Last Dance

by Jeffe Kennedy

  “So beautiful.” His kiss became open mouthed, and his tongue licked me there.

  I moaned as the sensation arced straight to my clit and my nipples throbbed against the tight lace of my bra. His hands spanned my waist, holding me still as he lavished attention on that one small circle of my skin. Part of me no one had ever noticed or touched before except in passing, that I barely knew I possessed, much less that it wired so directly to sex. I wriggled in his grasp and he held me tighter, kissing and licking, scraping with his teeth so my breath came ragged, and he murmured his approval in a voice blurring with the same lust that threatened to swamp me.

  I kept expecting his hands to sneak up or sink lower, for him to grab my tits or fondle my ass. Despite the fact that we weren’t completely screened from view, I felt wild enough, desperate enough to have his hands on me that I would have let him. But no. Not Mr. Mystery. Instead he finally leaned his forehead against me and said the ride was almost over. He helped me sit down again, while my brain spun and my body sang with the crying need for more, more, more. When the door opened and he held up a hand to help me step down, I took the opportunity to scan his face. Not so much glittering gold in the brown now, his eyes had gone darker, but still gleamed with lazy, lambent sensuality.

  “Worth the wait and the trouble?” I sounded throaty, but better that than breathless.

  He drew me over to the low wall that borders the pier and leaned against it, shifting his hands to my hips again and giving me a slow smile. “And more.” Pulling me closer, he eased me into a long, sense-numbing kiss. I braced myself on his shoulders, so as not to entirely succumb to rubbing against him like a cat. Even so, someone yelled at us to get a room. Which made me laugh.

  “My place or yours?” I asked him, managing a flirty smile for the cliché.

  “Not yet.”

  “Really?” Torn between annoyance and bemusement, I raked my nails lightly over his shirt. “How long are we going to play this game of yours?”

  “As long as it takes,” he replied. Mr. Cryptic. “Besides,” he interrupted when I opened my mouth to point that out, “you owe me a penalty still.”

  I sighed with all the melodrama I could muster, which is a significant amount. In all truth, he had me hot enough to be intensely curious about what he might ask for. “Fine. What?”

  “Come with me.” He set me back a step, straightened and took my hand. “If you don’t want to do it, just say so and I’ll pick something less…” He slid me a glance full of consideration.

  “Punishing?” I suggested. “Painful? Life-threatening?”

  He laughed, a deep, hearty sound I hadn’t heard before. He laughed like he kissed, all in, fully, and with enthusiasm. I pondered what Rule category that would fit into and realized I hadn’t thought about the Rules or points in a while. Probably a bad sign, but I would think about that later.

  We arrived at the carousel. He glanced at it significantly and raised his eyebrows. “Exhibitionistic.”

  “Well, well,” I murmured, the arousal thrumming to a higher level. What did he have in mind? Judging by his track record so far, probably something that hadn’t occurred to me.

  “You like to be watched, don’t you?” He studied me in his serious way, eyes slumberous with erotic promise.

  “It goes with the territory.” I cocked my hip and gave him a glossy smile. “Performers are shallow and vain that way.”

  “You’d like me to think that.” He tipped his head to the carousel. “Game?”

  “I’m not taking my clothes off in public.” Those photos can haunt you forever.

  “Nothing like that. And you can always say no.”

  “Okay.” No one had ever accused me of being shy. “Try me.”

  He bought tickets and I didn’t object, since this appeared to be his party, and it gave me a moment to steady my nerves. You like to be watched, don’t you? Mr. Mystery certainly had a way of getting, and keeping, my full attention. I followed along as he took his time picking out the perfect steed. The carousel doesn’t date back to the 20s, but they did a damn fine job of recreating it to look that way. The horses prance around in three rings, some fixed, some that go up and down, painted in jewel tones, pastels, like zebras, tigers, and even a winged dragon.

