by Joey W. Hill
He nodded, shrugged free of it. She took it from him, turning away but staying within touching distance. He realized she was draping it over something behind her, probably a chair.
“I’ll let you keep the gun. In case you feel the need to defend yourself.”
He pressed his lips together at that, merely removing the other stocking the way he had the first. Only this time, with her back to him, he had the pleasure of letting his thumbs slide down the tender crevice of her knee. She held on to the chair to balance as he pulled it free.
He held both delicate pieces in one hand as he rose. Her buttocks brushed the front of his slacks. With his greater height, he let the stockings slide along her shoulder, the side of her throat, then down her back. As she stayed still, her body vibrating with sensation he could feel, he trailed the fabric down her arm, to her wrist. When he began to wind it around that slim target, she tensed.
“No,” she said. But she didn’t move away. Her hand balled into a fist beneath his hold, the wrist flexing. Though he couldn’t see her face, he felt that tension that had emanated so strongly from her twice. In the hospital and then again at the club.
Someone had hurt this woman. Hurt her badly, violently. And though it was ironic that it called up related feelings inside him, a fierce desire to visit on her attacker threefold whatever had been done to her, he had the self-awareness, and the understanding of her state of mind, to yoke it back so it couldn’t interfere with this moment. Any more than it was already doing.
“No,” she said again, her fingers flexing against the light hold of the nylon. “That’s not part of this.”
The same thing she’d said about the picture in the hallway. Her boundaries were bold black marks in the sand. Despite himself, a twinge of resentment caught him. It was all right to blindfold and impede his senses, but not to restrain her? But then he remembered Thor. As tough a Mistress as she appeared to be, she didn’t bind him. He’d never seen her bind anyone, except in a symbolic way. A light wrap or easy-to-break cuffs. The illusion of restraint. Of course, she was so good at this, that was really all she needed, wasn’t it?
When he did another wrap around her wrist, her tension increased proportionately. “Max,” she said more sharply.
He pressed closer, slid his arm around her waist, fingers drifting to the waistband of her panties. He took his palm in a slow, easy glide over her mound, resting his fingers on her upper thigh. “I don’t believe I’m braver than you are, Mistress.”
The honorific came easily to his lips. She stilled as he spoke it, her focus now on something else. He shifted, slid his hand down her other arm in a reassurance before drawing it behind her. She quivered harder as he put the two wrists together with a simple twist tie. It wasn’t tight at all. She could get out of it in a blink, far quicker and more easily than he could free himself of the mask.
“It’s just for a moment. I want to imagine you tied like this, even if I can’t see you. Your shoulders drawn back, your breasts thrust out. The flush on your cheeks, your hair falling over your body, dressed only in your panties. And I want to do this.”
Kneeling behind her, he put his hands on her hips. He bent over those tied hands and put his lips on them, kissing her palms and curling fingers. He cruised over her ass, tongue teasing the seam between her cheeks through the silk as she shuddered. He went lower, explored that sweet crevice where the buttocks and thighs met, revealed by the high rise of the undergarment. When he nuzzled the sensitive intersection point, his tongue pressing briefly against the perineum, she let out a soft noise. Then he drew back, his thumb caressing the crotch of her panties before he hooked his fingers in the sides and took the last garment to her ankles.
He kissed the backs of her knees, her upper thighs, moving around her so he was on his knees before her. He kept his hands on her hips and lifted his face, nostrils flaring and all senses tuned for her reaction. Her focus was fully on him, he could feel the heat of it, and she was tight as a drum beneath his hands, as if she’d turned all that quivering energy inward.
When he straightened, standing on his knees instead of resting on his heels, he caught her loose hair in his hands, twisted it. “Kiss me, Mistress,” he murmured. “I need your mouth.”
