The Thorndyke Trilogy 2: Dancing at Midnight

by Lynne Connolly

  “It’s telepathy.”

  If she hadn’t seen it for herself, she wouldn’t have believed it.

  “Try it for yourself.”

  “Fuck off.” Kristen clapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes widening in horror. Had she said that aloud?

  “No, nobody heard that but me. Come with me, and I’ll explain it to you.”

  Dare she? Did this mean he could read her mind? He showed no sign of that. Perhaps he was a ventriloquist after all and he was just fucking with her mind. But after that dance, oh yes, she’d humor him. She had a job. In the act no doubt she’d show a little tit, maybe some ass, but that was fine. She didn’t have too much to show. Not that Nathan had seemed to care during that magical night they’d fucked each other senseless.

  After accepting the applause graciously, Nathan led her away, saying they had a lot to discuss. The heat of her anger melded with that other heat, the one they’d generated during the dance, until finally, she wanted him. She’d never wanted a man with anger before, let that drive her, but although the feeling was new to her, she wanted it now. Flame seared through her, leaving nothing but desire.

  Kristen could hardly wait until they’d climbed the stairs and he took her into a small, plain, unoccupied office. He closed the door, locked it, and leaned against the desk, drawing her with him. “God, I’ve missed you!”

  “In two days?”

  “Yes. We’re not done yet, Kristen. Surely you know that.”

  Although it hurt, she dragged herself away and stood between him and the door. He was fast, but with that advantage, she stood at least a chance of getting out before he reached her. “You didn’t tell me you were a dancer.”

  He shrugged. “How do you think I got into this business?”

  “I didn’t know you were in the business. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Why didn’t you know?”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it. What could she say? The truth would probably be best, however stupid it made her sound. “I didn’t want to ruin the magic.” She folded her arms, expecting him to laugh.

  He didn’t, but his smile warmed her right to the soles of her feet. “I can buy that.”

  Shocked, she stared at him.

  “I already know you didn’t appear at my place on purpose. My main worry was that you’d discovered my hideaway. Believe it or not, people do the stupidest things to get my attention.”

  “Because you’re manager of Maskerade?” That made sense. Dancers were desperate for jobs.

  “Because I’m the owner of the Maskerade group.”

  Her heart nearly stopped. Shit. If anything, she’d have assumed Dalton owned the clubs. He owned a famous hotel chain, so why not? Nathan? His house, his clubs?

  “Close your mouth, darling. I can think of more interesting things to do with it. I’m a dancer who got lucky. Invested in a rundown place and got an idea that worked.”

  “It’s a clever idea.” The revival of ballroom dancing worked to the success of the clubs.

  “Burlesque with a twist.” His smile made her want to climb all over him.

  She gave a humph. “So what happened out there was burlesque?”

  He folded his arms across his chest. “Yes. My kind of burlesque. It’s not all corsets and stockings. It’s a way of thinking, a parody of correct and proper. It twists expectations. That might not be the dictionary definition, but it’s mine.”

  He smiled and held out his hands, but she made no move to take them. Shrugging, he dropped his arms, straightened, and stepped toward her. Still she didn’t move. Then his hands were on her upper arms, and she felt she was coming home when she slid her arms around his waist and drew closer to him.

  But she needed more from him. “What about the telepathy shit? You’re a ventriloquist, aren’t you?”

  He shook his head. “Some people have the gift of speaking mind-to-mind. It’s as natural as any other sense, but we block it off normally. You have to learn to use it or have someone who has the knack, like me, open it for you. I want it open. I want to communicate with you and have you respond. I’ve always thought that dancers with a special connection with each other are using it, whether they know it or not.”

  A suspicion crept into her mind. “Can you read my thoughts?”

  “Not if you don’t want me to. I can only communicate with you, like talking, and I can sense your moods. But anyone who can read body language can do that. Dancers even more. We’re taught to express ourselves with our bodies. If you want, we can go deeper. It makes sex incredible.” His voice lowered, and a husky note entered it. She’d heard that sound before. She knew what happened now.

