethoven.
“Really?” he scoffs. “First horrendous sexual frustration, now musical torture?”
“Don’t be a baby,” I scold. “Kick off your sneakers. It’s better to use your bare feet.”
“You’re just saying that because you think my feet are sexy.”
“Feel the music, feel the floor. See the positions and the way your body reacts to them.”
“I’ll tell you the positions my body really reacts to,” he says with a wink.
I ignore his innuendo. “First position.”
“You on top so I can play with your tits and watch them bounce.”
“STONE! Focus!”
We work through each of the basic foot positions before moving onto the arms. He looks awkward at first, and I need to stifle a giggle. The style is so opposite his tough jeans and undone Converse. But he is a true dancer, and soon enough his arms begin to shape beautifully.
“Plié and demi-plié—bend at the knees then rise—we want to appear light and bouncy.”
Stone smirks and I swear I hear him growl something under his breath about my ass being light and bouncy.
I clear my throat. “Entendre, and stretch.” Every move I make, he follows—as if we’re shadows or mirror images. “Rise to the balls of your feet—relevé.”
He’s really trying, but there has to be a better way.
“Instead of me acting like you have to learn ballet, we need to zero in on some key moves and elements for you to incorporate. I don’t know what music you may already have for the number you want to perform, but I’ve been thinking it might be cool to take the intro to a classical piece and remix it with something hip hop—think Johann Sebastian Bach’s ‘Ave Maria’ meets Flo Rida’s ‘GDFR.’”
“You know that song?”
“Yes! I don’t live under a rock.” I shake off the insult. “Watch.”
I do the motions to explain what I’m saying. “You start off making it look like the choreography is goi
ng to be completely classical. You work it magically for the first thirty seconds, and Stone, you’re going to have to pull out some serious moves, because this will be the moment you want to wow the judges with your diversity. Then your street dancing kicks in—the music changes and you hit it hard—a rolling air flip to rile the audience. Do your regular shit, but then in the midst of the street beat, you’re going to switch gears into sauté—powerful leaps and quick allegro jumps—they’ll look incredibly cool with the heavy music. Cabriole—where you leap from one leg and finish the move landing on the same leg—looks great and is a tough move. Advanced moves are all we need.” I feel myself getting excited. “You can also come up en pointe in your Chucks—that’ll be a real judge and crowd pleaser!”
I pause. He’s watching me now, grinning like the cat who swallowed the canary.
“What?”
“I like this side of you.”
“Good. Cause it’s the only side you’re going to see for the next couple of weeks.” His cocky grin appears undaunted. “Instead of all the fancy French terms, let’s just dance. I’ll show you the moves I’m envisioning and then tell you what I see you doing after it—I’m sure you’ll take over as we go.”
“No way, baby, this is all you. I love every idea you’ve suggested. You run with it. I’m your protégé.”
I can feel the smile stretch over my cheeks, and I’m sure it reaches my eyes.
We dance for hours, not stopping until long after Cinderella’s curfew. By the time we pack up and leave, we’re both laughing, bursting with ideas that we can’t share fast enough with each other, and most definitely starving.
Stone unlocks the passenger door to the Jeep first and holds it open for me.
“Thank you.”
The move is so romantic, giddy champagne bubbles come up through my body as I slide into the seat. He closes the door after me.
“How about you come back to my place? I have more than enough delicious meatloaf with mashed cauliflower for two.”
“Luring me with your good cooking.”
“Is it going to work?”
“I’d end up staying for dessert.”
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