by Ella James
“Because that person that you knew was just…a fucking ghost! You were a little girl, a fucking lost girl, and I tried to help you. That was all it was.”
She glares at me, then sneers, “That’s not all.” Her eyes flash. “I saw the show you did that night, the one with the two girls? I was here with my sisters, and I saw you. You were in my room.” Her voice cracks, but she pushes on. “This whole place,” she waves her hand around, “it’s Mother’s house. Not this room but the outside area. You built a shrine to that place, and you told me today you call all your women Leah.” She shakes her head a little, laughing humorlessly. “I’m surprised that you are such a coward.”
I laugh, too. I can’t imagine that surprising anyone.
I hold my hands up, take a small step back. “Do what you want, Leah, but I’m leaving—now. I don’t want to talk to you. I’m sorry.” Now it’s my turn to teeter on the edge. I lock my jaw until my voice hardens. “This was a mistake. A…sick mistake. All mine. But I’ve got…shit to do. I’ve got another life now. And it’s true I want you, Leah, but it’s not going to work.”
Her eyes gleam. Tears start falling down her face. “I’m stupid,” she says.
I clench my jaw. I’m not going to contradict her. Not when I need her to leave.
She sniffs. “I shouldn’t be so upset, because I know you don’t mean what you’re saying. I can tell. So I’m sorry I’m crying. I’m not usually so…weak. But listen to me, hear me out on this: I’m not leaving until I talk to you. Like really talk, as you and me, without a mask.”
Visions of that night, pulling on the black hood, dance through my head; my stomach rolls.
I open my mouth, and my throat is so dry, I cough before I speak. “I don’t talk about my past, not now or ever. If that’s what you’re here for, you should leave.”
She starts to shake her head, and I can’t stand the look on her face. Peaceful, as if she knows she’ll reach me in the end. As if she knows I’ll fold and tell her everything she wants to know. It’s false hope, because I never will. I can’t. I can’t talk about my shit with anyone, especially not the person who unknowingly witnessed all of it. Each time when Mother…
I walk around her, moving fast, decisive. “I’m leaving,” I snap as I pass. “The Leah experiment is over.”
But it isn’t, because as I go into the living room and start pulling on my clothes, she’s right beside me.
“I’m going with you. C’mon, Luke. Is that your real name? Last night you said it was.” I did? “You don’t really think I’d go through all this just to leave now, do you?” She grabs my shoulder, and when I lock my eyes across the room, she grabs my chin. “Look at me.” She pulls my face down, so my gaze has nowhere to go except right into hers.
“You made me hurt you, and I did it because I care for you. I still do, and I think you care about me, too.”
I start to shake my head.
She laughs. “You told me last night, they’re all me. All your subs are Leah. That’s because you still care. I think maybe you even care a lot.” Her cheeks blush as she says it, and my cock actually stirs.
“Just for sex,” I murmur. It’s a lie, but I don’t give a shit.
She’s shaking her head. “I don’t care what you say right now. Something’s going on with you. You zoned out in there and there’s something wrong.”
“Just you,” I try lamely.
She grabs my hand. Traps it in her own. She twines her fingers through mine. “I’m not leaving until you talk to me. Until you tell me I’m the only one who feels this way. Who’s stuck in the past.” A single tear rolls down her cheek, and my stomach clenches. I want to hold her, to touch her, I want to tell her it’s okay. But that would be a lie.
My brain fires up again, slow and steady. I know what I’m going to say. I look down at our joined hands as my heart pounds.
“Okay, Leah. Come along.” I nod at the door and laugh, just a bitter huff of air. “I’m going to Mother’s house tonight.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Lucas
Fourteen Years Ago
I blink at the red lips moving in front of me. Then I tug my gaze away from her and look at the snowy peaks behind her.
Huh. We’re in the mountains.
Her hand closes around my forearm and she nods at the looming house behind her. “Come on out, dear boy.”
I look down at myself. At the gauze around my wrist. When they pushed me into the back of her SUV, someone was too rough. I can see a spot of blood, feel the tugging pain of fucked up stitches.
Oops.
“Come on. I’ll help you.” She holds her arms out for me, and I get out on my own, just so she doesn’t fucking touch me.
As I stand there, underneath the giant Christmas-looking trees, she moves to stand close to me.
“You’re my new son.” Her mouth quirks up. “I know all about your past. The lack of mother.”
Pain shoots through me, cracking the wall of ice that’s formed all around my chest. I want to glare at her, but I’m too tired. Every part of me, so tired.
“Poor boy.” She wraps an arm around my back. “The only mother who wanted you is dead now. That must really hurt.”
“I killed her,” I say woodenly.
She laughs a little. “You sound like a very naughty boy.” I take a step away from her, but she’s faster, and she clearly cares more.
She places her hand over the bandage on my wrist and tugs. “I think I’m going to call you Hansel, my dear boy. You can call me Mother Goose.”
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If you’re looking for something to read while you wait for Hansel 3, allow me to recommend this smutty new serial series from the amazing Melody Grace. I’ve read it, and it’s SO hot.
Discover the sensual, seductive new serial from NYT bestselling author Melody Grace.
DIRTY DANCING #1
FIRST POSITION
Raphael
A woman dances the same way she fucks.
