A Dance too Far

by H L Day

  He wrenched his head away, and I had to make do with kissing his neck, my tongue darting out to taste the sweat on his skin. My hand moved faster, in combination with my hips, until he cried out, his cock pulsing and shooting cum all over my hand as well as the wall. I dragged him back against me, soaking up the feeling of his orgasm as it reverberated through his body, massaging my cock. Only when the twitches had all but subsided did I let go, my cock pulsating as I filled the condom. The thought sprang to mind that I wished there were no barriers between us, that I wanted to see my cum leaking from his ass. I breathed heavily into his ear, enjoying the sensation of having the tall, lithe body wrapped in my arms and contemplating how something so quick could have been so good. It was so strange that he felt so right in my arms. I could have stayed like that for hours, but Valentin clearly didn't share the sentiment.

  He wriggled out of my grasp, my spent cock withdrawing from his ass, and walked over to the dressing table where he picked up a tissue. He reached behind, using the tissue to wipe up the remainder of the lube before discarding it into the wastepaper basket. Then he pulled up his underwear and ballet tights as if nothing had happened. I didn't know what I'd expected to happen after, but it wasn't this. Finally, he turned to face me, his gaze dropping to where my limp cock still hung outside my trousers. I must have looked ridiculous.

  He walked forward, holding out the wastepaper basket. The smirk was back on his face. Or perhaps it had never gone away. "I wouldn't go out like that if I were you. People will stare."

  I took the hint, removing the condom and dropping it into the proffered basket before tucking myself in. With no offer of a tissue, I had no option but to wipe my hand on my own trousers. That was going to be a fun journey home, smelling of cum. Only then could I bring myself to meet his gaze. It was strange. We'd done one of the most intimate things two people could do together, yet there was a huge chasm between us. I glanced over to the wall, using the clearly visible stain of Valentin's cum to reassure myself that we'd had sex and it wasn't just a figment of my overactive imagination. I cleared my throat. "What happens now?"

  Valentin's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean..." What did I mean? What was wrong with me? I'd walked away from more one-night stands than I could count with barely a backward glance. So what was I expecting here? Reassurance? Something else? "I don't know."

  The pink lips, accentuated with lipstick, curled up into a smile. I'd been robbed of tasting those lips. Maybe that's why this whole scenario felt horribly incomplete. My body was sated, but my mind was insisting that there was still unfinished business. As I stared at those lips, they twisted, and I braced myself for the stinging barb which I knew would be on its way.

  He didn't disappoint. "What? You want to date? Get married maybe? Adopt children together? Maybe you want to introduce me to your parents. I can't introduce you to mine, I'm afraid. They are both dead." He crossed his arms over his chest. "Where shall we get married? Is Russia okay for you? There's a little church close to where I grew up. How many children do you want? I was thinking one of each? Any thoughts on names? For a girl, I was thinking, maybe—"

  "Stop!" I didn't need to hear any more of his mocking. I was getting the message loud and clear. I may have fucked him, but he was just as unattainable as he'd ever been, and I had no idea why that thought rankled so much. I didn't do relationships. Hadn't done for years—ever since the one I didn't like to think about. So everything he was saying should have been music to my ears. That same speech from the guy I'd picked up the other night would have been exactly what I wanted to hear. "I get it. You didn't bring a dildo with you to England, so you used the next best thing."

  He shrugged, but there was no denial. He inclined his head toward the door in a pointed instruction.

  "What if your bodyguards see me leave? Is that okay? They might guess what we were doing."

  There was a chink of something in his expression, and I felt as if a little bit of the real Valentin was seeping through. Before I could analyze it properly though, it was gone and the impassive mask was back in place. "Darling, they've been outside the door the whole time. You may as well get it over with because they're not going anywhere."

  I nodded and walked toward the door, pausing with my fingers on the handle. "What did you say to them when you were speaking Russian?"

  Valentin lifted his chin. "I said"—he hesitated just that little bit too long for me to be able to tell whether the words that were about to be spoken were the truth or a lie—"listen to how loud this one moans when he comes."

  I opened the door and left, shouldering my way between the twin slabs of muscle stationed on either side. There was a lesson to be learned somewhere, but right now, I had no idea what it was.

  Chapter Four

  Valentin

  I sat back and closed my eyes, letting my mind drift back to the events in my dressing room a few days ago. Max Farley had proved himself to be quite the stud. The man certainly knew how to fuck. There was no doubt about that. Snatching sexual interludes where I could often meant that I couldn't afford to be that choosy. So what was I supposed to do when a good-looking man happened to knock at my dressing room door, especially coinciding with the mysterious absence of my twin shadows? After all, I was only human. And he'd given me that look again—the one that said he wanted to lick me all over. If I hadn't propositioned him, then it would only have been a matter of time before he'd noticed the effect he had on me anyway. Ballet tights weren't exactly conducive to hiding a stiff cock. It was rare that I came across a man who was prepared to fuck me the way I liked to be fucked. But Max had done that in spades. And then he'd had to go and ruin it, he'd had to go and look at me like he expected something more, as if I'd disappointed him in some way. At that point I'd needed to get rid of him. There was no room for someone like Max Farley in my life, even if I wanted there to be.

