by Sabrina York
He was aware of the rumble of the crowd as he strutted through the cloud and the rollicking cheers as he appeared. And damn. He loved this. He loved having a room full of women screaming his name and hollering for him to take it off.
At first, it had been awkward and uncomfortable, but he’d soon come to love it. For a man with one leg, who grappled with his self-image, who struggled to feel like a man with parts missing, it was a glorious validation to have women go wild over him.
They didn’t know the truth, and there was no need for them to know that the reason he had that extra bounce was a state-of-the-art full-energy-storing graphite foot and a dynamic shock absorber at the knee. He could use a super-flexible flange instead, but it didn’t fit in his shoe, and he didn’t want to dance barefoot.
As he twirled and tossed his hat into the crowd, he remembered that at some point, he would need to tell Porsche about his leg and he was annoyed that it had occurred to him just then. He thrust the thought away and continued the last bit of his set. He wasn’t ready to tell her.
He wasn’t sure how he would proceed with a seduction without removing his pants, but he would have to figure it out. It was foolish of him to be so afraid of what she would think, but he figured he had good reason.
He didn’t know how he would handle it if she ended things.
In retrospect, he should have told her before he’d gotten in so deep, but hiding his leg had become a comfortable pattern, one he now regretted.
It was a part of who he was. It seemed inauthentic to keep it a secret.
The therapists had told him the day would come when he’d fully accept his loss, when he’d be comfortable exposing who he truly was to the world, but he hadn’t believed them. That he was ready to—almost ready to—was a surprise.
But he wasn’t ready yet.
Not just yet.
He finished with a flourish and the crowd went wild, stomping and cheering and calling for an encore. It was a mercy that the stage lights were in his eyes and he couldn’t see any of them as he bowed and ran offstage, offering Andy a high-five as he waited in the wings.
He didn’t want to see any of those women. He had eyes for only one. And she stood there, just offstage with a fresh bottle of water and a towel. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her.
“Eww,” she murmured through the kiss. “You’re damp.”
“You like it,” he said, deliberately wiping his chest against her shirt. This had the unfortunate effect of making her T-shirt damp as well, in the nipple area, in fact, which stalled his attention.
God, he wanted to yank up her shirt and feast on her. “Come on,” he said. “I need to change.” He led her to his dressing room and closed the door. Before he did anything, he drank down the water because he was parched.
“You were amazing,” she said, pulling out his next costume, a ridiculous concoction of leather straps with metal epaulettes. “Better than rehearsal.”
He shot her a look. “You saw rehearsal?”
She grinned, “A couple days ago. I snuck in.”
“You naughty girl.”
Her smirk was adorable. “What is this supposed to be, anyway?” she asked, holding up the outfit.
He shrugged. “No idea. Some alien storm trooper or something?”
“Do alien storm troopers seriously wear shirts made out of leather straps?”
“Apparently. When Claire dresses them.”
“Yeah, I can see the draw. She does have a thing for leather.”
“Fortunately, we have some time to get it on before my next set. It’s a little confusing.” And it was. It was a relief that he didn’t need to change his pants, though they were damp and uncomfortable. Normally, he would strip down and dry off between sets, but he couldn’t. Not with her here. Hopefully he wouldn’t get a rash. Ah, the sacrifices he made for his art.
Between the two of them, they figured out the insane top—or at least got it looking somewhat alien-storm-trooperish. She stepped back and surveyed him, then nodded. “Looks good.”
“Does it?” He preened. The leather crisscrossed tightly over his pecs and abs, creating a contrast with his tanned skin.
“But you need more oil.” Was that a glint in her eye?
He held out his arms and said, “Do me.”
She laughed but complied, taking the time to cover every bare inch of his torso and back with the slick goo. Normally, he hated the oil, but with her applying it, it became an erotic game.
And, of course, his cock responded, rising up as though to plead for some as well. What a pity there was no time for that.
Maybe later.
She waited backstage as he finished his second set. The storm trooper seemed to make the audience lose their collective minds. He had no idea why, but then, he’d never really understood the female psyche.
After that performance he and Porsche went back to his dressing room and dug into the box dinners that had been delivered. He ate lightly, because he had one more set to do, and though it was a group number, he didn’t want to be weighed down. He figured he’d eat more after the show, but it was a nice break and he loved having Porsche there with him.
She took a bite of her chicken wrap and grunted. “You really do love dancing, don’t you?” she asked as she caught a dribble of mayo.
His attention tracked her tongue. “What?”
“You can see it in your face. You love it.”
“I do. It’s . . . exciting. But . . .”
“But what?”
“The women. It’s a little . . .”
“What?”
“Weird. It’s weird having them scream and hoot like that.”
She chuckled. “You’re a handsome man. You should be used to it by now.”
His laugh was self-deprecating. “Not really.”
“Women don’t come on to you?”
“Not really.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
Damn. Was she . . . flirting with him?
Did she need to?