  Mr. Mystery—so odd to still not know even his first name or anything else about him—picked a horse for me in the center ring, one that would go up and down and helped me onto it, settling my heeled feet into the stirrups. He stood at my knee, hand around my ankle once again. He indicated a fixed horse in the outer ring and slightly behind me. “I’ll be on that one. I want to watch you ride.” Putting a hand on the small of my back again, his favorite spot, he urged my hips forward until my pubic bone pressed against the center pole that speared the horse’s saddle. I gasped at the shock, the zing as my swollen, sensitive clit rubbed against the seam of my jeans from the pressure. He lowered his voice. “Like this.”

  “Seriously?” I glanced around at the tourists, the happy families.

  “You don’t have to, if it’s too much.” He gave me that slow smile, the glint of challenge. “But you get bonus points if you make yourself come.”

  Points? The surprise of that and his outrageous suggestion kept me from replying. By the time I recovered my wits, he’d mounted his own steed and the carousel slowly glided into motion. I looked over my shoulder at him. “What do bonus points get me?”

  He considered the question soberly, tapping his fingers on his knee. My horse rose up, and pitched down, pressing harder against my crotch. Climaxing would be dead easy if I had the guts to let it happen. “A favor of your choosing,” he offered.

  I tossed my hair. “You’re on.”

  I don’t know if I could’ve done it if my inhibitions weren’t already lowered by being so damn aroused. It helped, too, that almost no one rode the carousel, and none of them close by, as my mystery man had chosen carefully. Apparently the old-fashioned ride paled in comparison to the Wave Swinger and other more exciting attractions. I wrapped my arms around the pole and closed my eyes, letting the sensation sweep me over, feeling his eyes on me. Yeah, being watched worked for me on a profound level.

  The cheerful music played and kids screamed in the distance, but all that faded behind the building tension of orgasm as the horse’s mechanical gallop pushed and pulled me along the pole.

  Tightening my thighs, I ducked my face, letting the long fall of my hair hide my expression, and gave into the release, blowing out my breath with the long wave of it, my palms sliding slickly on the spiral grooves of the polished brass. Sitting back from the pole, I rode more circumspectly, letting the rhythm of the carousel horse bleed off the aftershocks. When I felt a bit more composed, I looked back at my watcher.

  His face set in rigid lines of desire and—oh yes, admiration, my catnip—his eyes practically burned me with their intensity. Moving slowly, he touched a finger to his temple and gave me a insouciant little salute.

  ~ 6 ~

  “I cannot believe you did that,” Marcia huffed, aghast and—despite herself—enthralled. She’d waited for me, along with Amy, sprawled on the living room couch watching some horrible reality show. Julie had the Sunday shift at the restaurant and Ice was at the anatomy lab, as it was her night with the cadaver. One of the many reasons I had not gone into medicine.

  Now that I’d come off the high, I kind of couldn’t believe I done it either, but it would spoil the story—not to mention my image—to say so. I settled for lounging sideways in the wing-back armchair looking smugly satisfied. Though I was truly anything but, as I still hadn’t gotten laid. One tiny orgasm hadn’t been anywhere near enough. The sexual craving buzzed in the background of my brain with a low-level insistence. It hadn’t abated past that in the last hour and showed no indication it would. Worse, I began to suspect only my mystery man would be able to free me of it, since he’d created it in the first place. Dammit.

  “Ice is going to be so disappointed she wasn’t here to hear t
his firsthand,” Amy said, not shocked at all.

  I was frankly relieved not to have to face Ice’s reaction—whether she pulled out vicarious glee or the conservative censure that sometimes bubbled up from the depths of her psyche. Ice knew me too well. Amy might believe this was simply one more of my sexual adventures, and Marcia might chalk it up to my fancy-free ways, but Ice… yeah, she knew better.

  “So why are you home and not out with Mr. Mystery?” Amy asked the ten-billion-dollar question.

  I tried to look casual. “He said he had to go.”

  “But you’re seeing him again?” Marcia persisted.

  Yes, because he owes me a favor, to be redeemed at my convenience. That was how he’d phrased it, right before he gave me a leisurely and thorough kiss that about blew the top of my head off and left me shaking with need, then paid a cabbie to take me home. Just like that. “Probably,” I answered breezily. “I have a busy week though.”