Soft and self-conscious; lithe and graceful. Or wild. Passionate.
Unleashed.
It’s not just women either. If you want to know how a man will perform between the sheets, just take him to the nearest dance floor. You’ll learn everything you need to know. His stamina, his rhythm, the slow grind of his hips. Some people are born to it, others learn through years of careful study.
And dancers? We fuck best of all.
Our bodies are our instruments, and we use them in a symphony of pure pleasure. We know just how far to push you, the breathless pacing of true art. The rise and fall that will make you beg for mercy; the ache of satisfaction when we give it to you hard and strong.
Dancing is the ultimate in sensual pleasure, a timeless erotic ritual that needs no words.
I thought I knew what it was like to dance with a skilled partner, a woman who could match my every step. My drive.
My passion.
Then I met her.
Every step she takes conjures wild, dark fantasies in my mind. Every sway of those hips demands satisfaction. My hands on her body. Her lips parted in the sweet gasp of release. Easing those sweet thighs apart and sinking inside deep her, inch by ravenous inch.
Her innocence is intoxicating. My lust is fierce. Primal.
To watch her dance is to know the torment of true temptation.
She will be mine.
One.Annalise
I’m in a gorgeous square in the middle of Rome, staring at the most beautiful fountain I’ve ever seen, when it hits me: I think I’ve just made the biggest mistake of my life.
Around me, the rest of my dance company are happily snapping photos of the view,
but when I look into the water, all I see is the impossible task ahead of me. Two months to dance like I’ve never danced before. Two months to save my career before it’s over for good.
Maybe I should just go home.
No. I stop that thought dead. There’s no way I can ever go home.
It was a last-minute thing. I came home to find my mom dragging my suitcases out of storage, a determined look on her face. “Someone dropped out of the touring company,” she announced. “I pulled some strings and got you the spot. You leave for Rome tomorrow.”
Rome?
I stared at her. “I don’t understand.”
“I was dancing solos at your age,” Mom reminded me, as if I didn’t already know. “The Black Swan, Coppelia ... But you’re still in the corps de ballet,” she said, referring to the lowest rung of the company, the nameless, faceless group who dance behind the major stars, out of the spotlight.
There’s nothing wrong with that, it’s where all dancers start. I freaked out the day the letter arrived. I’d been accepted into the American Ballet Company, the most prestigious dance company in New York. All of my hard work, the years of training and sacrifice, had paid off. Maybe now, Mom would finally give me a break.
I could make her proud.
But the shimmer of membership quickly faded. Soon, just being one of the company wasn’t enough. It was about moving up, getting noticed, winning solos and larger roles. The training got harder, the competition more fierce. For the past year, I’d felt like I was running on a treadmill that only went faster: pushing myself harder, just to stay in the same place.
“I’m trying, Mom,” I protested. “You’ve seen how hard I’ve worked.”
“Not lately.” She gave me a cool look. “You’ve only been at the studio late four nights this week. When I was your age, I danced every night until my toes bled, and went straight back in the morning for more.”
I felt a flush of shame as she looked me up and down, adding, “And don’t think I haven’t noticed your weight creep up. We need to cut back again.”
I can’t escape my mother’s legacy. She was one of the best prima ballerinas of her era, and she still she has tons of fans—and a long list of people she trampled on her way to the top.
“But what does this mean about Rome?” I asked, confused.
“All the top dancers are staying here for the fall season,” Mom added scathingly. “This is the only way we can get you noticed. The other girls will be out partying, messing around. You can beat them. That is, unless you want to throw away everything we’ve worked for.”
For a moment, I thought about saying ‘no.’ The truth is, I wasn’t so certain I wanted this anymore—the work, the long hours, all the counting calories and missing out on normal teenage life. But I knew only one answer would do. “I’m ready,” I said quietly, and went to start packing.
But now, one week and a thousand miles later, I wish I’d been strong enough to tell the truth. Because here, away from my usual routine filling every hour of every day, I can’t help but hear the whispers of doubt I’ve fought so hard to keep at bay.
What if you’re just not good enough?
“Make a wish.”
A voice interrupts my thoughts and I snap my head up. An old Italian woman is hawking souvenirs around the crowd, carrying racks of keychains and cheap jewelry.
I stare at her, confused. She nods at the fountain, already sparkling with coins that shine through the clear waters. “You make a wish in the Trevi Fountain, it always comes true.”
I dig a Euro coin from my pocket.
“Wish for happiness and love.” The old woman winks at me, then moves off into the crowd.
I pause, turning the coin over in my hand. Wishing for happiness ... I give a wry smile. The woman has clearly never met a ballerina. We could never waste a wish on that, not with a lifetime of hard sacrifice behind us, training for hours every day, dancing until our toes bleed and our limbs ache.
We don’t dance to be happy. We dance because we have to. That instinct driving us on.
I flip the coin into the air, watching as the sunlight reflects on metal: a dazzling beam in the bright afternoon.
Please let me win the solo. Please let me be good enough. Please let me make her proud.
The coin slips into the water with a ripple, lost in the bed of other coins, other hopeful wishes.
I just pray that mine comes true.
**
Annalise and Raphael’s seductive dance begins in FIRST POSITION, out now!
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