The connection between Gustave and Willow was intense. Sitting in the front row, I could feel their heat radiating off one and other. Their sparks flying. I don’t know if she saw me because her eyes were focused only on Gustave. Following his every move. In perfect sync. Entwining her body with his. Letting him lift her in the air and hold her as she extended her leg high, so high I didn’t think it was humanly possible. Red-hot jealousy heated my bones. I felt myself turning the color of her feathers.
Before leaping off the stage, Willow plucked a feather from her ensemble and handed it to Gustave. A thank you for sparing her life. I impatiently watched the next part of the ballet where Prince Ivan encountered a bevy of princesses, under the spell of an evil sorcerer, and fell in love with one of them. I only wanted to watch my princess dance. When would she return to the stage? My interest picked up when a horde of dancers dressed up as fantastical fairytale-like monsters flew onto the stage and attacked Prince Ivan. In my heart, I wished they’d really destroyed the bastard, torn him to shreds, but using his magical red feather, he summoned The Firebird. And then, Willow leaped back on stage and used her magical powers to put the monsters and the evil sorcerer to sleep. What followed was an incredible solo from Willow. I was in awe as she danced center stage on her toe shoes to the compelling music. Enraptured. So turned on by her shimmering beauty and grace, my erection strained against my pants. The audience so quiet you could hear a pin drop, I squirmed in my seat to relieve my throbbing cock. Again, I had to fight the urge to jump onto the stage and claim her as mine.
Then, jealousy reclaimed me as Gustave returned to the stage and they did their final pas de deux. The chemistry between them palpable. The fire, all-consuming. There was no doubt in my mind that they were lovers. As the forty-five minute, one-act ballet concluded with the audience rising to their feet with a loud standing ovation, my blood curdled. Every muscle in my body tensing, I forced myself to stand up and clap my hands.
As the standing audience applauded and shouted bravo over and over, the dancers took their bows. Next to last was Gustave for whom the cheers grew louder—I swear I wanted to throw something at him—and finally my Willow, stepping forward with a sweeping curtsey that had the audience going wild. Ushers stepped on the stage to bestow her with extravagant bouquets of red roses. One after another. Fuck. I wish I had one to give her. Gustave took Willow’s hand, and as they bowed together again, my heart sunk to the pit of my stomach. My cock sank, too, and ached as much as my heart.
I had just lost Willow Rosenthal to her first love. The ballet world owned her. She belonged to another. Gustave Fontaine.
THIRTY-SIX
Ryan
The dinner reception was taking place in the Promenade, the sprawling five-story mezzanine area of the theater overlooking the plaza’s lit up fountains. The space looked spectacular. With her impeccable taste, my mother had transformed it into an homage to Stravinsky’s ballet with candlelit tables draped in crimson velvet and adorned by centerpieces of tall vases holding exotic arrangements of long-stemmed red roses and gilded feathers. Classical music was piping into the hall.
My mother’s elegantly dressed guests, who all seemed to know each other, were buzzing about the ballet as they made their way to their assigned tables.
“Wasn’t she magnificent as The Firebird?” I overheard one matron gush.
“Absolutely divine,” replied her friend.
“And what about him? Wasn’t the chemistry between them so beyond?”
My blood was still simmering as I aimlessly wandered through the crowd. I had no idea where I was sitting or if I even had a seat.
Many of the ballet dancers, now out of their costumes, began to infiltrate the crowd. In the distance, I saw my mother, already holding a glass of champagne, mingling with both patrons and dancers. She was in her element. From the corner of my eye, I spotted my father already seated all by himself at their table in his wheelchair. He was nursing his favorite drink—an expensive Scotch—and he looked lonely. I actually felt sorry for him.
I wondered if there would be a seat for me at their table since I’d never RSVP’d to the event. And I wondered if that’s where Gustave Fontaine would be sitting. With his prima ballerina…Willow. My chest tightened as my eyes darted from corner to corner in search of them. A torrent of emotions whirled around inside me. The truth is I was unsure how I would react when I encountered them. Accolades might get buried in a burst of rage.