The heat and wetness of it was enough to make him groan with pleasure, especially when she let out a matching, more feminine sound. Reaching behind her, he untwisted the nylons from her hands and then banded his arms around her hips as she cupped his face, holding on to him tightly as the kiss deepened. He broke it to move down to her breasts, finding her through the curtain of hair to cup those pretty curves and tease them with the heat of his mouth. She brought him to a halt by pressing against his shoulders and stepping back, her breath ragged.
“My clothes, Max. Dress me.”
Her tone was determined, even if it wasn’t entirely steady. She’d reclaimed the reins. He got back on his feet, with reluctance and some physical difficulty. She noticed the latter, her clever, firm fingers cupping him through his slacks. At her purring sound of approval, he growled. A warning that he could only be pushed so far, especially since, on his knees, he’d clearly scented how hot and willing her body was at this point.
When he turned back to the bed, he almost made the mistake of going for the leotard first. Realizing his error just as he had his hand on the garment, he switched to the tights instead.
“I’m in the chair, Max.”
He knew she’d shifted away from him, had heard the give of the cushion, the faint creak of the wood, and followed the sound, touching her knee, the arm of the chair. He knelt at her feet, working one leg of the tights up into a folded circle in his hand. As he did it, he was hit by an unexpected vision, and the flood of emotions that accompanied it.
Child-sized black patent shoes, the strap buckle a tiny pewter flower. You put the tights on first, silly. Amanda teasing him, an imperious four-year-old then. She’d asked if she could wear her pink dress to church.
He closed his eyes beneath the blindfold and clutched the tights hard enough he was glad they weren’t as thin as the nylons. Else he’d rip right through them. “Can you speak to me while I do this part?”
He needed to hear a woman’s voice to remind him where he was, what he was doing. Janet’s voice especially. He knew how to manage this kind of memory invasion, but this one was a little stronger than he usually handled in mixed company. He didn’t want his shit to fuck things up.
Given how attentive she’d been when she was putting the blindfold on him, he shouldn’t have been surprised that she understood and acquiesced without any coy games or challenging questions. He guessed he’d overestimated how much he could scramble her brain with his physical prowess. Of course the woman’s self-discipline was legendary. He’d have to work on that. Though at the moment, he was grateful for her ability to recover her composure quickly.
Her fingers slid through his hair. “Matt’s noticed us. He talked to me about you.”
Max grunted, figuring out the toe seam and working it over her foot. She had trim toenails, expected for a woman he’d yet to see without stockings on her legs. “Yeah. He gave me a ‘look’ when he left the car tonight. If that’s a hint of what Angelica’s dates are in for, she’ll be lucky if anyone will be brave enough to ask her out.”
“I bet a SEAL would be brave enough.” She tugged his hair.
“SEALs aren’t scared of anything,” he agreed, and smiled when she chuckled at him. He noticed her second toe had a swollen joint to it, and there was an unevenness along the outside edge of her big toe, like a scar. When his fingers passed firmly over her arch, he sensed an indrawn breath, a sound of pleasure, and he took an extra moment to massage there, some of his tension easing when she purred, no other word for it.
“Oh…God, you’re good at that.”
“Is this why you don’t wear spiky heels like Alice? Because you have bad feet?”
He detected a hesitation, as if he’d touched on the edges of something more i
mportant. “It’s very impolite to say that to a woman,” she said at last. “But yes. Years of ballet dancing gives many of us foot problems. Which makes what you’re doing feel…so…damn…good.”
“My pleasure, Mistress.”
“You’re good at that as well. Knowing just when to call me that so it works for us both.”
“I’m a quick study.” Reluctantly, he stopped with the foot massage but figured he’d give her a more thorough one, of both feet, after her class. He worked the tights up to her knee, then got the other foot started and up to the same level. Curling an arm around her waist once again, he brought her to her feet. She was completely naked except for that one garment at her knees, and it was a unique experience, to be blindfolded, somewhat at her mercy, even though he was the one fully dressed. She was an artist at what she did, explaining why she had a strong following at the club. But none of those males had ever been here now, in her home. He’d bet on that too.
