Fever

by Tonya Plank

  I allowed myself to fall asleep in his arms, with the knowledge that I was safe and secure. I allowed myself to forget about those men, at least for now.

  Chapter 9

  Of course that night would not leave my mind. It was by far the most haunting thing that had ever happened to me. But there was so much to do in the following few weeks to prepare for Blackpool, I forced myself to trust Sasha and banish the experience from my mind. I never did see the sedan again, so I trusted that it was taken care of, whatever “it” was. Not that I was going to let him off the hook forever. After Blackpool was over and we’d calmed down, I would definitely press him for full details.

  One of the positive things that had come out of the whole nightmare was my realization of how happy I was with my life. How much I would miss it if it—any of it—was taken from me.

  I was back to eating healthy and regularly. After the chocolate rose Sasha gave me that night, I developed a new love for dark chocolate—filled with antioxidants along with delicious taste once you got used to it. I drank three of his juices a day, including the beet juice, which, after the horrible man’s beet-y stink that night, became a kind of empowering symbol that I would overcome him. And Sasha and I became regulars at the famous Musso & Frank down the street from me—and where we’d had that early sexual-angst-fraught encounter—where we’d have iron- and protein-rich medium rare steak with steamed broccoli and Brussels sprouts.

  I worked harder on our Blackpool routines than I’d ever worked before. It was like I had a new lease on life, and there wasn’t a single aspect of it I wasn’t going to live to the fullest.

  ***

  We returned to Daiyu’s two weeks before the competition. I’d somehow managed to gain enough weight that my dresses fit perfectly. They were far more gorgeous than I’d imagined. She had all the rhinestones on and they glimmered in the bright Los Angeles sunlight gleaming through the opened window. I looked unbelievably glamorous, like I never had before. Certainly not in any of my ballet costumes. I looked like a real ballroom dancer.

  Daiyu—and Sasha—surprised me by making one additional costume. This one was in the same toga-esque style but in this really rich bronze. In all the drama of the past few weeks, Sasha had forgotten to tell me, but the American team had been invited to dance in the world team competition held at the beginning of Blackpool, before the individual comps. Actually, he hadn’t thought we were going to be asked to participate since we were a new partnership, and thus had no ranking. But the new judges had changed the rules so that one very high-ranked partner would mean the partnership’s inclusion on the team. And Sasha, of course, was so highly ranked, they wanted him and whoever he was dancing with regardless of whether the partnership was new.

  “There’s always so much drama when the U.S. team competes,” he’d said with a sly smile. “I think they just don’t want to take the chance of having a boring team comp.”

  Drama, hmm? Well, as with everything happening in my life of late, I had no idea what all that word could possibly entail. I figured I’d be finding out soon enough.

  So, we were to dance with the U.S.’s three other top couples in a team match two days before our regular competition. I shouldn’t worry too much; it wasn’t as serious, Sasha had assured me. Winners didn’t go down in the history books or anything, the way the individual champions did. This was really kind of a goofy, fun event meant to get the audience warmed up for the real comp, allowing them to cheer on their favorite competing country.

  For us, it would mean a great chance to warm up and would give me the opportunity to dance on the big ballroom floor and us to go over our routines one more time before it mattered for real. Besides a small opening number involving all team members, we’d just be dancing our regular competition routines, so no need to learn anything new. Of course, my heart initially skipped a beat or two when I learned of yet another competition we’d be dancing in, but I just wasn’t the stress case lately I’d been before. Sasha told me to trust him, that it was no big deal. And I did. I trusted him wholly, with everything.

  We recorded ourselves practicing in the costumes. Daiyu had layered all three so well, putting in several rather hidden skin-toned straps, so there was virtually no chance of a costume malfunction, which made me a lot more comfortable. The costumes all looked so elegant and sleek. Sexy without looking gauche or trashy. I was awed by how much we looked like real partners, just like all the dancers on the videos I’d watched ad nauseam.