  When the door to my suite flew open without any prior warning, there was only one man it could be. There was only one person in my life who believed it was their God-given right to enter any room they desired without knocking first. As the person paying for all three suites, he'd no doubt demanded a spare keycard from reception, with the intention of catching me off guard. Which he'd done. I steeled myself and stood, regretting having already removed my makeup. It left me feeling naked and vulnerable.

  Dmitry Gruzdev, dressed in his usual expensive designer suit, quickly closed the space between us, his arms outstretched. "Valentin, my love! I have missed you." I allowed myself to be swept up into his embrace, keeping my head still as he delivered a kiss on both cheeks, his cold lips lingering. He pulled back to hold me at arm’s length, keen blue eyes raking over my face. "Nothing to say to me, my love? First, I cannot get hold of you on the phone, and then I do not even get a greeting from you. It is a sad day."

  I answered in Russian, the same language Dmitry had spoken. "S-sorry..." I slowed as I stumbled over the words and forced myself to smile. "You surprised me, that's all. Igor said you weren't getting here until tomorrow." I thought I had one more night of freedom. "Of course I am happy to see you. I am very happy that you have finally arrived in England."

  His eyes bored into me for a few seconds longer as if he were waiting for my facade to crack. His hand reached out, his thumb smoothing over my cheekbone. I swallowed but didn't try to pull away. He frowned. "That explains why you have not bothered to look pretty for me." He grabbed my chin, turning my face from one side to the other while he squinted disapprovingly. "You look so much better with makeup on, my love."

  "I know. I'm sorry. I was planning on an early night. Had I known you would be arriving, it would have been different."

  He let go and walked over to the floor-length windows to stare out onto the London street. "Yakov says that the show is going well. That you are dancing beautifully."

  "My ankle..."

  He swung around, the look of displeasure on his face making the words in my throat dry up. "What about i
t? Is the doctor who I organized for you not doing his job properly?"

  "He is. It's just that... it's getting worse. I'm in more pain than I was before. The injection helps for a while, but it seems to be wearing off quicker each time. I'm worried that I'm going to do irreparable damage if I keep dancing."

  He patted the pocket of his jacket, pulling a cigar out. "Pffftttt. I will talk to the doctor. He will give you more injections or a stronger dose. You know how important this show is. A bit of pain is not something you can't overcome. You are stronger than that."

  The conversation was pointless. I had no chance of winning, but I pressed on regardless, the constant anxiety about my ankle giving out altogether, making me give it one last-ditch effort. "I asked him for that. He said he couldn't. I thought maybe I should sit this show out. It—"

  Dmitry's eyes blazed fire. "I have told you that is not an option. The investment contract is contingent on you dancing in the show. I stand to lose a lot of money, not to mention that I will look bad, if you do not dance. You wouldn't want that, would you, Valentin? For me to look bad. I will talk to the doctor. He will fix it."

  I nodded, knowing there was nothing I could say or do that would sway him. I needed to get him back in a good mood. An amiable Dmitry was so much easier to handle than an irritated one. "Did you want me to order something from room service for you? You must be hungry after your flight."

  He shook his head. "No. I have business to attend to tonight. Contacts in London that I need to check on, see that they have not gotten lazy during my absence in Russia. They are like you. They need my attention, or they go off the rails. It will take a while. I will be taking Mikhail, but I will leave Igor with you."

  "You can take them both. I'm going to eat and then go straight to bed."

  He considered it for a moment. "Perhaps. An extra pair of hands could prove useful." A slow smile spread across his face. "Then tomorrow we will celebrate our reunion. A party perhaps? You can tell me which other dancers I should invite."

  My heart sank at the thought of a Dmitry-organized party. But what Dmitry wanted, Dmitry got, and everyone else agreed or was forced to pay the price. So even though he'd phrased it as a question, I knew the notion wasn't up for debate. I forced another smile, the muscles in my face starting to feel the strain. "That sounds good." It didn't. It sounded like hell. It would be hell. But I knew the drill. I knew what Dmitry's expectations were. I'd also known that him staying in Russia while I flew to London was only ever going to provide a temporary reprieve. He never let me out of his sight for too long.

  He tapped the cigar on his hand while he studied me. At least he hadn't lit it. That would save my suite from stinking of cigar smoke all night. "Are you really pleased to see me, Valentin? I'm sensing a certain coldness from you. A certain reticence that I'm not used to seeing."

  I forced myself to my feet. A few days of relative freedom and I was already out of practice at playing the bullshit game that the two of us had been playing for years. My feet sank into the luxurious carpet as I crossed the floor toward him, careful not to put too much weight on my injured ankle. I hadn't been exaggerating when I said it was worse. I had no idea how I was supposed to get through a full show when I was in this much pain after only doing one or two dances. I draped myself over Dmitry, squeezing him tight while I stared at the wall over his shoulder. I didn't have to worry about my facial expression, safe in the knowledge he couldn't see me. "I missed you." Then I kissed him on both cheeks, imitating Dmitry's action from earlier. "I'm tired. I apologize if I seem underwhelmed at your arrival."

