Beautiful Deep

Home > Other > Beautiful Deep > Page 15
Beautiful Deep Page 15

by Jordyn White


  I open the door and gesture to indicate she should go through first, which she does. “Wouldn’t you rather we be together? I’ll bring you back whenever you’re ready.”

  “Well...”

  I lead us past her car and she follows. I guess it’s settled then.

  As we cross the alley way and head down to my car, I can’t help but check to see if anybody’s around. It kills me to see the look on her face when she catches me doing this. I try to give her a reassuring smile, but I don’t take her hand—just in case—and she doesn’t smile back.

  Dammit. Why does she have to be my employee? It shouldn’t be like this with us.

  I open the door for her and give one last look around as she gets in. I shut the door, relieved we’ve seemed to manage this without detection and grateful that we’re in such an unobtrusive part of town, but still feeling terrible.

  I get in but don’t start the car right away. We sit there for a moment in silence.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “We’ll get this figured out.”

  “Let’s don’t worry about that yet. It doesn’t matter.” I get the feeling she’s referring to this mysterious confession she feels she needs to share. I refuse to worry about that, especially now.

  I take her hand and she lets me. “Tell me what you’d like for dinner. You can have anything you want.”

  “As long as we order in, right?”

  Dammit.

  “Emma—”

  She lifts her free hand. “No, it’s okay. I understand. I don’t want to trot this out in front of everybody either. I don’t know why I’m acting like this.”

  I squeeze her hand. “Because you understand but it still sucks?” I offer.

  She nods and brushes the back of my hand with her fingertips. “I wish we met at the art show instead.”

  “Me too.” I lean in slowly, testing the waters. She lets me give her a tender, reassuring kiss. I’m not used to kissing a woman like this, with so much emotion. I like it. I pull back to discover a soft smile on her face and that trusting look in her eyes. I told her I would find a way to fix this, and I will. This is far too good to keep hidden.

  We settle back and I start the car. “If I’d known you were about to escape that night,” I say playfully, “I would’ve shoved all kinds of people out of the way to get to you.”

  “Uh huh,” she says playfully back. “Because that wouldn’t have ruined your reputation at all.”

  If only my reputation were the only one to worry about.

  Because otherwise, I’m not sure I’d care.

  Chapter 26

  Rayce

  So much for taking my time. We didn’t order dinner or even make it up the stairs before we indulged in each other right on the living room floor. It was as heated and intense as before, as if the last time had been days and days ago, instead of an hour.

  Afterward, I ordered her something to eat. She finally got to try Guido’s—agreeing the man knows how to make a damned good pie—while I got the address of her new apartment and investigated it online. It’s passable, and definitely better than the couch, but not near good enough for her, as far as I’m concerned. When she teasingly asked if I approved I said yes, but I’m secretly making other plans. If that’s where she’s going to live, it’s going to be up to snuff.

  Then I suggested we go swimming, but somehow we ended up in my bed instead. I guess I took my time. There was no part of her body I didn’t touch or taste. I wanted to experience it all, and I intended to draw out her pleasure from every nook and curve, every dip and fold. She moaned and writhed under my ministrations. Layer by layer, she yielded more fully until she lost all semblance of control.

  I took more time, yes, but every caress, every taste, every movement was powered by a driving need to claim her. Even once I’d settled my attention to the sweet folds between her legs, I did not allow a hurried climb.

  I would swipe my tongue softly up the center, rock it firmly back and forth over the hardened tip of her clit, and slide my fingers inside her moist core until she started to tighten and tremble. Then I’d ease off just enough to let her come slightly back down before bringing her to an even higher peak that I yet again wouldn’t let her tip over.

  When I finally edged her to a screaming orgasm, her hands an iron grip in my hair and her body clenching around my fingers, my taut cock throbbed against the mattress. I was delirious with wanting her.

  Even then, I took the time to build her up again so that when my pent-up intensity and desire finally released and I came fiercely inside her, she was squeezing me with her own climax.

  So yes, you could say I took my time, but it wasn’t the indulgent scenic tours of past conquests. It was laced with depth and urgency and the need to make her mine.

  Mine.

  “What’s the story with this?” We’re back in my bed after spending the evening in the pool, sprawled out on our sides without a stitch on, and I’m trailing my fingers along the long, smooth lines of her tattoo.

  She’s still and relaxed, allowing me to touch her as I please. Her hands are tucked under her cheek. “What do you mean?”

  Leisurely tracing the soft dip of her stomach, then the curve of her hip, I answer, “You don’t strike me as the kind of person to get something like this just because it’s beautiful. It means something to you.”

  She smiles. “Do you think it’s beautiful?”

  How have I not told her this yet? “Very.”

  “You don’t strike me as the type of man to enjoy tattoos,” she says, echoing my words back to me.

  “I’m not. This one’s different. What does it mean?”

  “Hmmm,” she says slowly. “That’s kind of a long story.”

  She rearranges herself so she sitting cross-legged facing me, pulling the sheet loosely around her body. I sit up too, leaning against the headboard and resting my arm on one raised knee, the sheet a tent over my lower half.

