Stripped (15 page)

“That would be more like a confession, and I think I’ve already had enough of that today.” She taps her foot and folds her arms in accusation.

I’m not sure what look she’s going for; she might be trying for indignant, but to me she looks like a pouty, little sex tart.

I should tell her so.

Before I do, she spills. “Right before I was plucked up by the company, I’d been developing the choreography to a ballet-contemporary fusion routine.”

“You’re kidding, right? Is this the payback?”

“Oh no, that’ll come in some other devilish form,” she promises, kicking off her maroon Chucks in preference of bare feet. “It was pretty good—I even performed it in front of the school at graduation my senior year.”

“Why the hell didn’t you continue with it?”

“Because working with the company and ballet took up all my waking time and energy,” she explains. “I had to keep my eyes on the prize. There was no time for extracurricular activities.”

“Why didn’t you simply switch dance genres after your injuries healed? You could have been dancing all of this time.”

“Simply, huh? How often do you play footy?”

I nod solemnly. “Okay, I get it.” Sometimes the heart’s not ready to move on.

“Are we going to dance now? Or would you like to play Dr. Phil some more?”

I put on “Bailamos” by Enrique Iglesias, the powerful Latin infused ballad about feeling the rhythm and letting it take you over, dancing and fulfilling fantasies. Yeah, I know. Perfect.

“Show me what you’ve got.” I give her the seductive look that is called mirada—it evokes the invitation to dance the tango—while I hold out my hand as an offering in the classic language of salsa.

She places her right hand in my left, while her left hand rests seductively at the nape of my neck. Our chests touch in a close embrace.

We start with the turning step, sweeping the floor in ocho
,
or figure eight motions.

At first she seems a little rusty, but not by much. As soon as her confidence kicks in and she gets away from her own uncertainty and truly engages, Emelie begins to sizzle.

She knows how to pose and when to slide at just the right times. She creates gorgeous flourishes as she dances. Her free foot draws circles onto the floor in a move called lapiz. I spin her in my arms then pull her against me—her back to my front—her leg bends at the knee and comes up between mine in a caricia, where she caresses my arse with her bare foot.

Tango is making love on the dance floor, and we’re doing exactly that. The power between us is magnetic. It crackles potently. Our overheated body language goes way beyond the dance.

With today’s earlier riling, it’s voltaic.

In a dynamic move, she holds my hands, lifts her knee with graceful poise, swivels, and pulls away, bewitching me the entire time with the spell of her gaze, and in a beautiful and elegant maneuver, slides down to the floor on one knee—her other leg outstretched. She tugs, my cue to pull her back up. I do and she latches around me—her hair sensually tossed, her sexy, slender leg lifts and curls around my arse, her fingers splayed against my chest, and her gorgeous, ecstatic face—is nothing less than orgasmic.

I’m so fucked. The beast is becoming aroused.

Our faces are so close, our lips nearly touch. I can feel her breath on my mouth, and it’s all I can do not to go in the rest of the way.

We follow a pattern of quick steps in what’s technically called caminata.

Soon, our steps become more fluid, like we’re reading each other’s thoughts.

Getting my hands around her waist, I lift her off the floor and rotate her halfway. She arches her back, laying her supple spine against me and allowing her head to drop and extend behind my shoulder. Her lithe legs are twisted at my waist as she stills and holds the position.

Keeping her there, I glide across the floor with ronda, a series of revolutions.

The dance is so sensual, so passionate, and so is Em. She becomes more and more vibrant with every step.

Strands of her hair fall over her face in a sexy mess as she invades my dance space in a move called sacata. Her hand cascades down my jawline as her smoldering eyes meet mine.

I swear I’m going to die.

I can’t deny my hands the sheer pleasure of holding and caressing her body
everywhere
—her belly, her ribs, the very sides of her breasts—torturously—up her sensuous arms, over the length of her leg as it curls around my waist.

She’s so fucking flexible; able to bend and twist, kick incredibly high or slowly lift her leg up in the air and hold it there in a near split.

Her arms move just as gracefully as the rest of her. They’re taut, with slim, long muscles, as she extends and curls them, coiling them around me or arching through the air.