  “You were wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong,” I teased Sasha, pressing my index finger into his rock-solid pec. We’d just finished going through our last routine and were still in the costumes. I was careful not to make any fingernail indentation in the gorgeous fabric of his sheer top, so I made sure to press into his gloriously silky skin.

  He frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “On our first day at Daiyu’s, you thought I wouldn’t be happy with my costume. With whatever costume she made for me. That I’d never be happy with my body.” I put my arms behind my back, clasped my hands, and swung my body back and forth, smiling up at him sweetly like a happy schoolgirl.

  He smiled and nodded. “That’s true. I do remember saying that.”

  “And you were wrong. This costume is hot, hot, hot!” I swung about more fully, now swirling my arms about too. “I actually look…good.” I was suddenly embarrassed at my new, improved self-esteem.

  He shook his head and laughed. “No.”

  “No? Did you just say—”

  “I mean to say that the costume looks very, very good on you. But it is not the costume that is hot. It’s the wearer.” He grabbed both of my hands to stop me from swinging. His expression suddenly became very serious.

  He stepped slowly toward me and, still holding my hands, pressed his lips to mine where they remained for quite a few moments. Then he began brushing those full wet lips against my cheek, then down to my chin, to my neck, and to my clavicle, before running his tongue along the top of my right breast, out toward my right shoulder—the one left bare by the toga top.

  He stopped and looked at me with puppy dog eyes. He ran his finger along the top line of the costume. “I would like to see more hotness, please. Less costume, more wearer.”

  I laughed, embarrassed. “Yeah, probably not a good idea to do anything in these anyway. We don’t want to, you know, soil anything.”

  But he was already busy unfastening the hook atop my zipper, which was located directly under my armpit. It tickled as his fingers fidgeted with the clasp and I giggled.

  “Oh wait,” I cried out as he finally got the zipper down. “My shoes.” I looked down at my feet. “I don’t want to snag any stones or anything on the way off.”

  He mock-harrumphed and bent down. “What I won’t do to get you naked,” he muttered as he slowly unbuckled my shoes, then delicately removed each foot from its stiletto’d binding. I giggled again, feeling a bit like Cinderella, except that my prince was freeing my foot rather than fitting it into the glass slipper.

  After my shoes were off, he gingerly pulled the top of the toga down, over my left shoulder, down past my breasts to my waist, then on down my thighs. He went so slowly, partially to avoid snagging any part of the costume, but more so he could run his nose and lips over every inch of my body, every pore of my skin, as the material revealed it. At points, he ran his tongue over my bareness, but more often, he just breathed in deeply, stopping seemingly every several pores, as if to take in every bit of me. Okay, he was really testing me now. I didn’t know if I was that comfortable with my body yet!

  When he finally had the blasted thing off, he walked to the chair near the window and delicately draped it over the back. Then he turned to me, looking me up and down with hooded lids.

  “Let me see your rrrumba walks,” he commanded.

  “Oh stop it! No way!” I shouted. “Take off your costume, put your pants and top on the other chair, and get over here.” My voice wasn’t quite as commanding as
his.

  He simply tapped his foot and widened his eyes. Waiting. He wasn’t taking no for an answer. I took a deep breath, shifted my weight to my left foot, pointed my right toe, traced it along the floor, and began walking toward him. By the third step, I was only about ten percent as self-conscious as I’d been during that very first private lesson I’d had with him, and by the fourth, somehow it was all gone. There was nothing judgmental at all in his eyes.

  When I was about halfway to him, he began walking toward me. Except his steps were swifter and sharper, more masculine. They made my heart race, those steps. And they grew more and more swift, until he practically rushed me. When he reached me, he pulled me into him.

  “Perfect,” he whispered before kissing me deeply, wrapping his arms around me, one on my back shoulder blade, one around my waist, pulling me into him.

  “Sasha,” I managed to say as soon as I could catch my breath. He was somehow on top of me, though we were still both standing. He looked at me with those heavily lidded eyes and made me want to fall to the floor and literally pull him on top of me. “No. Come on. We don’t want to mess up anything,” I said, emphasis on the last word. I rolled my eyes in a downward direction, feeling the wetness between my legs meeting the material of his pants.