A vaguely familiar voice broke into my mental turmoil.
“Well, well, well. We meet again.”
I spun around. It was Mira, on crutches. My eyes traveled down her seductively clad lithe body, landing on her bandaged ankle.
“Hi,” I stammered. “Sorry about your foot.” Man, was I. If Mira hadn’t sprained her ankle, Willow would have never danced the role of The Firebird. And I wouldn’t be here feeling as fucked up as I did.
She scoffed at me. “It’ll heal, and when it does, your little girlfriend can say goodbye to her dreams. She’s not Gustave’s type. And never has been. She’s too short and fat. The talentless little shrew doesn’t have what it takes. She’s a fucking pigeon, not a firebird.”
Her scathing insults went in one ear and out the other as I spotted the twosome making their way into the crowd. A photographer was following them, snapping his camera. They were arm in arm, and Willow, now wearing a sexy, strapless red cocktail dress and spiky red heels, was beaming. It was like the chandelier above was shining only on her. On them. A hoard of guests mobbed them, but I was in no mood to fight my way through the crowd to congratulate her. And truthfully, congratulating her was the last thing I wanted to do. Gustave, in his black tie attire and holding his cane, looked smug as Willow dangled on his other arm like a dazzling jewel. While she lit up the room, he dominated it. The connective tissue in my body sparked like a broken power wire. I was burning up. Glowing green in this sea of red. I heard Mira snort as she hobbled away.
More aimless wandering. I wanted nothing more than to get the fuck out of here. Then another familiar voice, this time welcomed, sang in my ear.
“Yo, dude.”
I spun around. Duffy!
As he gave me a man pat on my back, relief flooded me. “Hey, man, what the hell are you doing here? I thought you were still on your honeymoon.”
“Came back last night. Covering the event for A&S. Danielle Sanders, our regular dance editor, came down with a bug.”
“Is Sam with you?”
“No. She’s home. She wasn’t feeling well.”
“Sorry about that.”
“I think it’s just jet lag. Maybe a touch of pregnancy fatigue.”
We chatted a bit about their honeymoon in Tahiti and then I changed the subject. “What did you think of the ballet?”
“Honestly? I don’t know shit about ballet, but I thought it was fan-fucking-tastic. Your girl was amazing.”
My heart stuttered. “I don’t think Willow’s my girl anymore.”
Duffy cocked his brow. “What are you talking about?”
“I think I’ve lost her to that asshole with a brick for a dick.”
Duffy followed my gaze over to Gustave and Willow, both still the center of attention.
“That pompous, arrogant pansy?”
“You know him?”
“I wanted to interview him for the magazine, but he wouldn’t give me the time of day. Said he would only talk to the New York Times or the New Yorker.”
Gustave was all about control. Control gave him power. I could see it here in this space. I could see it on the stage. I could see it at my parents’ cocktail party. And there was no doubt in my mind he exerted control in the bedroom. The thought of him banging Willow and making her his submissive sent a rush of nausea to my chest.
“They look good together,” I mumbled.
“Anyone would look good with Willow. She’s a fucking knockout.”
“She’s not even looking for me.”
“Maybe she do
esn’t know you’re here. Did you tell her you would be?”
Duffy made a good point. I’d never called or texted her to let her know I was attending the gala. Though it surprised me that she didn’t see me sitting in the front row, maybe, blinded by the lights, she couldn’t. Or…maybe she only had eyes for him.
And then as I glared at them, my eyes widened and my spine stiffened. “Fuck. He put his arm around her.”
Duffster gave me a jab. “What the fuck are you doing standing here talking to me?”
“What should I do?”
“It’s simple. Claim her.”
It never ceased to amaze me how Duffy had become a regular dispenser of love advice to the forlorn.
“Go, pal, and while you’re at it, give me something to write about.”
Without thinking twice, I hurried off in Gustave and Willow’s direction, taking giant steps and elbowing my way through the crowd.
Along the way, I bumped into my mother.
“Ryan, darling,” she said after draining her champagne, “I’ve been looking all over for you. We may have found a seat for you at Table 8.”
