Naked Angel (5 page)

“I’ve never seen anything like it—and I’ve been in New York over a year!” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. She shouldn’t admit to how little luxury she had been exposed to in her life. If he saw the shabby house she’d grown up in, the endless gray skies of the English countryside—not to mention the bland, provincial food—he would no doubt find her far less interesting. The only way she’d gotten through the bleak austerity of her adolescence and young adulthood was living for the arrival of
Vogue
and
Harper’s Bazaar
at the town library every month. She’d thought maybe she’d be a model but then was surprised by her talent for making beautiful clothes, not just wearing them.

They took the elevator to the top floor, and stepped out onto a deck with—of all things—a swimming pool. Lit from below, it shimmered an almost iridescent aqua blue in the summer moonlight. “Oh, my Lord,” she gasped. So much for playing it cool. “Why don’t you have the party up here?”

“I prefer to keep the party up here private,” Justin said.

Looking at the fourth-story view of downtown Manhattan, feeling like she was surrounded by the wealth and privilege she had longed for all her life, feeling so close to claiming a piece of that pie for herself—the “party” Justin was offering her was one she could not refuse.

“Is the pool heated?” Gemma asked, walking to the water, careful not to totter too close to the edge in her four-inch heels.

“You tell me,” Justin said with a mischievous smile. Gemma turned her back to him, gently shook off one of her shoes, and dipped the toes of one foot in the water. She was happy to discover that yes, the pool was, in fact, heated—to what seemed like a perfect temperature.

And then she felt herself nearly airborne above the water. The only thing keeping her from being submerged in six feet of water was Justin’s arm circling her waist as he dangled her above the deep end.

“Oh, my God, put me down!” Gemma shrieked, her heart pounding.

“You want me to put you down?” Justin said, lowering her so her feet skimmed the water.

“No!” she yelled.

Mercifully, she felt him swing her back so she was over firm ground. When her feet touched the smooth wood planks of the deck, she whirled around and punched him in the arm. “That wasn’t funny!”

“Ouch! For a little thing, you have a strong left hook. Do they raise you on boxing in England?”

“Luckily for you, no. I was raised to be a lady.”

They faced each other, less than a foot apart, at the edge of the pool.

“There’s nothing lucky about that. I’d much rather see you
not
acting like a lady.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Let me show you.”

N
adia poured herself a glass of bourbon from the fully stocked bar in the apartment on Ninety-second and Fifth Avenue. It was her Great-Aunt Rose’s apartment—she’d owned it since the 1960s, and her recent expat life in France had bestowed upon Nadia the real estate equivalent of winning the lotto jackpot. For the price of utilities and the care and feeding of an overweight tabby cat named Twiggy, Nadia lived far above her means. It was only her aunt’s generosity that enabled her to live in Manhattan at all.

She curled up on the couch, glass in hand, Twiggy marching in place on her lap trying to get comfortable. Nadia was extremely hungry, and she knew she could order in food from any number of neighborhood restaurants willing to deliver at eleven o’clock at night, but she also knew she didn’t deserve to eat. Not after her performance. After a lifetime of the discipline and rigors of ballet, such blatant failure was something she could barely process, let alone tolerate. She knew linking food to her performance was falling back into bad habits, but she didn’t know any other way to deal with her disappointment. She couldn’t change what had happened onstage, but she could refrain from eating. And tomorrow she would figure out a way to make things right in her universe.

Her cell phone vibrated, and she had every intention of ignoring it. But she saw that it was Mallory, and Nadia knew she had to at least answer the call.

“Hello?” Nadia said, trying to modulate her voice so it didn’t sound as if she was about to jump off the balcony.

“Hey—I just wanted to check in on you. Did you go to the after-party?” Mallory said.

“Oh, no. I wasn’t really in the mood.”

“Nadia, I told you—don’t be so hard on yourself. The first time I went in front of a crowd, I was just a stage kitten, and I froze.”

Nadia knew that story—and it was hardly the same thing.

“Yes, but it was because you saw someone from your day job in the audience. Your boss! You had a reason to lose your bearings. I didn’t. I have no excuse.”

“You don’t need an excuse—you’re doing something new. Now get yourself out of your apartment and go stop by Justin and Martha’s and be with the other girls. You shouldn’t be sitting home alone.”

“Oh, I’m fine. I’m just tired, really. And you shouldn’t be worrying about me—you have so much to celebrate tonight. Tell Alec I said congratulations again. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Nadia turned off her phone and tossed it across the couch. She nudged the cat off her lap and got up to pour another drink.

She envied Mallory—not for her ability to perform where she herself had failed, but for having someone with whom to share her success. Maybe Nadia wouldn’t feel like such a failure if she weren’t alone. But then again, being with the wrong person had been worse than being alone. And right now, the thought of her ex-fiancé was only slightly less painful than the thought of what had happened tonight at The Painted Lady.

Jackson, her former fiancé, had at one time been her instructor, a masterful choreographer whose talent and ambition reminded her—perhaps too much—of what she had read about Max Jasper. She’d moved into his Upper West Side apartment. They’d set a date. And then he’d scored a huge job: He would be the choreographer on a major motion picture directed by Sofia Coppola about the Kirov Ballet. The lead actress was Emma Stone. The supporting actress was a Mila Kunis lookalike rumored to be having an affair with the film’s director of photography. That rumor was false: She was having an affair with the film’s choreographer.