  He took a breath and stepped back, releasing me. He pivoted around and darted toward the chair. But before removing one item of clothing, he sharply pivoted back around toward me. At that very second the music came on. It was Tom Jones’s “You Can Leave Your Hat On,” which we’d used to dance a slow, practice cha-cha to. How in the world he did that, I’d never know. I didn’t see the iPod remote anywhere near him. It was like magic.

  As the drool-worthy, sexy lyrics began—“Baby, take your coat off…real slow”—Sasha slowly began to run his fingers down the deep v-neck of his shirt. The shirt had no buttons, so he mimicked undoing them. I laughed at the gesture, but the way he fingered the solid black lining of his mainly mesh top, where the silky material met his skin, made my sex clench. By the time he got to the top of his pants and began fingering the thick waistline, I was beginning to throb. And when he slowly undid his zipper then began to lower his pants down past his hips, I was pretty much on fire down there. He kicked off his shoes, tossed off his socks, and whipped off the shirt all in one fell swoop, leaving him only in his hot black dance briefs.

  He began doing these tantalizingly slow, pelvic-swaying cucharachas, but then threw in some mad-hot lightning steps to the side, dancing about four steps to every beat of music. Or more. I couldn’t tell. His hips, legs, and torso moved so fast everything was a wicked blur. He suddenly stopped, with the same razor sharp abruptness with which he’d started, and when Jones crooned, “You give me reason to live,” he drilled his ever-so-penetrating gaze right into me.

  My sex swelled and my breath caught, and I wanted badly to rush him, but those eyes somehow made it impossible to move. It was okay, though, because as suddenly as he stopped, he started again, this time cha-cha-ing toward me, moving like a flame. I gasped as he reached me, whipped me into a close hold, and cha-cha’d with me around in a circle. He pulled me into him closer and closer with each dizzying step. I couldn’t spot or hold my head back to restore my equilibrium because that would have meant turning my face from his, and I simply couldn’t do that, he was so beautiful. We were going faster and faster and my breasts were bouncing straight into his glorious pecs, nipple brushing nipple. I was getting so dizzy I would have fallen if he wasn’t holding me.

  “Stop!” I finally cried out.

  He did as I asked and I pushed him back, into the barre, and closed my eyes for a second, hoping to regain my balance. I opened my mouth to take in a deep breath and his mouth immediately covered mine, making it impossible for me to tell him to take off his briefs, which is what I’d had in mind. I felt like he knew I’d wanted to say that. Fine, I thought. I’d do it for him. I reached around his backside, grabbed his firm ass, bunched the material in my hand and pulled down. When I felt his penis against my skin, I pulled back so I could look at him. Crooked, wily smile, hooded eyes, and that teasing erection all just made me want to devour him.

  I pushed him down farther onto the barre, pulled myself up as high as I could go, stood on my tiptoes, spread my thighs, and slid him into me. His back was against the mirror and I placed a palm on either side of him, onto the glass. It was incredibly bizarre seeing myself this close, especially with mouth open, in such a state of ecstasy, rocking back and forth, breasts bouncing. Well, this was me. This was what I looked like in the throes of passion, with my man. I rather liked myself like this. I arched back and lifted my chin. He took advantage of the position to lick the hollow of my neck.

  I don’t know how long we were in that position but I could feel it wasn’t ideal for him with his back against the wood. Just as the thought of a big ole splinter lodging in his backside occurred to me, he moved forward, away from the barre, lifting me completely off the floor. Man, talk about strong!

  I giggled at his raw muscle power as he flashed me that wicked grin then began walking forward, still carrying me. I wrapped my legs around his waist and my arms around his back more tightly and lifted my center as he carried me all the way across the floor and up the winding staircase to the bedroom.