  Marcia picked up a throw pillow and screamed into it. Amy and I exchanged looks, then she patted Marcia on the foot. “Honey, you really need to get a life. Or obsess over someone else. Charley is a bad, bad role model.”

  “More like a great cautionary tale,” I agreed and kicked off my heels. God, I hoped that wouldn’t prove to be the case.

  “Tell me you exchanged phone numbers.” Marcia’s demand, muffled by the pillow, still sounded a little too strident. Amy’s hopeful expression crashed into exasperation when I shook my head at her.

  Really, I couldn’t blame her. I wouldn’t keep doing this after I got my favor. And the favor would be sex. Sex and done. There. “Nope,” I said, trying to make it sound like I wanted it that way.

  Marcia dropped the pillow and scowled blackly enough to make me feel a little chagrined.

  “What?” I scowled back. “He didn’t ask. You know it’s against the Rules for me to give it unless he asks for it.”

  “You’re allowed to ask for his. You know that.”

  I didn’t reply to that. One of my personal unwritten corollaries to the Rules—never be so desperate that you ask for his number. No begging for me. I had no intention of being a laughingstock again.

  “Whose turn is it to place the ad then?” Marcia sounded resigned to it. “Yours again or his this time?”

  “None of your business.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You’ll tell us that you humped a carousel horse while he watched, but not this.”

  “Because Amy is totally right that you’re unhealthily obsessed. I’m not saying.”

  With a pout, she muttered, “I’ll find it anyway.”

  “Just…don’t.” It came out too sharply and, to my shock, I felt abruptly on the edge of something. Not tears. Maybe rage. Goddammit, I needed to get laid. Amy and Marcia both gaped at me and for once I had no idea what expression showed on my face. I spun in the chair and snatched up my discarded heels. “I’m going to bed.”

  “It’s seven o’clock,” Amy pointed out in a mild tone.

  “Bite me.”

  * * *

  I checked the missed connections—how the mighty had fucking crashed and burned—several times a day for the next three days with no sign of Mr. Mystery. Nobody, not even Marcia, said a word to me about it, which meant they knew how I felt. The more time passed, the more pissed off I got. He was playing me, expecting me to come crawling to him. Again.

  Ice had been totally wrong. I hadn’t taken control and set terms on the last encounter. I’d made the fatal mistake of showing weakness. Not again.

  On top of it all, I hadn’t heard about the callback, which was a bad sign. Which I really hated. They string you along for days, or even months, like with some guys I could mention. At least in theater, though rejection is part of the gig. I didn’t need it in the rest of my life, too.

  Though I promised myself I wouldn’t, I checked the missed connections Thursday morning, and nearly screamed to find nothing there. Fine. Fuck him and his favor. I didn’t need this aggravation. I had a full day, including an evening show. Though I wasn’t hungry, I made myself a smoothie, knowing I’d need the energy.

  And wouldn’t you know it? The blender went crazy, the lid flying off like a shotput hurled by some manic Russian, and green gloop sprayed the kitchen, including me. For an endless moment, I wrestled with the incredulous rage that the universe had to add this too, then lost my shit entirely and hurled the fucking thing to the gloop-covered linoleum.

  “Wow. Hulk smash blender.” Julie commented from behind me.

  I whirled on her. “Don’t start with me.”

  “Because I won’t like you when you’re angry?” She dropped the smile at my expression, whatever the hell it was. “Hey, it’s no big deal. You didn’t even break it.”

  I stomped my foot and screeched, like the tantrum-having toddler I was, perilously close to tears. Always a bad sign. I never cried, unless a scene called for it. Real tears meant a devastating loss of control. I knuckled my temple, forcing them back.

  “Okaaayyy. Let Auntie Julie help you.” She pulled over a barstool and made me sit, dampened a kitchen towel and handed it to me, then began wiping up the floor.

  “You don’t have to do that,” I sniffled, feeling beyond pathetic.

  “I know. That’s what makes me so nice.” She shook her brown curls, perfectly imitating Galinda from one of my favorite musicals and eliciting a watery giggle from me. “You need real food, not this crap. I’m cooking you an actual breakfast.”