In another moment, she presses flush against me and again wraps her leg around me, but this time her hands flutter lightly over my biceps as she curves her back and drops her head, angling away from me while pushing her tantalizing breasts into my face.

I hold her mid-back so she can lean as far back as she’d like and then, like the gentleman I am—hey, it’s required in the tango—I lay my head on her breast.

Next time I do this with her, I want her wearing a tight little dress with a long slit up her thigh and a pair of heels.

Scratch that. I want her naked instead.

When she rises and her torso straightens, her forehead comes to rest on mine. Her eyes are sparkling with prowess as her hands sweep over both sides of my head.

This is foreplay in the temperature vicinity of molten lava. I had no idea she’d be
this
good. On top of that—
I wish she were on top of me
—she’s flirtatious and irresistible and absolutely
knows
what she’s doing to me.

Her long dark hair dances like ribbons around her as I spin her, lift her high in the air, then fold her back down quickly in my arms.

I set her feet to the floor, and starting at the small of her back, I let my hand travel up her spine to her head, then dip her across my bent knee just as the song ends.

There is such an intense connection between us. Not only here on this dance floor—it’s electrified the air around us from the moment we laid eyes on each other.

“Holy fuck, Em. I need to take you against that mirrored wall.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Chapter Fifteen

Emelie

Standing on not-so-solid ground

“Em…” he’s still holding me in the dip position.

I’m sure all the lightheadedness I’m feeling is not just from the blood rushing to my brain—I’ll blame it on that, though.

I lift my mouth to meet his and kiss him passionately. It’s lips and tongue and teeth, and his hands are everywhere at once. In a few more seconds I’ll be naked in front of that mirror.

“Stone, I can’t.”

“You mean, you won’t. I already know you can. Very well, I might add.”

He lifts me to my feet and continues working my mouth with his until my panties are the casualty of catastrophic conditions. I’m radiating unstable amounts of nuclear energy in the form of sexual tension that threaten a code red meltdown. I’m positive the only thing stopping me from ripping off his clothes is the fact that, although the dance studio is technically closed, it is still a public place, and any other coworker with a key could open that door just the same as he did.

Breaking the silence, I say, “You’re obviously a master at Latin.” An involuntary breath hitches in my throat. “Street, hip hop, swing,
and
contemporary…” I strip myself out of his arms and take a step back in resolve. “Let’s see what we can do to add a ballet component.”

“ARAAARRRRGGGHHHH!!!!” he shouts in complete frustration and uses the wide expanse of floor to pace it out.

I wait for a few moments, trying to recover my own bearings.

Once he ices his own fever, Stone comes back towards me. “Okay, coach. Let me have it.”

Pulling my laptop from its case, I plug the speaker in and cue up some Beethoven.

“Really?” he scoffs. “First horrendous sexual frustration, now musical torture?”

“Don’t be a baby,” I scold. “Kick off your sneakers. It’s better to use your bare feet.”

“You’re just saying that because you think my feet are sexy.”

“Feel the music, feel the floor. See the positions and the way your body reacts to them.”

“I’ll tell you the positions my body really reacts to,” he says with a wink.

I ignore his innuendo. “First position.”

“You on top so I can play with your tits and watch them bounce.”

“STONE! Focus!”

We work through each of the basic foot positions before moving onto the arms. He looks awkward at first, and I need to stifle a giggle. The style is so opposite his tough jeans and undone Converse. But he is a true dancer, and soon enough his arms begin to shape beautifully.

“Plié and demi-plié—bend at the knees then rise—we want to appear light and bouncy.”

Stone smirks and I swear I hear him growl something under his breath about my ass being light and bouncy.

I clear my throat. “Entendre, and stretch.” Every move I make, he follows—as if we’re shadows or mirror images. “Rise to the balls of your feet—relevé.”

He’s really trying, but there has to be a better way.

“Instead of me acting like you have to
learn
ballet, we need to zero in on some key moves and elements for you to incorporate. I don’t know what music you may already have for the number you want to perform, but I’ve been thinking it might be cool to take the intro to a classical piece and remix it with something hip hop—think Johann Sebastian Bach’s ‘Ave Maria’ meets Flo Rida’s ‘GDFR.’”