He worked the tights up her thighs, thought again how few women would be confident enough to let a man be this intimate with their bodies. He had to put his hand inside the tights, find the cotton crotch panel to be sure it was aligned correctly, which gave him the opportunity to brush his knuckles along her labia, feel the moisture there.
Her hand settled on his shirt sleeve, gripping, her forehead briefly pressed to his shoulder as he rose to finish the task, sliding the tights all the way up over her hips. Then he necessarily—and pleasurably—had to run his hands down her body, under and over, to make sure everything was straight and in place, which put him on his heels as he touched her feet, double-checked the toe seams. Perfectly straight, following the bump of her toenails. His instructors would be proud, though he could only imagine their expressions if they knew how he was applying his “ditch-and-don” skill.
Next came the leotard, which was easier, and had the added bonus of requiring him to feel his way around her breasts to be sure the modesty panel was aligned properly. He rubbed his thumb over her nipple, kneaded the breasts until she gave him another breathless admonishment. As well as a gratifyingly reluctant reminder they needed to leave soon to be on time for the class.
That just left the skirt, slippers and jewelry. The first two were quickly done. He worked the earrings in behind the ones he removed, then it was time to do the necklace. She turned for him, putting her buttocks against his hard groin. If she rotated her hips on him, he’d have purred a little himself, but the way she kind of melted back into him, from shoulder blades to the firm ass, was intimate in a different, more moving way, especially when she turned her face so her cheek pressed against his biceps.
She lifted her chin as he guided the necklace around her neck. After he fastened it, he put his arms around her waist to hold her still. Kissing her throat, he nuzzled her beautiful hair again. “Did I pass, Instructor J?”
She didn’t respond. She’d tucked her head at an angle that suggested her eyes were closed, one of them pressed into the crease between his shoulder and chest. She’d gone somewhere else, taken there by this moment. He tightened his hold around her. “Janet. Okay?”
She nodded. He stayed silent then, just holding her, letting her deal with whatever had gripped her, making sure she could use the strength of his body and arms to get her through it. She’d become tense all of a sudden, as if fighting something, and he turned her around to press a kiss on her brow, her eye, her nose, finally brushing her lips. Her hands clutched his arms, and she drew a deep breath.
“Yes,” she said, her voice normal and even. “You passed.”
Chapter Seven
“A good beginning for learning lifts is what we rather inelegantly call the fish dive, though if you’ve ever watched a school of fish dive, there’s nothing inelegant about it. They swoop fearlessly toward the ocean floor, with unconscious grace.”
Max sat at the back of the class. The community center’s room for the dance lessons had a wall of mirrors that sported a long bar for warm-ups. The wooden floor was worn shiny and smooth by the many feet that had pounded, tapped, scuffed or tripped across it. Janet had said it was used for everything from Pilates to yoga to Zumba.
As she’d predicted, he’d been treated to a lot of shy looks and giggles. He expected she was fully aware that such behavior was pretty intimidating to a man, especially when he was the lone male among a pack of teenage girls. Eventually she took pity on him, however, calling the class to order with a commanding tap of a cane. The girls responded with the same mixture of terror and respect that Janet generally inspired at K&A.
They’d done warm-ups, and Janet had groups of three show her how they were doing on combinations they’d learned in previous classes, correcting where necessary with a tap of the cane or demonstration. She was sparse with praise, but as such, a simple nod or lack of correction was enough to make a girl glow. When she showed them a step or movement, the skill she possessed was evident. He thought of the picture of the soaring ballet dancer over her couch. Had she once been able to do that? If so, not any more. As the dance class progressed, the cane she used to tap time or point for correction became a prop for subtle leaning as well. He’d definitely be sure to give her that foot massage tonight.
Thinking about it, he realized even her sheerest stockings had a glimmer to them, the kind of thing that would hide scars. When he’d put on her tights, he hadn’t done a thorough exploration of her skin, much as he’d desired to do so. The problem could be joint pain or those foot problems she’d mentioned, but he felt a desire to find out. He was starting to have a desire to find out everything about her.