“Well,” she said, “I find you fascinating.”
“Do you?”
“I want to explore every inch of you.”
Well crap.
First of all, his cock responded with an enthusiastic boiiing. Second of all, every inch? That would definitely require some kind of disclosure. His pulse fizzled at that. “I, ah, should probably finish my performance first,” he suggested.
“Work, work, work,” she sighed. “All you think about is work.”
He had to laugh at her expression. It was too adorable not to.
“Only one more performance,” he said. “Then I’m all yours.”
Chapter Eighteen
His final number was a group performance with a military theme. He’d been assigned the sailor boy costume, which came with all the accouterments, including the flamboyant neckerchief, jaunty hat, and rip-away tunic. Of all the outfits, it was by far the stupidest. Andy got the Navy SEAL, which looked awesome, but when Brandon had complained, Andy had reminded him that he got to be the storm trooper, which hardly mollified him.
Still, he didn’t have to rip off his pants and all the other guys did, so there was that.
Fortunately, Porsche had to run to the restroom during the break, so he quickly changed out of the leather. By the time she returned, he was completely dressed.
She pouted. “I thought I was supposed to help.”
“You can do this.” He tossed her the neckerchief.
“I’d rather do this.” She sidled up to him and cupped his package. Thank God she was gentle. Still, he went hard in an instant.
“Do you have any idea how difficult it is to dance with a log between your legs?”
She sniffed. “It’s hardly a log.”
“It feels like a log.”
; “That’s not my fault.”
“You are a greedy wench.” He pulled her in for a kiss but, as these things seemed to go with them, as soon as things got really interesting, someone knocked on the door.
“Two minutes. Time to line up.”
Porsche sighed. “Sometimes I hate your job.”
“Gotta shake that moneymaker,” he responded with a grin. “It will be over soon.”
“And then you’re mine,” she reminded him.
It was tough leaving her with that look in her eye, but the set was only five minutes. He was pretty sure he would survive.
Trouble was, the women kept bellowing for encores, so they had at least five minutes of bowing and running back offstage, and then turning around to do it all over again. At least the audience had enjoyed the show.
When it was finally over, he trouped back to the dressing room behind the other guys, who were all laughing and chatting and making jokes about the starlight hayride. He cut to the left when the herd continued on, slipped into his dressing room, and closed the door.
She was on him in a heartbeat, in his arms and kissing him before he could catch his breath. While he was an extraordinarily virile man, at least in his own imagination, he did need a minute, so he eased her back and croaked, “Water.”
“Oh,” she gasped, and she grabbed a bottle and handed it to him.
He dropped into his chair and drank it down in less than a minute.
“That is quite a workout,” she said.
He nodded. It was. He loved it. The feel of the blood pumping in his veins, the energy of the crowd. A delicious vengeance on those who had told him he would probably never walk again. A cosmic So there.
It tasted good.
Porsche peeped at him from beneath her lashes. “One has to wonder if you have anything left for me.”
Oh, holy God. The way she said it, in that sexy, pouty voice? It made his ardor lift its bulbous head and roar. “I got plenty left for you, baby,” he growled.
Her grin was dazzling. She stepped closer, standing over him, straddling his thighs. His mind spun as he stared at her. “I, ah, forgot. I’m supposed to be on a hayride.”
“Really?” She flicked her hair, a silky seductive fall. “How about another kind of ride?”
His heart lurched up into his throat. “What?”
She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a foil packet, which she waggled saucily.
He gaped.
“What? Haven’t you ever seen one before? Tut-tut, Brandon. It’s a condom.”
He knew damn well what it was. Just the sight of it made his cock surge with hungry anticipation. “Where did you get it?”
“I stole it from Ford’s dresser. Not that he’ll notice. He has a million of them.” She made a face.
So did he. “Do you mind not mentioning your brother at a moment like this?”
She laughed merrily. Far too merrily. Did she realize she was killing him? “I thought it was a delicious irony. Considering.”
“Right.” Considering Ford would gut him if he knew they were here, together, alone. If he knew what they were contemplating.
But hell, it wasn’t just contemplation, was it? It had gone far beyond that.
He took hold of her hips and pulled her onto his lap, so the crux of her thighs pressed hard against him. He rubbed against her like a cat.
She giggled.
He frowned. “What’s so funny?” There was nothing funny here. Nothing.
“This is like a reverse lap dance. You know. Me on top of you and you dancing—”
She had little chance to finish her thought, whatever ridiculous bit of banter it had been, because he’d had enough. Or, as it happened, he hadn’t. And he needed it.
Desperately.
With a growl, he stood, lifting her with him, and pushed her up against the wall, holding her there with the force of his body. His passion was high, his blood in a fevered state. “Is this what you want?” he asked in a harsh voice.
“Yeah,” she said. “Yeah.”