  And she didn’t see any reason why it shouldn’t.

  “Now,” he said. “I want you now.” He brought his mouth down on hers, and she opened for him, feeling him press hard and hot against her body. She responded, thrusting her tongue against his, connecting in the way she needed most right now. Body to body, mouth to mouth.

  That warmth in her mind returned like a constant hum, just enough for her to be aware of it. Startled, because now she knew what caused it, she pulled away. “Is that you? Did you seduce me with your mind?” How stupid did that sound? But she needed to know the answer.

  He caressed her, running his hand from her breast to her hip. “No, sweetheart. I just want you, and it happens. Maybe you can pick up the way I feel, but I’ve never forced anything on you.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I—”

  “Yes, I can make myself agreeable to a woman. But don’t all men, when they want sex? I project desire and want, but don’t I do it when my eyes dilate or when I hold you and kiss you? Aren’t they just as potent?” He watched her face carefully. “Or isn’t that enough?”

  Yes. Oh, fuck yes. Curling her arm around his neck, she gave him his answer by dragging him back and claiming another kiss. He kissed so well. When he palmed the back of her head to hold her in place, she whimpered. Lifting her legs, she curved them around his back and tugged him close, sighing when his body came in close contact with hers.

  He groaned in response and set to work stripping her. He knew his way around practice clothes. He had the skirt off in seconds, knew it was velcroed and not zippered, without bothering to check for fastenings, pulled her shoulder straps down and bared her breasts. It felt like weeks since he’d touched them, and when he covered one with his hot, large hand, the world slipped into its rightful place. Just like before, what was happening now was all that mattered.

  He was wearing black again, but today it was a T-shirt with the club’s logo on the front and a pair of woolen trousers. Still in their kiss, she tried to lift the T-shirt to get at his naked chest. With a frustrated groan, he pulled away and dealt with it himself, dragging off the shirt and then pulling his wallet from the back pocket of his pants before ridding himself of them too.

  Tight boxers worked on him. His tattoo gleamed at her, welcoming her back.

  She reached out, touched it, but drew her hand back hastily. “Wow, hot!”

  Taking her hand, he guided it to his chest. “Nothing compared to this.” Wildness suffused the golden glints of his eyes. He grabbed the condom from his wallet and had his cock sheathed in a few seconds after an abortive first attempt.

  Men could usually get the protection on in one stroke, but he seemed to have a problem. “I want you too much,” he muttered, and she warmed to the idea that she’d put him off his stride.

  Naked felt so much better. She sank into his arms and shuffled to the edge of the desk, where he seated her. Their heights were even this way. He was probably six inches taller than she was, and he was around six-two.

  And an extra eight inches, which he was busy guiding to her cunt. Her chin went back and her eyes almost rolled up in her head when he filled her.

  He drove deep, sank in to his balls, and then paused. “There you are,” he said, smiling. “I should keep you here. Can you dance like this?”

  Hooking her legs aroun
d his waist, she gripped him with her thighs until he gasped. “Try me.”

  She’d simulated the act of fucking in a highly stylized way before but never done it for real, and when he whirled her around, his muscles tightening only slightly, she groaned. “Oh, wow.”

  “Yeah.” His voice was gravelly, earthier. He moved, undulating in a practiced dance move. Why the fuck hadn’t she noticed he was a dancer before? Because she’d been too fixated on getting laid. And other shit was going on too—the snow, the audition, her anxiety about getting a job. Plus, he was bulkier than the average dancer, his muscles more pronounced. But he’d said he retired, so that—Oh, fuck.

  He swiveled his hips in a samba sway, and thrill tingled right up to her head, curving her spine.

  With a growl of satisfaction, he used one hand to hold her and the other to slide between their bodies. But he didn’t tweak her clit like she’d thought. Instead, he spread her labia wide, exposing the little nub of flesh, and then hauled her close so it rubbed against his groin. Putting his arm back around her waist, he jerked her hard against his body. Their gazes met, his gold and burning. Then he released her and pulled her in again.