  He stroked my hair, his face relaxing. "Ah, my beautiful Valentin. We will have so much fun tomorrow night. There is a long list of people who are dying to meet the new star of London." He checked his watch. "Unfortunately, that is tomorrow. I must go now. Do not wait up, and I shall see you for breakfast in the morning."

  I pasted another smile on my face as he turned to leave, only sinking into the chair and letting out a sigh of relief once the door had closed. I waited until the sounds outside the door had died down before venturing over to it. I opened it cautiously, half expecting to see the familiar bulk of Igor stationed outside it, but the corridor was empty. For once Dmitry had listened to me and taken both men. I closed the door again, my mind already conjuring up various ways that I could use this rare gift to my advantage.

  I pulled up a number on my phone and stared at it. It was amazing the pull you could have when you were the star of the show. Ask, and it shall be given to you. Including the phone numbers of people who probably wouldn't be at all happy to find it had been given out without their permission. Making the call was a crazy idea. It would be asking for all sorts of trouble—in more ways than one.

  My finger hovered over the button, and I lost the battle against temptation, pressing it and raising the phone to my ear. It was answered on the third ring. For a moment, there was only background noise: people talking, the clink of glasses, and faint music. He was in a bar. No surprise there. He said hello, and I found myself smiling at the distinct irritation in his voice. And that was before he knew who was on the other end of it.

  "Come to my hotel."

  A long pause. "Who is this?"

  "How many Russians do you know?"

  "Too many of late." The background noise faded as if he'd found somewhere quieter to move to. "What do you want, Valentin?"

  He sounded less than friendly. I guessed that I couldn't exactly blame him, given how we'd left it after our last encounter. "I told you, I want you to come to my hotel room. The Piccadilly London West End Hotel. Suite number 4."

  Another pause, this one so long that I had to check the phone screen to see whether he'd hung up. "You seriously think that you can just call me out of the blue to demand I come to your hotel and that I'll actually consider it? How the hell do you even have my number anyway? I didn't give it to you!"

  I let him rant, his angry words acting as a strange sort of salve after the shock of Dmitry's early arrival. Max was real. He didn't hide his feelings. He didn't play games—as far as I knew anyway. He was exactly what I needed, and to hell with the consequences. "Don't be long, Max." Then I hung up.

  I was ninety-five percent certain that he wouldn't be able to resist the invitation. However, I was less sure how long it would take him to get to the hotel from wherever he was. I could have asked, but it was highly unlikely that he would have volunteered the information anyway. I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror. My makeup-free reflection. Well, that wouldn't do. That wouldn't do at all. I hurried over to the dressing table and started applying foundation, ignoring the continuous ringing of my phone, which I assumed was Max trying to call me back.

  Forty minutes later and I was starting to think that my reading of Max Farley had been less than accurate. I'd made the assumption that he'd been alone—based on nothing. He was a good-looking man though. For all I knew, he could have been sitting there with some nubile twink who he'd picked up. Either that or he wasn't as interested in me as I'd like to believe. He'd had me once. Maybe that was enough.

  The heat in his eyes when he looked at me though said otherwise. And then there was the fact that he'd fucked like he couldn't get enough. I suddenly felt ridiculous. There I was, standing in a hotel room, perfectly made up, hair teased to perfection, and naked beneath a fluffy robe, waiting for a man who couldn't care less. This was what happened when you started to believe your own hype.

  My head swung toward the hotel phone on the nightstand as it rang. I lifted the receiver to my ear. "Yes."

  "Mr. Bychkov, I'm so sorry to disturb you, but there is a man in reception claiming to have received an invitation from you. We didn't want to send him up without checking his story with you first."

  Relief and satisfaction jostled inside me. "Does he look annoyed?"

  There was a long pause. I assumed the concierge was contemplating the best way to answer the question tactfully with the man standing right in front of him. "Ermm... I
would probably say yes to that question. Would you like me to call security?"

  I shook my head, even though the man on the other side of the phone had no way of discerning it. "No. Send him up."

  Muffled voices came over the line as the concierge relayed the message before ending the call. I imagined the look that would be on Max's face when he got to my suite. He'd been annoyed, but that still hadn't stopped him from coming to the hotel. That spoke volumes.

  I propped the door open a few inches before lounging back in the chair, aiming for a look of relaxed languor. I shifted my robe to the side slightly, ensuring there was an ample amount of thigh on display, the tanned skin dark against the whiteness of the robe. And then I waited. I didn't have to wait long, the knock sounding at the door, even though it was clearly open, less than a minute later. Apparently, even a Max who was pissed still had manners. I schooled my face. I might be looking forward to seeing him, but it wouldn't pay to let him know that. "Come in."

  The door burst open to reveal a glowering Max. His gaze swept briefly around the suite before settling on me, his expression turning even stormier. I cocked my head to the side and studied him as his long legs made short work of the space between us, the door slamming shut in his wake. He halted a few paces away, his eyes dropping to the generous portion of bare skin I'd left on display before dragging his eyes back to my face. I arched an eyebrow in a deliberately infuriating fashion and waited for him to speak first.

  He shook his head. "Who the fuck do you think you are?"