“You know that song?”

“Yes! I don’t live under a rock.” I shake off the insult. “Watch.”

I do the motions to explain what I’m saying. “You start off making it look like the choreography is going to be completely classical. You work it magically for the first thirty seconds, and Stone, you’re going to have to pull out some serious moves, because this will be the moment you want to wow the judges with your diversity. Then your street dancing kicks in—the music changes and you hit it hard—a rolling air flip to rile the audience. Do your regular shit, but then in the midst of the street beat, you’re going to switch gears into sauté—powerful leaps and quick allegro jumps—they’ll look incredibly cool with the heavy music. Cabriole—where you leap from one leg and finish the move landing on the same leg—looks great and is a tough move. Advanced moves are all we need.” I feel myself getting excited. “You can also come up en pointe in your Chucks—that’ll be a real judge and crowd pleaser!”

I pause. He’s watching me now, grinning like the cat who swallowed the canary.

“What?”

“I like this side of you.”

“Good. Cause it’s the only side you’re going to see for the next couple of weeks.” His cocky grin appears undaunted. “Instead of all the fancy French terms, let’s just dance. I’ll show you the moves I’m envisioning and then tell you what I see you doing after it—I’m sure you’ll take over as we go.”

“No way, baby, this is all you. I love every idea you’ve suggested. You run with it. I’m your protégé.”

I can feel the smile stretch over my cheeks, and I’m sure it reaches my eyes.

We dance for hours, not stopping until long after Cinderella’s curfew. By the time we pack up and leave, we’re both laughing, bursting with ideas that we can’t share fast enough with each other, and most definitely starving.

Stone unlocks the passenger door to the Jeep first and holds it open for me.

“Thank you.”

The move is so romantic, giddy champagne bubbles come up through my body as I slide into the seat. He closes the door after me.

“How about you come back to my place? I have more than enough delicious meatloaf with mashed cauliflower for two.”

“Luring me with your good cooking.”

“Is it going to work?”

“I’d end up staying for dessert.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

“I meant that I can’t, Stone.”

“Emelie…”

“Stone, it’s just the way it has to be.” Please don’t make me spell it out.
I have to guard my heart.

“Okay, I get it. You know, I love those two songs you chose for this dance—Bach and Flo Rida—sheer brilliance. I’ve got a friend who’s a master at mixing. I’ll call him tomorrow and see if he has any openings in his schedule.” He adds, “You’ll have to come with me to meet him and put your vision into it.”

“That sounds excellent. Would you mind stopping at the store so I can pick up some food—I know it’s late, but I’m sure the fridge at the apartment is empty—or worse, has a monster living in it like in Ghostbusters.”

He laughs. “No problem. You know, as tired as I am, I’m still pretty wired. Probably because of you.”

“Why is that?”

“You’re fun to be with.”

I joke lightly, “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

He answers in a serious tone. “No, baby, I don’t say that to any of the girls.”

Could that really be true?

Ten minutes later, we’re pulling into the near deserted parking lot of the 24hour grocery store. I’m not really paying attention. I’ve been wrestling with his last statement.

We walk in together. I pick up one of those plastic baskets as I come through the door and head straight to the produce section. Moving quickly, I throw prepackaged bags of fresh mixed greens, snap peas, and mini bell peppers into my basket.

Stone cozies up to me and peers down at my grocery choices.

He shakes his head in utter disappointment. “This is all wrong, Princess.”

“Why?” I’m curious.

Obviously, so is the man in the apron restocking the heads of lettuce. He looks up at us, listening to the conversation transpiring.

“All this stuff is small and limp, and since you refuse to come home with me…”—Stone picks up and examines a hefty cucumber—“You need a peen.”

“I’m sorry, a what?” I could
not
have heard him correctly.

“You know, a peen. A
penis
, a satisfier. Your super supreme, orgasmic, sunshine maker doesn’t come—ha!—until tomorrow.” He’s pleased with his joke. “You need something for tonight. So… what’ll it be? Clancy Cucumber?”

“I am not the Jolly Green Giant’s girlfriend,” I hiss.

“You could be for a night.” He thunks it into my basket.