Bringing his attention back to the class, he found Janet had moved on to the routine they were putting together for a Christmas recital. By the time the dancers were in the last thirty minutes of the two-hour class, they were sweating, but not a one of them slacked off. He didn’t think they would dare. At one point, a student had forgotten to turn off her cell phone. When it chirped from the tote bag hung on the back wall, the offending student had practically flown over there to silence it beneath Janet’s withering look. “So sorry, Madame, so sorry.”
He found that curious, how they all called her that. He didn’t know enough about ballet to know if it was a typical address for a teacher or not, but it suited her quite well.
“You’ve worked hard tonight.” Janet stood at the front of the class now, continuing her discussion of the lift. “Once we combine with the male class to bring together our recital routine, several of you will be chosen to perform the ‘fish dive’. As such, we’re going to spend the last thirty minutes introducing you to it.”
There were excited murmurs, the girls catching hands to squeeze and express their pleasure with the idea. Janet gave them precisely ten seconds to settle down, then quelled any further reaction with her look. “You’ve all noticed I’ve brought a friend tonight. He’s here to help teach the lift, given that he is far better equipped to lift you than I am.”
When she glanced back at Max, her lips quivered as the girls giggled. Max did his best not to humiliate himself with a damn blush. The woman was a sadist.
“The first hurdle you must overcome with lifts is your fear of falling. You must have utter confidence in your partner. If you cannot have that, you must overcome that regardless and be like the fish, diving fearlessly, concentrating on the execution of the move itself, stepping outside of yourself. However, tonight I want the confidence portion to be an irrelevant issue, so you can focus on the form.” Her gaze swept over them. “As you know, your well-being is always my primary concern.”
Despite her strict demeanor, tiny smiles appeared on several girls’ faces, some reflecting adoration. It told Max they trusted their teacher, believed in her regard for them. She had that effect on people.
“Max will keep you safe. He has my complete confidence.” Her gaze touched him briefly, then moved back to her class. “To assure you of that, he’s going to demonstrate the lift with me first. Since I am a heavy old broad, this will pr
ove to you how easy lifting each of you will be for him.”
The girls laughed, making faces, and Janet allowed them a small, tight smile. Max shook his head at her but rose, coming to the front of the room.
“He should be wearing proper attire, but being that he is male and therefore entirely stubborn, we shall have to deal with him in this.” Janet cast a disparaging look at the jeans and T-shirt he’d donned from the bag of spare clothes he kept in his trunk.
“The only attire you had available were tights,” he muttered. The girls tittered and Janet’s lips twitched.
“Even so.” She set aside her stick and came to stand before him. “To start, you will be in arabesque en pointe. No toe shoes tonight though. The ball of the foot will be sufficient. There’s enough to think about without making it that complex.” She assumed the proper position and nodded without looking at Max. He bent his knee to give added support to the move, just as she’d instructed him during their warm-up before the class arrived.
“He’s putting his arm around my waist, just below my rib cage. His right arm goes over and around the right thigh, just above the knee. Now he will dip me toward the ground, arms in this position.”
As she demonstrated, reaching out with graceful arms and fingertips, Max lifted her and dipped her to the floor. The girls oohed softly, and he could see the more ambitious ones already imagining themselves in the same position.
“You’ll bend the straight leg and touch your toes to your right knee,” Janet continued from her suspended pose. “This is the parallel passé. Be sure and use your core muscles to pull you upright.” She passed her fingers over her upper and lower abdomen, drawing their eyes to that. It seemed like second nature to her to be held nearly upside down, feet nowhere near the ground. “As always, I expect to see clean lines. The arch of your back curves you in toward your partner. The moment you are dancing with another, there should be a romance to the bodies working together. It’s what your audience wants to see, and it will draw them into the movement, win their hearts.”
