Chains and Canes (3 page)

Thirty seconds after shutting the door behind him, Daniel made his move. Naya gave a little squeak as he pulled her underneath him along the wide leather rear seat. The privacy screen between them and Mr. Parker was, as always, raised.

“He did something to you,” Daniel breathed against her neck. “More than biting you and smacking your ass on stage. He did more, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

No secrets. They fed off the energy of desires spoken aloud. She shoved her hands beneath his coat and stripped him from the waist up, just as he yanked off her T-shirt and pulled her leggings past her knees. They were a tangle of kisses and groans and frustrating clothes.

“Tell me.”

With the faithfulness of a stenographer, she related every move Remy had made backstage. Every emotion she’d felt. Every hot rush of need.

Daniel positioned the head of his cock right where she needed to be filled. With one fast, hard surge, he claimed her. They groaned into each other’s mouths as they kissed.

He was thick, so big, so…turned on. “You wanted him to slap your face?”

“Yes.”

“I’d have seen his handprint on your cheek.”

“Yes.”

“Did he hold back, or you?”

“Me.”

“My angel. So good. Oh, fuck. So good.”

“I thought you’d be upset,” she rasped as she kneaded her fingers deep into the muscles of his bare back. “But you invited him to our house! What were you thinking?”

Their rhythm sped. Naya arched beneath him, offering her breasts even as she reached low and dug deep into his flanks. She felt every thrust beneath her hands just before he drove inside. His mouth was taut, his eyebrows drawn low, but with an utterly triumphant gleam in his pale eyes—the way he always looked when he was making her come.

Because she exploded when he growled, “I want to watch him make you cry.”

Chapter Three

Remy had been to nice apartments before. The dance world was strange like that, with some of the stars raking in cash due to a happy confluence of circumstances. He’d also seen absolute geniuses living in fifth-floor walk-ups next to the trash shaft. On occasion, with nowhere else to go, he’d been a crash-on-the-couch guest of those geniuses.

Naya would never worry about that.

Remy provided his name to a uniformed bellman and was gratified when the man ushered him into the keyed elevator without casting curious sideways looks. Remy had barely managed to shower while still at Club Devant. His jeans and tank top would have to do. Dressing up was more hassle than it was worth. He had nothing to prove to anyone.

Only when the elevator opened to a penthouse that was finer than frogs’ legs did he start having second thoughts. This place was different.

The apartment had no foyer. The elevator opened directly into a casually elegant living area with an amazing view of the city on the far side. The dark expanse glimmered with tiny, shining lights. Naya Ortiz and Daniel Baker rose from a low, white leather couch.

Naya held a half-empty glass of champagne in one hand and stretched her empty fingers toward Remy. “I wasn’t sure you’d actually come.”

“And pass up the chance to see a real live penthouse?” Remy made a show of looking around. “Momma didn’t raise no fool boys.”

When the amazing view no longer dominated his senses, he could appreciate the rest of the space. Elegant was the word, but not in any gilt-covered way. Dark wood was paired with pure white curtains and fabrics. All sorts of art covered the walls and filled niches. Even with six-foot abstract statues, the place was definitely lived in. It was…French in a way that Remy recognized from four or five generations ago, from before his ancestors had dumped themselves in the swamps and stopped trying for beautiful things.

Daniel offered Remy a glass of champagne. “Does that mean she raised fool girls?”

Remy was tempted to ask what kind of champagne it was, just for the education, but he would’ve needed to trade the new information for feeling ignorant in such fancy surroundings. Plus he’d chosen poorly when mentioning his mother. Even a hint of his family dragged his past out of buried places.

“No foolish girls, neither,” he said, falling back on years of acting one way while feeling another. “None at all, as a matter of fact. She told me time and again she’d have rather had a girl.” He forced a neutral expression as he mentally tacked what she never failed to add to that particularly endearing sentiment.
Especially with the faggy way you dance.

“Girls are trouble.” Naya took a sip of her golden drink, so Remy did as well. Who liked to dwell on filthy old thoughts?

Not me.

Might as well mix with the beautiful people.

Naya was as gorgeous as they came. Her long, dark hair was down. The ends curled around the tops of her breasts, which were covered by a modest pink T-shirt. She wore black pants that molded to her strong thighs. Her fiancé wore slacks and a button-down shirt with sleeves rolled back to display thick, corded forearms.

