by Nikki Sloane
Was he going to kiss me? I reached up, grasped his chin, and pulled him close, but his mouth veered to the side at the last moment. “Your lipstick,” he murmured against my cheek, “looks better on you than me.”
I grinned and closed my eyes. His lips against the tender spot on my neck lit me up like fireworks.
A sigh seeped from me as he coursed a hand between my legs, rubbing me through the lined shorts I was wearing. He was skipping over the other foreplay we usually did first and went right for the kill.
And when he eased his fingertips beneath the top of my shorts, I nearly broke apart. He was taking too long. I needed him to touch me now, and jammed my hand into the waistband, working the stretchy material down.
He gazed at me in surprise. He rose onto his knees and peered over the top of the rolling cart to make sure we were still alone, and when he confirmed we were, his gaze returned to me. It sucked all the air clean from my body. Grant’s expression dripped with lust. It was wicked. Carnal. He grabbed the shorts I was still struggling out of and jerked them down until I had one leg free.
“You’re not wearing underwear.” He said it like it was a secret he wasn’t supposed to know.
“I don’t need panty lines, thank you. Is this a problem?” I teased.
His face was intensely serious. He knelt between my legs, planted his palms on the carpet on either side of my hips, and dropped a line of kisses down my trembling stomach. His voice rasped, thick with desire. “Just that I’m going to break a rule.”
It came from him as a challenge. A threat. If I didn’t want him to do it, I had to speak up now. Instead, I spread my legs wider and moved my hips, bringing his lips closer to where I wanted them. The tip of his tongue traced a line dangerously close to my clit.
“We’ve waited long enough for this, don’t you think?” His voice was sinful and echoed the wicked one inside my head.
“Yes,” I whispered. It was all the permission he needed.
He let out a tight, sharp breath, and leaned in.
The first stroke of his tongue made me flinch, the pleasure was that acute. I made a fist and bit down on my index finger to keep myself from moaning too loudly. He swirled his tongue against my clit, and I lifted my head to look down and watch.
He shifted on his knees, finding a better position, and pressed one of his wide hands against my stomach, keeping me pinned to the carpet and under his command. Heat spiraled and grew with each flutter he delivered. I moved as best I could, riding his face as he fucked me right back. It was insane and fantastic.
It felt like we’d waited a lifetime for this, and once one rule was broken, I was ready to throw them all aside. “I want your fingers inside me,” I begged.
“Do you?” He sucked and teased, extracting whimpers from my lips.
“Please,” I amended.
He granted my wish, plunging one long finger deep inside. The sensation caused me to buck and groan. That finger, working in tandem with his tongue, was going to annihilate me.
I bit down so hard on my knuckle, I left bite marks, but it didn’t matter. I needed this. Release, or him, or all of it. I was crazy, out of my mind desperate.
“Tonight, I’m going to put my cock,” he eased a second finger inside, “right here.”
An earthquake shook my body.
Bliss ruptured in my core, shooting sparks across every nerve ending, heightened by the chemicals my emotions had created. I seized, contracting in waves, but he kept licking, and I had to shove his head away before I screamed.
Gasps poured from me. The fire of the orgasm was fierce and consuming. It burned until there was nothing left but me and him.
“Holy Mother of God,” I whispered, struggling to catch my breath. “That was amazing.”
Rather than seem pleased, his eyes were intense and determined, and he asked it like I needed to be scolded. “Do you think I’m done? I’ve wanted this pussy for so long, you’re not going to rush me.”
I stared at him, stunned. The more intense the session, the more I brought out the alpha in him. It kind of made sense. His music brought out the best in me when I danced.
He nuzzled in between my thighs, and as soon as I got over the hypersensitivity, I started the climb once more. Sweat dotted my forehead and temples. I was going to have to redo my makeup, but . . . worth it. So fucking worth it.