“How about Cruz Carrot? Or…”—Stone brandishes a long, thick, green squash—“how about Zuri Zuccinni?”

The store clerk stifles a laugh.

“I’m going to kill you, and this time I mean it!”

“But at least it won’t be from sexual frustration,” he insists. “Oh, this is the best…”

“I’m walking away, Stone.”

“BUCKY BUTTERNUT!” He says it so loud, the few people at the cash registers look over. “Get it?
Buck-y-bucking
.”

I quickly duck down the frozen foods aisle, choose an Annie’s dinner and try avoiding the produce pimp by racing to the checkout.

Of course, in an instant, he’s behind me. He gets his mouth over my ear and says, all wet and hot and breathy, “What do you think of
this
?”

His muscular chest comes up against my back, and suddenly I feel an unusually
hard,
very
long item pressing between us—from my ass to the middle of my back. Stone pushes his hips, curling them so I can feel the full width and girth of this monster while he pretends it’s his cock.

“You totally need this one—it’s the closest to reminding you of what you’re missing out on with me.”

“Good evening,” says the disinterested female cashier, who has black punk hair and a variety of facial piercings. “Paper or plastic?”

“Either’s fine.” I smile at her, then, “Hey!” I cry at Stone.

The creature between us threatens to cause spinal injuries.

“This dude is
not
going to fit into one of those wussy bags.”

“And to think, you’re suggesting I rub it against my kitten.”

“Aw, fuck! Thanks for that visual. Now I’m going to get hard,” he whines.

“Serves you right.”

“Mister, you have to pay for that beef stick between your legs.”

I bust a lung with laughter at her choice of words, bend at the waist, and angle myself enough to see his
beef-stick.

Sure enough, swinging down past his thigh, almost touching his knee is a mammoth beef salami the length of a yardstick.

“Nice.”

“I’m only concerned for your wellbeing, Em,” he says, feigning distress.

Unbelievable.

“She’ll take this too,” Stone tells the cashier and sets the mammoth on the conveyor. “Along with these.”

Clancy, Cruz, Zuri, and Bucky are obviously coming home with me.

“Are you sure I can’t come up?”

“It’s two in the morning, I’m pretty sure you need to keep your job, and now, thanks to you, I have all the peen I could ever need.”

“And you won’t starve to death.” He laughs.

Then his eyes hold me there. I could be misreading the signals but it’s like he doesn’t want the night to end. I feel the same way.

“Can I kiss you goodnight?”

My heart races so fast I can barely nod. “Yes.”

It’s so perfectly charming—soft sweet lips with gentle caresses to my cheek. Tenderly, he combs my hair back with his fingers.

“So, tomorrow?” he asks.

“Definitely.”

“WHAT THE HELL IS UP WITH ALL THIS PRODUCE?” Vi’s big mouth serves as a reminder of last night with Stone just as I’m waking up.

“Mmm… look at this beefstick!” I hear Raph purr. “You’re sharing!” he calls out to me.

I pull the pillow over my head and laugh.

After my roomies leave, I come out of my room. I love them tremendously, I just didn’t want any heavy discussions or questions this morning—I wanted to think and keep my thoughts close to my heart. My hair is up in a bun—though looser than usual, I’m sure because of Stone’s influence—and I’m wearing dance gear. It’s a simple ice blue baby-doll dress. Partially leotard, it’s fitted at the breast, then billows down over the same color boy shorts. It’s made to move in. I lace up the pair of black leather, flat, form-to-your-feet dance shoes I bought on my shopping spree, then head up to the roof with my laptop and speakers.

Vi brought me up here when I first arrived. She said she uses it as a place to think—calls it her hawk’s nest—invited me to use it anytime.

It’s time.

Stone has lit a fire within me.

It’s like he ventured into the darkest areas of my soul to find the last glowing ember that was hidden there, brought it closer to my heart, and stoked it so it caught flame once again.

I’ll be forever grateful, and when we move on from this arrangement, I’ll always remember that he was the catalyst, the savior who pulled me out of myself—out of the vortex and whirlwind I couldn’t get out of alone.

The emotions rush at me, and I have to hold myself still until I can catch my breath.