Daniel’s smile was casual and indulgent. “Girls are not trouble. They’re gifts.”

“Amen,” Remy said with a smirk.

The drink tasted like bottled sunshine and stars. These two had busted it out for an average Friday night. Remy wanted that kind of good life someday. An apartment like this one was a goal in and of itself, the reward for breaking out and creating a dance troupe of his very own. He wouldn’t earn this sort of real estate working for Declan, no matter how much he quietly loved dancing at Devant.

“You like boys too,” said the elegantly dressed man.

Remy conjured a sarcastic smile. “If that’s an invitation, Mr. Baker, I should probably call you Daniel.”

The man chuckled. Naya’s reaction was more telling. Shock opened her dark eyes. Her lush mouth parted in silence. Whatever they had going on, this wasn’t their normal routine. Similar, maybe, because neither was a gibbering mess. But definitely untested.

Novel.

That was good. Remy liked being novel. He’d do lots of things for the taste of something new. If that came with the chance to get Naya back on her knees, he’d do a fuckton more. She’d all but melted while keeping her spine straight and her breasts out.

The pose of a perfect submissive.

“Feel free.” Daniel wrapped an arm low around Naya’s slender waist. His fingertips grazed the side of her ribs. “But it wasn’t an invitation.”

“Not for him.” Naya lifted her chin. She held Remy’s gaze for a moment, then looked back to her man. “And not quite yet.”

Silent communication passed between them, a tiny head tilt and Naya’s eyebrows quirking in the middle. Daniel’s finely carved mouth bent upwards, but his eyes didn’t give anything away. To read him, Naya would need to know him inside and out.

Their coupledom wasn’t in doubt. Remy was on the outside. Nothing new there. He’d played this game his whole life. Every time, he’d stood a better chance of getting what he wanted if he played it easy. Relaxed. No sense revealing how much he’d like to be a rough-and-tumble stud for this fancy pair.

He held up his glass of champagne. “No pressing nothing,
chère
. We’re here to celebrate your new job at Club Devant,
oui
?”

She chuckled and leaned back against the sofa. “Oh, come on. There’s no reason to be coy.”

Daniel finished the thought for her. “If things go well, we might like you to participate in a certain type of activity with Naya.”

“But not you? Do you like to watch?”

“You can be blunt. Good.” Daniel’s smile was calm as he looked down at the top of Naya’s head, which barely came to his shoulder. She was petite yet not diminished. It was the pride in her spine and the way she watched them both. Even when she’d been sitting on Daniel’s lap at the club, straddling him, Remy had known which way the wind blew. They were a unit, not a set of nesting dolls.

Remy shrugged. “You’re right. Forget coy. Might as well be truthful when it comes to sex. Being blunt has gotten me in plenty of panties and boxers. I like it that way.”

Daniel met him head on. “Well, then. Truth. I don’t like to watch for the sole pleasure of watching.” His eyes were pale and lit with an intensity that contrasted with Naya’s dark, sultry gaze. “I like watching when Naya gets what she needs.”

“Needs?” Remy echoed, almost to himself. His attention snapped to a higher level. “I like the sound of that.”

She grinned so broadly that she showed off perfect rows of white teeth. At some point, she’d had braces. He couldn’t help but wonder if she’d been a privileged kid. Maybe being the pampered plaything of a rich man was nothing new. Remy’s upbringing meant his first dental appointment had been during his freshman year. Scholarship committees didn’t want the talent’s teeth to rot. Good thing Naya could dance like a breeze caught between two hands or he’d resent her fancy life and sexy soon-to-be husband.

She stood away from Daniel but didn’t approach Remy, as much as he might wish. “You can like a thought all you want. But you’ll have to spend a little time convincing me you’re a human being with thoughts other than naughty ones. I’m not as easy as you’re thinking.”

He flashed a smile. “I was just damned lucky to get you on your knees?”

Daniel’s features were roughly hewn. They became more rugged when he drew in his cheeks and tilted his head to an arrogant angle. “I hope that was meant as teasing, or I’ll doubt whether this was a good idea.”

Naya glanced at him. “It’s fine. He just had to show off his balls. Straight male dancers are like that. Or
mostly
straight.”