My second orgasm took longer to achieve, but Grant never showed signs of fatigue. He was quite at home, one wide hand sprawled on the inside of my thigh, and the other pumping his fingers in and out of me. When I came, it wasn’t as strong as the first, but it lasted twice as long, and when it was over, I felt relaxed.
I was myself again.
I closed my eyes and put my hand on my forehead. The absence of the panic made me feel like I could do anything, even walk out on that big stage in front of a panel of judges and cameras, and perform my fucking heart out. And he’d be with me no matter what.
When I sat up, it forced him back on his knees. I reached for his shirt, lifting it out of the way so I could get at his belt, but he grabbed my hands. “Wait.” He looked strange. Like he was full of guilt. “We broke two already.”
“I don’t care about their rules right now.”
He looked pained. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I do. I wanted to make a good impression on them.” Grant settled back on his haunches and raked a hand through his hair, putting it back in place. “It’s better this way. Next time, no restrictions, no time limits, no worrying if someone’s going to catch us and throw us out.”
He made excellent points.
I was still naked from the waist down. I grabbed my shorts and hurried to pull them back on.
“Okay,” I said reluctantly. “But what about you?” He’d given me two amazing releases and hadn’t gotten any in return.
His smile was dry. “Don’t worry about me. Do you feel better?”
“Much.”
“Good.” He helped me to my feet, kissing my neck as I stood. “Then I do too.”
-28-
Tara
Grant held his bow in one hand and the cello in the other while I grasped the folding chair, fidgeting nervously behind the curtain in the wings of the theatre.
Our plan had been approved by Tina, the production head, yet the staff fought us at every step along the way. They argued Grant hadn’t signed a release to be filmed, like this was a problem that couldn’t be easily solved. Then they told him we couldn’t bring on the folding chair, saying “props” weren’t allowed. It was another bullshit excuse to try to get me to toe the line.
Earlier this afternoon, they’d let a girl go up with a ribbon swivel stick. It had been one of those ‘fail’ routines, a total train wreck, which I always thought were mean spirited. But the idea the chair Grant would sit on while he played was considered a prop was ridiculous, and they couldn’t arbitrarily make up rules if they weren’t going to follow them, anyway.
As Grant had suspected, filming was behind schedule. They were supposed to begin solos after lunch, but we’d heard setup had taken longer than anticipated, and they’d started late. Nearly every contestant ran over their allotted time, but it wasn’t their fault.
“The judges are awfully chatty today,” the assistant standing beside me remarked. She was the one who’d give us the green light on when we could go on.
From where we stood behind the curtain, we could see the right side of the house of the theatre, including half the panel of judges. A platform had been erected in the orchestra pit so the judges were level with the front of the stage, and I watched Hugh Freeman’s discerning gaze zero in on the feet of the tap dancer who was currently performing.
There were four judges. Hugh, Rita, and Shonda were the core three—the ones at every audition and show. The fourth was a guest judge I couldn’t see or recognize by voice. He didn’t speak much either, so that was no help.
Beyond them, I could see lots of people in the seats,
more in the balconies. It was friends of soloists, or people who hadn’t made the next round and wanted to watch.
“I don’t want to freak you out,” Grant whispered, “but the stage is fucking huge.” Had he forgotten I’d already performed on it once? He looked clammy. “It looks even bigger down here.”
The response was automatic from me. “That’s what she said.”
My juvenile comment earned me half a smile from him.
I cast my gaze across the theatre and was flooded with feelings. This was where the Chicago Ballet Company performed. Fate worked in funny ways, right?
If I’d been accepted into the CBC, I would have danced on this stage, but I would have always shared it with at least a dozen other members of the corps. Today, I would be the principal dancer. I wouldn’t have to blend. I wouldn’t be staged near the back or side.
For two minutes, and hopefully not less, I would be seen.
The dancer concluded his solo, and his taps clicked as he walked to the microphone at the front.
“Okay,” the assistant whispered to us, “stand by. When the interview is over, you two are up.”