  ***

  I was full of nervous excitement the day of our flight. We packed very carefully, ending up with four ginormous suitcases. Two of them were for the three costumes alone. The other two, for the rest of the things we’d need for the week. We took an UberLUX to LAX and went through customs and checked our baggage. The extra weight came to two hundred dollars in additional luggage fees. Sasha used a special credit card provided to him by the sponsors. I was so comfortable knowing that all expenses were paid for. My natural inclination was to worry about every little purchase, but we were free to do anything we wanted. Sasha recommended we get shoulder and back massages from the terminal’s salon for the long flight ahead. We’d be in business class but he was such an active person he still found it hard on his back to sit or lie down for long periods of time. I’d never taken a flight over five hours and I’d never flown in business class, so I really didn’t know what to expect. Not to mention I’d never been abroad. Even just getting my passport had been a new experience. To say my life with Sasha was really opening the world to me was a huge understatement.

  The massage was dreamy. Afterward, we relaxed with a glass of wine in the business lounge. Well, I had white wine, Sasha had a Scotch. And, yes, it was eleven in the morning! I was nearly crazed with nervous energy, but Sasha was somehow relaxed.

  “There’s no point in stressing out now,” he said. “We know what we know. Everything’s in our muscle memory. It is what it is in terms of how the judges will like it. We can’t control that any more. Stressing out now will only give us the potential to screw up.”

  I knew he was right.

  Our flight left L.A. for New York at noon. The overnight flight from New York to Manchester departed at eight p.m. We’d arrive in England at two thirty in the morning east coast time, but seven thirty a.m. British time. Then, we had an hour-long car or bus ride from Manchester to Blackpool. By the time we actually got to our hotel, allowing for delays and waiting times to go through immigration and collect our baggage and all, Sasha estimated our trip one-way would take an entire twenty-four hours. Good thing we’d have another twenty-two hours to settle down before our first team practice began.

  Once our journey got underway, it was actually hard for me to worry about the competition. Everything was so new to me. Business class was really wonderful. Plenty of leg and elbow room, and the seats reclined to almost lying position. And they gave us unlimited cocktails. I ended up drinking a lot of wine and by the time we landed in New York, had a little headache. But aspirin took it right away. Aspirin combined with excitement. They had a good deal of in-flight entertainment. A lot of movies and TV shows. Sasha watched “Dark Knight Rises” but I just gazed out the window the
whole time and listened to classical music. The window showed nothing but clouds for most of the flight, but it was so relaxing. And I could see the ground peeking through at some points when there was still daylight. I imagined all the farms and mountains and plains and lakes we were traveling over. I’d taken only two cross-country flights, or flights between California and North Carolina, electing to stay in San Francisco for Christmases and summers after my first year at Hastings.

  Even though our New York experience was limited to JFK Airport, I found myself enthralled to be there. I wished we’d had time to go to Lincoln Center and catch a New York City Ballet performance. It would have been nice to see how the area had changed, or stayed the same, since my try-out for the summer intensive, and reflect on how much my life had changed in those twelve years. I was a dancer now, but a completely different kind of dancer than I’d tried out for the School of American Ballet with the intention of becoming. And I had a law degree, to boot. And lived on the opposite coast. And had a gorgeous Russian boyfriend and professional dance partner!

  The overseas flight’s dinner was really good—Shepherd’s pie with Caesar salad and chocolate mousse for dessert. And red wine for me, despite my little headache. It was my first overseas flight; I couldn’t resist. After dinner, Sasha reclined and dozed off, holding my hand. I didn’t recline the seat even a bit. I was too excited to sleep.

  In the morning, the flight attendants served us yet another meal: this time English breakfast, which was, again, delicious. All manner of rich, meaty sausage-looking things they called pudding. And a fried tomato, and baked beans, and this fried doughy toast that tasted like a hushpuppy. Mmmm, to die for! To drink, not wine this time, but tea with very creamy milk. I wasn’t that crazed with the complimentary cocktails!

  I was still struggling a bit with the eating. But I was doing much, much better. With food this delicious, and new to me, I had to try some of everything.