“No need, Mother. I won’t be staying.”
Confused, she stared at me with her glazed eyes. God knows how many glasses of champagne she’d consumed. Without saying another word, I continued on my warpath. The closer I got to Willow and Gustave, and the closer they got to each other, the more my rage and jealousy fueled me.
The crowd thickened with women trying to get a photo taken with the two stars or their programs signed. Occasionally, I muttered, “excuse me.”
Finally, when I was a few feet away from them, my eyes made contact with Willow’s. She gasped.
“Oh my God, Ryan, what are you doing here?”
With force, I grabbed her elbow and wrenched her away from Gustave. “Let’s get the fuck out of here. We need to talk.”
Gustave’s face contorted with rage. “Who the hell do you think you are? She’s with me.”
“Not any more, ballerina boy.” Then, on my next heated breath, I fisted my right hand and sent it straight to his nose. He groaned. Staggering on his feet, he cursed under his breath as he wiped away the blood that poured from his nostrils.
Without another word or looking back, I marched Willow out of the theater. I didn’t give a flying fuck if people were looking at us. Maybe I’d given Duffy something to write about.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Ryan
“Jesus, Ryan. What in God’s name did you do in there?” panted Willow as I hauled her out of the theater. A chill slapped me in the face as we stepped outside.
“Just what it looked like,” I growled, not slowing my pace.
“How could you do that?”
“He had it coming.”
“I need to go back.”
“You’re not going anywhere except with me.” I quickened my already frantic pace.
“I’m cold.”
“Put on my coat.” Shrugging it off, I handed it to her and paused for a second as she slipped it on. Then, clasping her hand, we were back on the move.
“Ryan, slow down! I can’t walk this fast. My feet hurt. Where are we going?”
“Home,” I barked. With my new bed, my place was her place. Or it was supposed to be. I didn’t stop.
“Why are you doing this to me?”
“Why? Give me a fucking break.” I was tinkering between sanity and madness, the latter winning.
“I can’t keep up. Please. I’m going to trip.” Stumbling, she missed a step.
I’d be lying if I didn’t say there was a part of me that wanted her to break a leg. And never dance again. But I cared too much about her.
She stumbled again and I had no choice but to stop and throw her over my shoulder. My rage got in the way of enjoying her in this position. My blood bubbling, I was on a mission.
“Jesus, Ryan. What the hell are you doing? Put me down!” She began to pound me with her fists. And kick.
Still raging, I gave her tight ass a firm whack. As she yelped, I squeezed the area below her seat tighter and marched her to my bike. I’d gotten a ticket for an expired meter, but I didn’t give a shit. I set her down, tempted like sin to bend her over the bike and fuck her hard from behind. But there were too many pedestrians passing by, and with my luck, some cop would be among them and throw me in the slammer. So, calling on all my willpower, I ordered her to mount it.
“Get on.”
She gave me a what-the-fuck look. I gave her a look back that shouted: don’t fuck with me.
“NOW!”
I watched as she silently spread her long, supple legs and straddled the back seat of the bike. It was a lucky thing the skirt of her cocktail dress was full, allowing her to part her legs. Little did she know she’d be parting them a lot wider shortly. Adrenaline pumping through my veins, I hopped onto the bike.
“Hold on,” I shouted as I revved it up. The bike rumbled and we zoomed off, her arms wrapped tightly around my waist. Weaving in and out of the Saturday night traffic, I recklessly headed downtown, dodging cabs and running red lights.
“Jesus, Ryan, you’re going to get us killed,” she shrieked.
I didn’t respond. Truthfully, I almost didn’t give a damn if we crashed and burned. That’s how mad I was.
Twenty death-defying minutes later we reached my loft where I rode the bike straight into the elevator. I hopped off and lifted Willow off the bike. Making a fist, I yanked at her bun, now a mess from the wind, until her wild mane of hair fell loose. She winced.
“You like pain, Willow?” I swear I didn’t recognize my own voice as I shoved her against the back wall and yanked off the coat. Gripping her shoulders, I bit down near her neck, marking her flesh, as she winced again. I then pinched her nipples as hard as I could, twirling them as they hardened and elongated.