  “It’s energizing, and I have rehearsal in two hours.”

  “Plenty of time.” She got out a waffle iron, a couple of bananas and an assortment of her witchy chef supplies. I never recognized half of what she cooked with. “And, honey—energy you’ve got in spades. Now, what has you so worked up—is it the guy?”

  “No.” I sounded sullen, even to myself. “My life is a nightmare.”

  “Oh well, if that’s all.” She shrugged, tossing garlic or something to sizzle in butter, then laying banana slices in it. Maybe garlic was wrong. She turned back to wiping off the backsplash. “I can see that, though. It must suck to be gorgeous, smart, enormously talented, and have men panting after you. Maybe we should have a GoFundMe for your pity party.”

  I scrubbed at the green gloop in my hair—I’d just washed it, too—and glared at her. “I thought you were being nice to me.”

  “I am. I’m cooking for you. This is how I show my love. The rest is all come to Jesus.”

  “Oh goody. Because all this day needed was a lecture.”

  “Right?” Not in the least bothered, she continued to cook, filling the air with scents that set my stomach rumbling in a way the green gloop never did, and wiping the surfaces clean with enviable multitasking efficiency. “So, here’s the deal. It’s obviously driving you crazy, the way this guy is playing the missed connections game, but you have to admit, not only has he rocked your world, you pretty much deserve the payback.”

  “That’s just mean.”

  She wagged a wooden spoon at me. “Shut up and listen. You and Ice came up with these Rules—and I’m not saying they’re not useful. God knows I abide by them for a reason—but having them has made dating into a game for you. All this guy is doing is meeting you on your own field.”

  Bonus points if you make yourself come. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that you go through men like I go through olive oil. None of them last and you’re always in a rush to move on to the new flavor. Any guy who paid attention, who figured out anything about you, would have nailed that pretty damn quick. You’ve been interested in this Mr. Mystery for, what, three weeks? Isn’t that some kind of record for you?”

  “I’m not that bad.” Though she might be right. It wasn’t like I kept track.

  “Yes you are. You’re a total diva and we love you for it, but not everyone wants to be used and discarded by the goddess.” A sharp flash caught my attention as she lit the pan on fire.

  “Ah, Jules—I think it’s burning
.”

  “Hush. Don’t interfere with the master.”

  She slid a plate in front of me, a waffle with bananas in some kind of golden syrup she’d created out of thin air. “Eat. Answer me this—if he’d gone to bed with you right off, would you even be thinking about him still or would you have moved on?”

  “I don’t know, it would depend on his technique and how many points he got for…never mind.” Instead of admitting she might be on to something, I took a bite. “Oh my god, Jules—this is outrageously delicious.”

  “Good. Okay, here’s my final point. Either you’re in or you’re out. You want to see more of him or you don’t. If you’re interested, contact him and see if you can’t date him like a normal person. Have dinner. Give him your fucking phone number already and get his. Introduce him to your friends.”

  “I can’t give him my number because—”

  “Isn’t it worth it to do some dishes instead of being full of pride and misery?”

  “If I wasn’t having a food orgasm, I’d hurt you.”

  She grinned. “A good cook knows how to play to her audience.”

  * * *

  I swallowed that considerable pride—which went down easier with that carb-y, sweet, and—even better—somewhat alcoholic something warming my gut, and posted one more ad.

  “Need a favor from a friend. Reply with place and time. Not the Bean. Not the Pier. –CB”

  I input my email and set that to the only reply method possible.

  There. That should keep Marcia off my trail. I might get creepsters with that one, but Mr. Mystery ought to be able to come up with a way to let me know it was him. Promising myself I wouldn’t look again until after my, I packed my bag for the long day ahead.

  ~ 7 ~

  Once I got over myself, I had to admit that Julie was right, I had an amazingly good life. Not many people got to eke out a living—marginal as it was thus far—doing what they loved to do. I might bitch about my schedule, but I lost myself in the joy of it. Time flew the way it only does when you’re immersed in your passion.