  “Oh!” A shot of electricity arced up her spine, flickering in her mind like that globe-thing from school. The plasma globe. That was it. Now she remembered it. She imagined it inside her, a central glowing heart with crackling connections to the places he touched.

  He thrust again and again before twirling her and depositing her bottom back against the desk. “Keep sitting up.”

  The position gave him more freedom of movement, but he kept her close, her waist plastered against his while he fucked her deep and fast. Contacting her clit and her sweet spot, driving her completely fucking insane.

  When he put a hand on her shoulder, she arched back in a perfect dancer’s bow. The action thrust her breasts out and up. He wasn’t slow to accept the invitation, and he bent his head, sucking and pulling, added to those points of contact until the blue lightning flickered through her body, no part unaffected, turning her into a tingling mass of desire.

  “Ah, fuck, yes!”

  She was surprised to discover she could say anything at all. He gritted his teeth, drove repeatedly into her until he had turned her into a quivering mess. When she came, her body tightened and then released over and over until she couldn’t think any more, only gave wild cries, uncaring of who might be listening. He came with a roar, his cock pulsing as he released his essence in hard, uneven spurts.

  He lifted her with a gentleness that amazed her, carried her around to the other side of the desk, and sat in the big, squashy leather chair before he disengaged them and dealt with the condom. Then he held her close. Their breaths melded, hard and panting.

  He rested his chin on her head. “So that’s settled, then?”

  She laughed. “What?”

  “You’ll take the job?”

  “Yes.” Dancing with him every night, a regular job. She didn’t even know what the salary was, but she’d take it.

  “I want to make a few things clear. You need to choose. Me as a dance partner or as a bed partner. Not both.”

  She nearly hit his jaw when she jerked up her head to stare at him. “Huh?”

  He cupped her jaw and smiled gently. “I can’t do both. Not won’t—can’t. I can’t expose myself that much. But listen before you say no, and I can see it forming on your lips.” He kissed her. “Gorgeous lips. I’d retired from dancing anyhow when the clubs took off. I have a partner in mind for you. He’s very good, the best I have, and he’s a professional. He’s a ballroom champion, and he lost his partner to pregnancy a few months back.” His smile broadened. “See what I mean about not mixing personal and public? Steve McNamara. He’s my height, more or less my build, so we’ll work well together.”

  She frowned. What was he getting at?

  “I’ll choreograph and rehearse you. So I’m not backing out. I’ll be there. Just not your dance partner.”

  Although it went against the grain, she understood. How could she not? Lovers sometimes made incredible dance partners, but invariably private bled into public. If she had a professional partner, then she could keep the analytical side of her working. Maybe he felt the same. “I see. That makes sense.”

  “If you choose not to share your bed with me, then we can be partners.” He grunted deep in his throat, a sound of protest. “It will kill me for sure. We have a chemistry on the dance floor, and I’ll come out of retirement just for you. But make your decision now.”

  It wasn’t difficult. Instead of using words, she kissed him, made it sensuous, plunged her tongue into his mouth. They lost several minutes during which he responded, and when they separated, they were breathing heavily again.

  “Good answer.” He touched her chin. “Where do you live?”

  She told him. She’d have to put her address in Chicago on the employee records in any case.

  “It’s a nice area but an hour’s commute each way,” he pointed out. “We’re going to be working hard in the next few days. I want to present this dance with the new show as fast as I can.”

  “I can handle it.”

  “I know you can.” After giving her his lopsided grin, he dropped a quick kiss on her mouth. “But we wouldn’t have time to fuck, and man, I want more of that.”

  He had her there. How could she deny that she wanted it too, when it was the plain truth? “I own a couple of smaller apartments in the complex where I live. I keep them for visitors, but I’d like you to take one.”

  “I can’t afford that place.”

  “When you’re earning, you will, and you start earning the minute you agree to work at the club. It’s a small apartment, not like mine.” He stopped her protest with another kiss. “I pay pretty well. You can’t accept tips, so I make it up with the salary. And I want the best. The club depends on quality.”