I pressed my feet into the toe box of my shoes and rolled up into relevé, a superstitious tick I always did before performing en pointe. If the shank was going to break or a ribbon come untucked, now was the time to find that out.
Grant’s clamminess graduated into a full-on sweat. I grabbed a tissue from a dispenser nearby and dabbed at his forehead. “Hey,” I said, hushed and only for him. “We’ve got this. I’d say you’re going to be amazing, but . . . you already are.”
There was applause as the tap dancer left the stage, drowning out whatever Grant wanted to say. But his eyes spoke loudly. They said he believed me.
“You’re on,” the assistant announced. “Good luck!”
Oh, Jesus. I grabbed the metal folding chair, my palms slippery with nervous sweat, and glanced at Grant. He looked surprising calm and ready, and gestured with his bow, wordlessly saying, “After you.”
I compartmentalized everything into tasks, so I could tackle them one at a time.
First, I strode to the center of the stage and placed the “prop” chair where I wanted Grant to sit. He took his seat, and our gazes connected for a second, just long enough to smile and mouth, “Good luck.”
Second, I walked to my mark, front and center, and took in the view. The house was full other than the front seats, where the judges’ panel on the platform obstructed the view. My gaze moved to Hugh, who wore his signature black-framed glasses and a colorful pocket square peeked out of his suit coat pocket. Then I drifted on to Rita, the ballroom dance specialist. She had on a bright red dress, heavy eye makeup, and a huge smile. She was considerably older than I was, but she still had it going on.
Shonda was a Tony and Emmy winning choreographer. Direct, but fair, she was the one I was most excited to hear feedback from. She wore her hair in long braids, which was a change from last season, and it looked beautiful on her.
The final judge—
Oh, no.
I swallowed hard, and my knees threatened to knock together as a tremble roared up my legs.
“Hello, darling,” Hugh said in his posh British accent. “What’s your name?”
I channeled all my fear into a bright smile. “Tara Vannett.”
“May I ask what’s happening here?” He pointed to Grant.
“He’ll be playing my audition music.”
Rita straightened in her seat and flashed a saucy smile. “Oh, getting some live music, are we?”
She gazed longingly at Grant. Rita was a dirty old woman, always making provocative comments, and I adored that about her. Her question seemed to be rhetorical, and everyone turned their attention back to Hugh, the showrunner. This was his call, and they wanted to know if he was going to allow it.
He didn’t seem to mind. “All right, dear. Where are you from, and what style will you be performing for us today?”
“I’m from Chicago, and I’ll be dancing contemporary ballet.”
“Oh?” He glanced down the panel of judges. “Then you probably know Michael Carlisle, the director of the Chicago Ballet Company.”
Emotion swirled inside me, but I hoped none of it showed. I kept my tone upbeat and light. “Yes, I’ve auditioned for him a few times.”
There was no point not addressing it. Rita picked up what this meant right away. “Ruh roh,” she said under her breath.
Hugh was just as quick, and I could see the wheels turning in his head. I’d auditioned several times and not been accepted into the CBC, so he was skeptical about how good I could be.
My heart sank. It looked like the interview was over, and I’d already been written off.
“Well, let’s get to it, then, shall we?” He gave a cursory, hollow smile. “Off you go.”
I nodded and hurried to my place behind Grant. Could he feel the tremors in my hands as I placed them on his shoulders? Was his heart a war drum in his chest like mine? I rode the heavy rise and fall of his deep breath, and with the connection to him, something in me snapped.
Maybe the judges had already written me off, but fuck that. I didn’t come here to get rejected. I came to win the whole goddamn thing, and the fact that Michael Carlisle was a judge? It was icing on the cake. I’d show him how wrong he’d been about me.
“And . . . cue music,” Hugh announced into his microphone.
The piano intro drifted from the speakers, and Grant’s shoulder tensed, the muscle in his arm flexing to draw his bow across the strings. He was a flurry of activity, and I took off, matching his intensity.