“Oh, God,” she groaned, her bottom lip quivering.
“Tell me, do you like it hard?” With a quick, sharp movement, I hiked up her dress and slipped my hand through the leg opening of her G-string, then plunged my middle finger up her pussy. She let out a gasp. Sweet Jesus. She was as wet as fuck. Dripping for me. I gave it another forceful thrust, hitting her soft womb, and then slid it out, her slickness coating my digit. My dick stood at attention, stiffening against the fabric of my tux pants. Our erotic ballet had just begun. Our pas de deux.
“Extend your leg,” I commanded.
Wordlessly, she lifted her bare limber leg so high and straight I was able to grab her slender ankle, and hook her foot over my shoulder. With her six-inch heels on, it was within easy reach. Her skimpy black lace G-string with its soaked cotton crotch exposed, it was the most erotic sight I’d ever seen. Breathing hard with my arousal, I snapped the G-strings, one after the other, then tore off her panties. I scrunched the damp lace scrap in my hand before tossing it to the floor. Then, I grabbed her glistening pink pussy and squeezed it hard. Mine.
She groaned again, her breathing ragged with her arousal. Holding her pinned against the wall with one hand, I yanked down my fly, freeing my enormous throbbing cock.
“You like it big? I’ll show you big. You like it hard? I’ll give it to you hard.”
On my next fierce heartbeat, I curled my free hand around the wide base and put the crown to her entrance. With a grunt, I rammed my cock inside her, taking her to the hilt. She shrieked again.
“It’s my turn to dance with you, Firebird,” I grumbled. Clutching her cinched waist to balance her, I began to pummel her. Fuck her without mercy. Bang her against the wall, each thrust faster and more forceful. The depth of penetration in this erotic position was like nothing I’d ever known before. So fucking deep. So fucking amazing.
“Is this hard enough for you, Willow?” I ground out.
“Oh. My. God.” She whimpered, her neck arched back, her face exquisitely contorted.
“Is this how he fucks you?”
“No,” she cried out.
Every muscle in my body tensed.
Fury flooded my veins. Pulling her away from the wall, I slipped my hand under her dress and cupped her bare ass with my hands, allowing me to go deeper, as she balanced on one leg. She glommed on to my shoulders, the two of us face to face, our mouths almost touching, our breath almost one. Madly, I continued to fuck her. We were on fire, the fire spreading from the inside out. The incendiary heat consuming every cell, every molecule of my body. Melting me. Melting her.
“My little Firebird,” I breathed out, not slowing down, “I’m going to ruffle your feathers. Make you fall apart.”
We made our own music—a symphonic blend of pants, moans, and groans—and built to a crescendo. Her groans became whimpers; her whimpers became sobs; her sobs became shrieks.
“Oh my God, Ryan, I’m so close to coming.”
For a nano-second, I thought about pulling out of her, of making her beg, but the truth was I was so close to the edge I couldn’t. On my next powerful thrust, I sent her flying with a scream of my name as my own epic orgasm soared and chased hers.
Her body limp, I held my Firebird like she’d been shot down from the sky.
I wasn’t done. Our dirty dance had just begun.
“Turn around,” I ordered.
Submissively, she did as I asked.
“Bend over the bike.” Act 2. I was about to choreograph my fantasy.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Ryan
Act 2. Over. She hung over the seat of my bike like a limp ragdoll as I pulled out of her. Her red chiffon dress draped over her back while her mass of red hair hung loose everywhere.
Breathless from my epic orgasm, I stared at her gorgeous ass, all rosy pink from slapping it a few times and squeezing it. I’d never fucked a woman in the ass before, and I more than liked it. Spreading those exquisite round cheeks, lubricating her with my seed, and then hammering her. Fast and furious as she sobbed. She didn’t beg me to stop, so I kept at it, at once fingering her swollen clit—a hot wet reminder of our previous climax just minutes ago. It so fucking turned me on, bringing us each to another stratospheric orgasm.
Endless Love Page 17