He nipped at her neck and she made a noise, something a little too loud. They didn’t know who might still be wandering around backstage, if any one, but it was a good idea to keep it down. He silenced her with a kiss, but then ruined the effect by lifting her higher and wrapping her legs around his waist. In his frenzy, he knocked over a couple of batons that were leaned against the cabinet and they fell in a clatter. They both froze and listened, to see if there was an outcry.
Thank God. Nothing.
He turned his attention back to her and rubbed his cock over her jeans, dry humping her in a frenzy. He kissed her in a frenzy too, consuming her mouth, biting her tender lobes, savaging her neck as she writhed against him.
He wanted in. He wanted in so bad, but he didn’t want to stop long enough for her to pull down her jeans.
But when she started pleading, when tears dampened her cheeks he stilled and took a breath. “I want to fuck you,” he said.
“Do it.” A hiss.
“Your jeans.” All he could manage.
As he undid his zipper, she wiggled free and yanked her pants off, all the way, thank God, and then she hopped back into his arms, wrapping herself around his waist.
“Your panties too,” he complained.
“Dammit,” she muttered and pulled away to remove those as well. And now, this time, when she curled her body around him, he felt her heat, the wetness of her arousal and he went a little dizzy.
This was what he wanted. What he needed.
Yes.
“Don’t forget the condom,” she huffed, and he glared at her. Damn it all anyway. He found the stupid thing, opened the packet, and rolled it on with shaking fingers. “I swear to God, if anyone knocks on the door they are dead meat,” he muttered.
She laughed, but it really wasn’t funny. Not at all.
This was dead-serious business.
When he was ready, he turned back to her and pulled her closer. They stared at each other for a moment, and then she made a little hop into his arms. His head nearly exploded when she brushed against his cock. The one up top too.
Fortunately, he was able to contain himself.
He shuddered as he felt between them, grasped his length, and set his cock to her opening. “Now,” he said. “Now you’re going to get it.”
She grabbed his hair and yanked and snarled, “Just do it.”
He pushed in. His entire body seized with the pleasure of it. She was tight and sweet and incredibly ready. Her internal muscles resisted him, but only for one agonizing second, and then, she opened like a flower. In the eternal irony, it was a bliss he did not want to escape, but his body demanded more. He hissed as he pulled out and she closed on him, to keep him in. That was delightful too.
But he wasn’t a patient man to begin with and he’d waited too fucking long.
He reversed course. Plunged in. Plunged deep. She cried out and raked him with her nails, scratching at his flesh and ripping at his shirt and madly trying, as he did, to get closer and closer still.
But at some point, there was no closer to be had. At some point, they were one.
They found their rhythm and moved together, each inciting the other higher and higher. It was like a symphony between them, his foray and her response. The deep rhythmic boom of the timpani and the responding frenetic trill of the piccolo.
He shifted position and took her from another angle and another and then, rife with impatience, he let her down, turned her around and leaned her over the table.
He sank his fingers into the lush flesh of her hips and held her still as he pounded in and out of her velvet sheath.
Her madness rose. Her head thrashed. With each thrust she pushed back and panted an accompanying, “Yes, yes, yes.”
He knew when she came. He kn
ew, because her body closed on him in an impossible, hellish fist. But as hellish as it was, he wanted more. Craved it.
As she came around him, he launched into an even more manic tempo. His heart pounded in his temples; his cock jerked with every beat.
More. The thought circled in his head. More. More. More.
And . . .
Yes.
His orgasm descended, blanketing him in a cloud of bliss that filled every one of his senses, danced on every nerve. “Ah. Porsche,” he cried as he thrust again and again, but with lesser heat. It was only that last gasp. That last desperate volley to make this continue on for as long as it could.
He collapsed over her, but made sure not to crush her with his weight, and he kissed her forehead. He loved the little fluff of hair there, dampened with her sweat, infused with her scent.
“Oh, Porsche.”
Gently he pulled out and disposed of the condom, then he yanked her into his arms dropped into a chair because his knees wouldn’t hold him, and held her.
“We should have found a bed,” he said after a long moment.
He felt her smile against his chest. “Beds are overrated.”
“Next time,” he said, and she nodded.
And he was filled with an unaccountable joy that she had agreed. There would indeed be a next time.
Because he wasn’t even close to being finished with her.
He never would be.
He knew it was time to tell her about his leg. It was only right, now that they were heading down this path.
He would do it tonight.
And if God was in a good mood, the truth wouldn’t ruin everything.
Chapter Nineteen
Porsche was just getting dressed when a knock came at the door. She shot a look at Brandon, and they both laughed.
Thank God whoever it was hadn’t knocked five minutes ago. That would have been awkward.
“Brandon? Are you in there?” Cade called.
“Um, yeah. Come on in.”
Naturally, when Cade stepped in and saw her, his eyes widened. And then, for some reason, his nose twitched. Porsche decided to ignore that reason—which was probably the musky smell of sex on the air—and she flashed him a brilliant smile designed to make men forget what they’d been thinking about. She called it her These-aren’t-the-droids-you-are-looking-for smile.