Remy shrugged. “It’s the truth. We’re so often assumed to be…soft. Makes some of us eager to show off.”

“You’d do better to cultivate some good humor.” Only a little grouse remained in Daniel’s voice.

“It’s the talent,” Naya said airily. “Goes to their head.”

“Are you saying I’m talented?” Remy followed her toward the giant window that overlooked Manhattan. The only thing missing was a glimpse of Central Park.

Naya’s glass of champagne froze on its path toward her sexy mouth. “You’re kidding, right? About wondering if you’re talented?”

Daniel spoke up. “He’s not kidding. I recognize that tone of voice. Sounds pretty familiar, angel.”

She rolled her eyes, but her mouth never dropped out of that perfect, teasing smile. “We’re not talking about me.”

“Might as well be.” Daniel joined them and leaned against the giant plate-glass window. It was a further demonstration of how comfortable he was within such ostentatious surroundings. Remy held a soul-deep if irrational conviction that the skinny sheet of glass wasn’t trustworthy and certainly couldn’t protect a grown man from a hundred-foot drop. Give him swamps and parquet floors and New York streets—then he knew where he stood.

“Remy here needs some strokes to his ego,” Daniel said, his pale blue gaze missing nothing. “I bet he could do with as much praise as you like.”

Fuck, Remy was rapidly losing control of the situation. He didn’t like it. Not in the least. He forced a casual sip of champagne. “I thought I was here because of Naya. Her…needs?”

She was easy with her laughs. They came fast and free. He rather envied that. “You’re lucky you really are talented—and yes, you’re one of the most amazing dancers I’ve ever shared a stage with.”

“Only one of?”

“No pouting.” Daniel punctuated his words with a point of his champagne glass. Seemingly harsh lines carved down his lean cheeks, but his lips quirked with amusement. “She’s danced with Zelman Campbell.”

“I saw that on her resume.” Remy directed his next words toward Naya, who beamed. “Six months with him, right?”

“Before I got to Broadway, I worked in his studio.” She shrugged with her expression. “Assistant to his assistant, though. I don’t want to make it seem any bigger than it was.”

“He personally asked you to stay when you were cast in the
West Side Story
revival.” Daniel sounded incredulous. “That was a huge compliment.”

“It’s true.” Remy took another drink of his champagne. “Campbell’s an ass.”

“Is not!” Naya said on a laugh. She gestured with her hands when she talked, as if dancing all the time. “He’s a perfect gentleman. Just a little crotchety.”

“I’ll forgive him because he liked you, and because his infusion of contemporary with hip-hop was transcendent. Groundbreaking at the time.” Maybe Remy ought to keep his opinions to himself, since he was tromping around their territory, but he’d never been able to shut his motormouth when it came to dance.

Only, there was no need to hold back. Naya smiled, taking up his challenge. “By saying ‘at the time,’ you diminish innovations and his influence on the next generation.”

The surprising part of the conversation was Daniel. If Remy had been forced to guess, he’d have said the businessman liked pretty dancers but didn’t know a damn thing about the industry. Only, he did. For close to an hour he defended his corner of the debate.

“Campbell would be proud to see you now, Naya,” he said. “This afternoon, you two lit that place up.”

“Did we?” Naya’s quick question made Remy feel more…assured. She’d flashed one of her own insecurities. Better her than him. “It felt good. I liked dancing with you.”

She turned those big, dark eyes on Remy, and fuck if he didn’t melt. Mooning at a girl in front of her fiancé was a shitty idea, so he traded an unspoken compliment for crudeness—the safest way out for a guy who knew the streets almost as well as he knew the stage. “I liked it nearly as much as what happened afterward.”

“I told Daniel about that.” She leaned back against her fiancé’s chest. His big hands cupped her shoulders. She was everything sultry and tempting.

“How forthright of you.” Remy’s body came into immediate alignment. Every move calculated. Muscles tense. Forget chatter and teasing. They were on their way to an experience he had no intention of turning down. He lifted his gaze to Daniel, who watched him avidly. “You have a very good submissive here. She couldn’t help but bend, but she held true to you.”

He shook his head. “She’s not my submissive.”

“That’s our problem,” Naya said. “Our only problem. I like pain. I like to cry.”