I’d incorporated him into the routine, often mimicking the long, elastic slide of his bow, or the short bursts of staccato notes. I danced with a fire inside me, letting it pour from my limbs. It lengthened my lines, helped me reach new height on my leaps, and made my turns tight and perfectly balanced.
I prayed at least a fraction of the passion I felt showed through in my expression. The lyrics weren’t heard in this version, but I spoke them with my body. Today, I’d live like tomorrow didn’t exist, and danced as if it were my last time—
Because it could be.
There was a tricky combo I’d put in. A roll to the floor where I gathered momentum and then burst up into a huge split leap, and as I exploded off the floor, I heard cheers from the audience. It only made me soar higher on my next jump.
Grant’s cello wasn’t on a mic, but the music was so powerful it filled the house and demanded the audience’s attention. They watched as I traveled the stage, whirling around to give the impression of swinging on a chandelier.
The lights were hot and blinding, and I couldn’t see beyond the judges, who I only got flashes of, anyway. My choreography made use of the large stage. A bead of sweat rolled down the back of my neck, but as we approached the two-minute mark, my energy grew. It had to be the same for Grant. I could feel the excitement leaping off his strings. It vibrated in my bones like a struck tuning fork.
I’d saved a complicated series of pirouettes for the end, hoping by that point the judges had seen enough to green light me to New York and I wouldn’t have to perform them, but now I was glad. I planted my standing leg, prepared, and then lifted into the rotation.
It was the greatest set of pirouettes I’d ever executed. I whipped my head around while spotting my turns, and as I opened out into à la seconde, my working leg was perfectly parallel to the floor.
Turns with an extended leg were much harder, but my center of balance never wavered. The crowd’s appreciative murmur swelled into a roar as I continued to turn.
And turn.
And turn.
I finished into fourth position, and only rested for a single breath before moving on to the final sequence. My toes beat so softly against the floor, I wanted it to look like I was floating across the stage. My thighs and calves burned from the exertion, but I pushed through. And when I arrived besi
de Grant, I softened and slid down to my knees, lowering the intensity of my movements.
The song was winding down, and his cello went from bright to mournful in one measure. I’d given everything to the routine, and it had taken all of it. Blood rushed so loudly in my ears, I could hardly hear anything else while I finished.
I ended the routine with my body wrapped around Grant’s leg, clinging to him for life as his bow slid across the final, long note.
On the balcony, people were on their feet. There were whistles and shouts punctuating the steady sound of applause, and I stared at the audience, awestruck. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing and looked to Grant for confirmation. His stunned expression had to mirror mine.
The judges had remained in their seats, but Hugh waved a hand, signaling for me to come up to the front. As a staffer brought out the microphone stand and placed it before the panel, Grant stood and offered a hand, helping me up onto my shaky legs. I wasn’t just tired, I was overwhelmed. I wanted to remember this moment for the rest of my life, standing on stage, my hand in his, as the audience cheered for us.
But I couldn’t stay there forever. Grant nudged me forward, a brilliant smile spread wide on his face.
“Holy Toledo,” Rita said before Hugh could get a word in. She used a piece of paper to fan herself. “You were on fire. I mean—Lordy, that was something.”
“It was something.” Hugh echoed her. “And that something was . . . ‘wow.’ It was just fabulous to watch.”
I hadn’t caught my breath, and how the hell was I going to now? I gasped it out, pressing a hand to my chest, like I could somehow stop it from heaving. “Thank you.”
“Stunning,” Rita said, nodding. “It was thrilling, and I enjoyed the hell out of it. Everything from that insane first jump you did, to this hot cello guy you got to put your hands all over. I mean, I can’t blame you.”
The crowd giggled and gave me another moment to breathe.
Shonda leaned toward her microphone. “Who choreographed the piece?”
Her expression was unreadable. It wasn’t clear if she liked it or hated it. I swallowed hard. “I did.”