  She fixed on one point. “I can’t take tips?”

  “Clubs in Chicago can only make money from liquor or girls. Not both. It’s the licensing laws.”

  No shoving dollars in G-strings? She couldn’t express how relieved that made her.

  She already knew where he lived in the city, and it was a lot closer than her place. Now that she didn’t have a car, she had to rely on public transport. The L was good; it ran even in this shitty weather, but he was right. It would probably take longer than an hour to get into the city every day.

  She could hardly start pirouetting on the L. She could just imagine the faces of the commuters if she started doing that. If she wanted this job, it seemed she didn’t have much choice.

  She liked that idea, staying in his building. Probably liked it a bit too much. She’d have her independence. But this wouldn’t be something she’d just drift into. The job had a definite purpose, and she couldn’t deny she’d need his help to make the transition between ballet and burlesque.

  Instead of looking on this as a comedown, as so many of her colleagues might, Kristen made herself a promise. She’d be the best fucking burlesque dancer she could be. The best in the world. Then she’d laugh at the ballet companies who’d turned her down time after time. The best revenge would be to prove them wrong. And from his actions today, she couldn’t ask for a better tutor than the man whose lap she was sitting in right now.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll do it.”

  * * * *

  Once they’d showered and dressed, they went downstairs, Nathan’s hand touching the small of her back in an old-fashioned polite gesture Kristen loved. Matt was still there with the people he’d selected. The couple and two of the women had made it. The blonde sat to one side, disconsolately. If he’d failed her, why was she still here?

  Matt answered that before Nathan asked him. “I told her you were looking for bar staff. Diana said she was interested.”

  Diana perked up. “I can apply at the next auditions, maybe. And I can learn.”

  Nathan nodded. “I like that attitude. Sure. You can take lesso
ns in mixing the cocktails. Apart from that, the job is pretty straightforward.”

  Diana’s smile didn’t waver, but Kristen wondered if she was dying a little bit inside. She’d been in that position, stuck with bar work instead of dancing. To her credit, the curvy blonde kept her chin up and thanked Nathan.

  A long, low whistle drew her attention. Dalton approached them, his casual pants and button-down shirt doing nothing to hide his muscular form, though he didn’t have Nathan’s fluidity. Without Nathan, she’d consider him sexy, but Nathan took all the sexy and gave her more.

  On the other hand, Diana sat up, making her breasts thrust forward against her skimpy top. Dalton noticed, letting his gaze linger over her, and he smiled.

  He took Kristen’s hand and kissed it. “Nice to see you again.” He glanced at Nathan. “Nice to see you unbending a little too.”

  “More than that,” said Nathan. “She’s coming to work here.”

  “Wow, the great prima ballerina coming to Maskerade? Something—or someone—must have persuaded you really well.” He winked.

  Her heart plummeted. She’d almost forgotten that stupid lie, but of course it would come back to bite her in the butt.

  Even more when Matt said, “Wait.” He got up from his chair and strode across to their little group. “Did you say prima ballerina?”

  “Well, not quite,” she said, for all the good that did. What was said couldn’t be unsaid, and Matt stared at her avidly, his gray eyes gleaming in his narrow face.

  “Principal dancer, then,” Dalton allowed. Still too high for her. He grinned at Matt. “In Europe. She’s come home. I thought you were at the Chicago Ballet this morning?”

  What could she do but go along with her pretense? Denying it would lose her so much face she wouldn’t keep the job. Did Nathan believe her? The pieces fell into place.

  Of course he did. That was why he offered to dance with her, why he wanted her. He’d already told her that he couldn’t read what she didn’t want him to in her mind, and she’d buried her lie fucking deep.

  “Oh,” she said airily, “it wasn’t what I wanted, the Chicago Ballet. They have the classics planned—Sleeping Beauty, Giselle, you know—and I’ve done them enough. I wanted a new challenge.”