Three months later, Nadia suffered her fourth acute facture of the fifth metatarsal in her right foot. Her doctor repeated what he had told her after the second fracture: Her foot had a structural weakness that, had it been identified in childhood, would have prohibited her from pursuing a career in ballet. She should not be dancing in
pointe
shoes. Of course, she’d chosen to ignore that information. Until the last injury, when the doctor had told her if she broke her foot again she might never recover full use of it.

Nadia carried her drink into her bedroom. Her aunt had offered her the use of the master bedroom, but Nadia felt more comfortable in the guest room, even though it had two twin beds instead of one larger one.

Nadia set the bourbon on her nightstand and shed her clothes carelessly on the floor on her way to the bathroom connected to the guest suite. She turned the shower to a temperature just shy of scalding and immersed herself in the sharp needles of water. She noticed the reflection of her body in the glass stall. It was still surprising to see the changes in her figure even after just a few months of not following the rigorous ballet schedule. She knew other dancers would be alarmed to see a hint of fullness in their breasts, or roundness at their hips, but Nadia was okay with the changes.

She soaped up her breasts, pausing for a minute to caress her nipples. She felt a slight stirring between her legs, and she continued to play with her breasts, closing her eyes, letting the hot water assault her back and shoulders.

When the stirring between her legs turned into a sharp throb, she moved her hands down to stroke her clit. She dipped her middle finger inside herself, listening to her body’s cue to move it in and out, first slowly, then with sharper motions. She steadied herself with her other hand against the glass, and as she found her rhythm rubbing herself, she was startled by the mental image of Max Jasper. She was so annoyed with herself for thinking of him at that inopportune moment she almost lost the building swell of pleasure between her legs. But when she stopped fighting the direction her mind was taking her, the throbbing in her pussy grew more intense as she imagined that Max’s hand was the one rubbing her engorged lips, teasing her clit, dipping in and out until, as the first wave of an orgasm broke, she turned to face the water, opening her legs to let the needles of water play on her swollen cunt. She experienced spasms of pleasure that left her spent, almost crouching against the steamed glass.

She swept the tangle of wet hair away from her face and straightened herself to stand tall under the showerhead. Her body felt light and relieved of all the tension she’d been carrying for days, if not weeks. It was unfortunate she’d let that arrogant jerk Max Jasper intrude on her fantasy, but she wrote it off as the mind’s doing strange things under stress.

She decided she would order some food after all.

Justin Baxter took a step toward Gemma—that’s all he needed to get his arm around her waist and pull her close to him.

She braced herself with her arms bent at the elbows, her palms pressed to his chest.

“You’re not going to throw me in the pool, are you?” she said.

He could barely think to answer her, being that close to her mouth, with her obscenely pillowy lips and that incredibly sexy gap between her two front teeth. He felt his cock get hard.

He pressed his mouth against hers, and she immediately met his tongue with her own. The urgency he felt to get inside her made it impossible to think. He ran his hand down her back, to her ass, then under her short dress. He pressed his hand between her legs from behind, and she shifted her legs to give him access to her pussy.

He knew this was wrong—that he should be texting Martha to join them up here. But he was afraid that would scare Gemma away, and he wanted to fuck her more than he wanted to stay within the boundaries of his “open” marriage.

She leaned against him as his fingers reached inside her, feeling his way to the spot that would give her pleasure. Her luscious mouth was wet and parted against his neck, and all he wanted was to make her come, to hear her moan his name. Once that happened, he could fuck her and give himself release.

His hand moved in a practiced way, but he couldn’t tell if she was close to a climax. He withdrew his fingers and unzipped her dress, which slid to the ground. He tugged down her panties, and she helped him get them off.

Her naked body was stunning—larger breasts than anyone would suspect seeing her in clothes, round hips, and a barely groomed thatch of blond pubic hair between her legs. Gotta love those foreigners—not yet consumed by the cult of waxing!

Justin guided her gently to one of the lounge chairs. He pressed her down on her back and parted her legs with his hands. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted some-one so badly. He had planned on eating her pussy, making her come with his tongue, but he couldn’t wait. He took his cock out of his pants and positioned it at her entrance, feeling like a teenager who had to fuck a girl before she changed her mind.

As he thrust inside, her pussy was tight, and if he hadn’t known better he would have thought she wasn’t turned on. But she had to be. He licked and palmed her breasts, loving her body, wanting it in every way. And yet she was so still, it was maddening. She didn’t make any noise, and she did not touch him. Her hands lay at her sides. Alarmed, he looked at her face. She looked . . . bored.

“Are you okay?” he panted, making himself stop.

“Yes, fine,” she said. “Go on.”

She might as well have told him to just get it over with. What was with this woman?

Her apathy was thrilling. It made him want to degrade her.

He pulled his cock out and climbed up so he was on his knees, straddling her. For some reason, he had the urge to jerk off on her—anything to wake her up.

He stroked himself, his cock looming over her flat stomach. He watched her face for any hint of alarm or disdain, but her expression was as placid and unchanging as if she was watching a mildly entertaining television show. He moved his hand faster and harder, his own pleasure forgotten. All he wanted was to see his cum on her flesh.

Sure enough, with a shudder and moan, he spouted cum on her like a spigot turned on too fast. She flinched only slightly, watching him now with what seemed to be mild amusement.

Justin, breathing heavily, looked down at this odd creature, and knew with absolute certainty, he was in love.