  She breathes out a short exhalation, as if preparing to say something difficult. “I used to be prima for the LA Ballet Troupe.”

  My eyebrows raise. Jesus, that’s one of the most respected ballet companies in the country. “That explains a lot.”

  “It does?”

  “You move like a cat.”

  She smiles, pleased. “I move like a dancer.”

  “But you don’t dance anymore?” Her features darken, which gives me my answer. “Why not?”

  “Well, I loved it. Really loved it, especially once I went pro because between class and performances, you’re dancing practically all day.”

  Still processing this new revelation about her, I watch with wonder as her face takes on a nostalgic glow.

  “I loved practicing for hours until I got my body to do exactly what I wanted. God, it was so fun. And it paid off, too. I advanced so quickly, people either admired or resented me. But no one was neutral about it.”

  I have no trouble envisioning her on stage, poised and in command. I can completely see it. I’m a little awestruck. A prima ballerina, right here in my bed.

  With a tattoo a mile long.

  She’s watching me carefully. “Does this change how you see me?”

  “Yes. I’m impressed as fuck.”

  I can’t tell if this pleases her or not. She seems to absorb my statement as common fact. There’s no arrogance there, but I get the sense that she’s used to people being impressed with her, and I guess if she was good enough to be prima in the LA Ballet Troupe, she would’ve had a lot of practice.

  But there’s something else going on behind those eyes. Something I can’t quite sort out. She drops her gaze and lightly scratches the back of her neck. “There’s a lot of emphasis on perfection in ballet, especially physical perfection.”

  She gives me a significant look. I’m not sure I catch her meaning.

  “No matter how thin you were,” she clarifies, “it was always better to be just a little bit thinner.”

  A chill drops into the pit of my stomach
. “Ah.” My eyes pass over her body in a way they haven’t before, searching for any signs of unwellness. But there are no jutting collarbones or protruding ribs. I’ve explored her body pretty thoroughly by now, and it is a picture of good health.

  “My entire professional career, food was a constant battle. I managed not to do my body harm. I wasn’t binging and purging. I made sure my calorie intake never went below medical guidelines. But I was still far too preoccupied with the whole thing. I knew exactly how much I was taking in. I knew exactly how many calories I was burning. And if I had anything extra... a cookie, a bite of cake, anything... I made damn sure to burn it off with extra strength training. I’ve seen some ballerinas eat an apple and call it lunch,” she says flatly. “And there were too many times I was far, far too tempted to do the same.”

  I sit up cross-legged too and rest my elbows on my knees, absorbed by what she’s telling me. I hurt for her, too. A profession so beautiful shouldn’t be marred by something so ugly.

  “I lived in constant awareness of every, tiny imperfection. How do you not think about your body when you’re literally analyzing every inch of it in front of a mirror all day long? Is my leg extended at the exact right angle? Is the line from my shoulder to my fingertips correct? Should I rotate my wrist another quarter inch to the left? Everything. Absolutely everything must be visually perfect. Flawless. And that’s just the baseline. If you want to go from the back row to prima, you have to be even better.”

  Her face is awash with longing and joy mixed with sorrowful restraint. It’s a look I’ve seen before; it’s how she used to look at me before she finally gave in.

  “You have to use your body to make the audience feel something,” she continues, “to give them an experience. It’s transcendent, for you and for them. Except they’re swept away while you’re the one in control. This arm here. That leg there. Making these crazy huge leaps but landing just so.”

  For these last two words, she softens her voice and makes a delicate gesture in the air with her hand, bringing to mind the lighter-than-air landing of a ballerina.

  “You can’t do any of that, without knowing every inch of your body. So it was this never-ending war with myself. I knew these ideals of beauty in the ballet world are too extreme. But that didn’t change how I felt. It became such a chore to give my body what I logically knew it needed, but really wished it didn’t. Does that make sense?”

  I nod.

  “For the last, I don’t know, year or so that I was in the company, I knew I couldn’t go on like that. Something had to give or I would break. I just...”

  She stops, for the first time since she got going, really. She’s frowning and looking down, squeezing my hand a little tighter. I squeeze back, trying to give her the courage to say whatever words are scaring her.

  She takes another deep breath, then says slowly and deliberately. “I was afraid that if I stayed in ballet I would eventually give in to the pressure. I didn’t trust myself. But I didn’t want to leave either.”

  She swallows hard. Her eyes glisten for a moment as she fights tears. It’s a minute before she speaks again, and when she does, there’s a slight tremble in her voice.

  “I knew I had to leave, but I just... loved it so much.”

  I squeeze her hand again. I know what that beautiful, swirling mark flowing down one side of her body makes me think of now. Graceful movement, like a dancer. “You still love it.” I say quietly.

  “That doesn’t matter!” she says, her voice ringing through the room. Regretting her sharpness, she pinches her eyes shut. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “It’s just that...” She drops her forehead into her hands. Resting her elbows on her knees and still holding her head, she says, “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve heard people tell me I need to go back and I never should’ve left?”

  “I wasn’t going to say that.”

  Though I wish I could. God, the whole thing is such a damned shame.

  “It took me a year.” She’s still speaking to her lap. “A whole year of trying to work up the courage to walk away.” She lifts her head and looks at me. “You know what finally woke me up?”

  I shake my head.

  “A dancer I knew from school was at her sister’s house one day, sitting on the couch watching her niece run around the living room, and her heart gave out.” Her eyes glisten with tears again. I cradle her hand inside both of mine. “Just like that. One moment, she was fine, and the next she was slumped over in her seat. Gone.”

  “God, Emma.” I rub her arm and shoulder as she wipes away the tear that’s running down her cheek. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m sorry, too. For her and for her family. But I’m not sorry for me. It gave me the courage to do what I thought I couldn’t. I left and never went back. Jean-Claude did everything to try to get me to change my mind. He yelled at me. Threatened me. Tried to talk sense into me.”

  She puts air quotes around the words ‘talk sense.’

  “He said I was throwing my life away and that I’d regret it. He even begged and let me tell you what. Ballet masters don’t beg. We beg them, not the other way around. They call the shots, not us. But I was done with that. I was done with all of it, because I was not going to be dead at twenty-six just because I feared the gap between my thighs was too small.”

  She looks away, catching her breath and trying to settle her emotions. I’m still trying to process this new layer she’s revealed of herself.

  “Wanna know the irony? The way he fought me to come back made me realize that all the extra weight I thought I had wasn’t going to jeopardize my career. He would keep me around anyway, just like he had all along. But it was too late, because by then I’d figured out that wasn’t the problem. It was me. I knew I couldn’t stop seeing the flaws as long as I spent every day looking in the same mirror as the girl who was a quarter-inch taller but twenty-two pounds lighter.”

  She shakes her head firmly, her face reflecting that stubborn determination I already know so well.

  “There was only one way out and that was to get out. The idea for this tattoo had been in the back of my mind for probably six months or so. I went to one of the best artists in town, paid him extra to fit me in and that was that. Once I was on that table and he had the outline done, it finally all felt final. Smaller companies might work around something like that, but not the LA Ballet Troupe, that’s for damned sure.”

  I’m gaining a new appreciation for Emma’s iron will.

  “I actually... it was a little embarrassing. I started laughing and kind of crying all at the same time. Just for a second. But I couldn’t help it, because I was finally free from that battle I’d been fighting for so long. I finally knew I was going to be okay.”

  I let out a long exhalation. I don’t think I’ve been hardly breathing at all. “Wow, Emma.”

  She finally gives a small smile.

  “Are you okay now? Do you still find it difficult to eat?”

  She shakes her head. “No. I’m much better now.”

  Is she though? I’m relieved to know she’s kept herself healthy, and I’m glad she got out of a bad situation. But that look she had when she was describing her passion for dancing was so striking. Is she really okay not having that in her life anymore?

  “This tattoo was my way of saying my body belongs to me. No one else. It means, My body is mine. I do what I want with it. I accept it as it is. It gave me courage and freedom all at once. And it reminds me that I’m more than just a reflection in the mirror.”

  I shake my head slightly, in awe of her. I scoot closer, cup her face in my hands, and hold her eyes. “You amaze me more and more all the time. I’m so proud of you, Emma. I’m proud of you for working so hard to accomplish something so incredible, and for having the courage to do what you did to take care of yourself.”

  She softens as she smiles at me.

  “Thank you for telling me.”

  “Thank you f
or listening.”

  “Of course. You can tell me anything.”

  A flash of concern crosses her face.

  “Was that the thing we needed to talk about?”

  She presses her lips together and shakes her head.

  “Are you ready to tell me? It’s tomorrow now.”

  It’s just past midnight.

  “No. I’ve been talking too much already. Besides, it’s not tomorrow until we go to sleep.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I have all day. Don’t rush me.”

  I hold her hand and rub along her forearm. “I’m not rushing you. You don’t need to tell me at all.”

  I want to know what’s bothering her, but I don’t want her to tell me unless she really wants to. I have no fear that anything she has to confess will change how I feel about her. Whatever this is between us, it’s far bigger than that.

  “Yes I do. And why is it that you don’t even look the tiniest bit worried?”

  “Because I’m not. Why should I be?”

  “Because you don’t know what it is. I could be an ax murderer.”

  I blink at her. An axe murderer? Then I laugh out loud. Oh my god, she’s too much. An axe murderer.

  “I’m serious,” she says, but she starting to laugh, too. It lifts my mood even more to see a smile on her face.

  “You could not be an ax murderer.” Still laughing, I lie back to get settled under the sheets.

  She follows suit. “You don’t know. I could be.”

  “All right, come here, you dangerous woman, you.” I pull her into my arms and she snuggles in, tucking her head into the crook between my shoulder and chin.

  As I wrap my arms around her, our legs scissor together. I’ve held women before, sure, but never like this. This is so much more intimate. It’s like we can’t get close enough to each other. I’m surprised how much I like it.

 

‹ Prev