Second Position

by Melody Grace

  Dirty Dancing #2

  Second Position

  BY

  Melody Grace

  Copyright © 2014 by Melody Grace

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.

  All rights reserved.

  Photo credit copyright Regina Wamba

  Cover design by Louisa Maggio

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  Table of Contents

  RAPHAEL

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  11.

  12.

  13.

  14.

  15.

  16.

  17.

  Raphael

  Dancing with the perfect partner is like the most powerful orgasm of your life.

  Imagine it now, that moment when you become more than your physical form, when you are nothing but motion and passion; wild, pure, relentless pleasure.

  Can you feel it?

  The way our bodies rock together. My hands pinning you down, my mouth sliding over your hot, damp skin. Each hard thrust driving deep to that place you never dreamed possible. Every breathless cry hurtling you closer to the edge.

  Beyond words. Beyond thought. Beyond reason.

  Free.

  A dancer will search his whole life to find that connection. The one partner to anticipate every move before you even think it yourself. Every breath, every heartbeat, sounding as one.

  I’d all but given up on perfection like that. Until I saw her.

  Annalise.

  Her body is pure motion; her spirit, a caged bird just waiting to be set free. All it took was one dance, and I fell like never before. I held her in my arms, and I knew, I could never dance with another woman again.

  She doesn’t realize the power she holds over me. How a simple sway of her hips makes my body ache, demanding that I bury myself deep in her gasping flesh; how a breath from those sweet lips makes me long to hear them moaning my name.

  I will claim her. I will possess her.

  I will teach her the most erotic dance of all.

  1.

  Annalise

  I cry for hours, until my eyes are red and my throat is raw.

  How could I be so stupid?

  I came to Rome with only one thing on my mind: ballet. After years slowly climbing up the ranks at the American Ballet Company, my career had ground to a stop. Over the hill at nineteen, I could see it all slipping away. That’s why my mom arranged for me to go on residency in Italy. This was my last shot, my chance to win a solo and prove that I have what it takes to be a prima ballerina one day – just like my mother.

  And then I met him. Raphael. From the moment I saw him dancing in the square, I knew, everything would change. His intensity makes the world stop spinning. His seductive promises make me forget my own name. I was sneaking back into the dorms after our illicit date together when I twisted my ankle – a painful sprain that I know will wreck my chances of winning a major role in our company’s big production, and could spell the end of my dancing career forever.

  I sit up, gingerly nursing the tender joints. Already, my ankle is swollen, red and bruised. I try to stand, and have to bite back a sob. It hurts so much! I can barely walk on it. How am I supposed to dance? To turn a dozen fouette spins across the stage like I’m dancing on air?

  My cell phone sounds with a text. I exchanged numbers with Raphael before he dropped me back at the dorms, and now, I’m ashamed to feel my heart leap.

  I check the message.

  ‘Are you OK? How is your ankle? X’

  I don’t reply. Instead, I hobble to the door and check the hallway. It’s silent. Everyone else at the company is out to dinner, so there’s nobody to see me as I painfully limp down the hall to the ice machine. Every step sends pain slicing through my ankle, and I have to hold onto the wall for support.

  Stupid, stupid girl. A voice in my head scolds me with every step. How could you have risked everything for some stranger? A man you barely even know?

  But I do know him. Even through the pain and misery, Raphael fills my mind. The dark, tousled hair and proud, chiseled features. His hungry, possessive stare. Those devastating lips.

  His hands…

  I catch my breath, tears stinging in the corners of my eyes. I screamed at him, told him I never wanted to see him again. I said my injury was all his fault.

  But it’s not. It’s mine. Mine, because I couldn’t resist him. Because the fire in my blood, and the desire clawing low between my thighs was the only thing that mattered to me.

  I ignored good sense, and logic, my years of careful training. I threw it all away for what? One stupid, reckless kiss.

  But you know, it was so much more than a kiss...

  I shut down the tempting whispers, taunting me with memories of Raphael’s hands on my body, his mouth licking hotly across my skin. It takes me almost ten minutes, but eventually, I manage to fill a bucket with ice and get back to the room. I sit down, and plunge my whole foot into the ice. This time, I can’t hold back the whimper of pain.

  My cell phone buzzes again.

  ‘I’m not giving up on you. I’ll call again in the morning. I’m sorry.’

  My heart twists. Why does he have to be so arrogantly determined? From the very first moment we met, Raphael seemed to have it all figured out. He wanted me, I knew it, and nothing else mattered to him.

  I wish for a moment my life could be so clear-cut. No ballet, no training, no legacy shadowing everything I do, taunting me with the truth that I might never live up to my mother’s name.

  Just him. Raphael. A passion that blazes between us; an intensity that thrills and scares me all at the same time.

  “I’ll show you a pleasure like you’ve never known…”

  I remember his murmured promise, and feel my body tighten in response. But this is the sacrifice of being a dancer. Nothing else can matter, not flirtations, or adventure.

  Or even desire.

  I risked it all for him, and I didn’t even realize it. And now… Now, I have nothing but a twisted ankle and broken dreams – and a body that still calls to him, against all my better judgment. Wanting his arms around me, and those lips to claim mine again.

  Wanting him to make good on that whispered promise. To teach me the lessons only a real man could.

  I fall back onto the bed with a frustrated groan. I hate myself for jeopardizing my career. But oh, how I want him too.

  Raphael… What have you done to me?

  2.

  “Wake up, sleepy-head. You missed an amazing night.”

  I struggle to adjust to the lights. I must have fallen asleep
, and now my roommates are back from dinner. They bustle around the room, turning on lights and stripping off their jackets, chattering as they go. “We went to this fancy seafood place, it was the best.” Karla announces, “You even missed Mademoiselle getting drunk!”

  “I couldn’t believe it,” Rosalie adds, laughing. She grabs her toiletry bag and heads for the bathroom. “She had way too much wine, and wound up telling stories about all the ballet scandals back in her day.”

  I don’t say a word, pulling myself into a sitting position to check my ankle again in the bright lights. It looks even worse than before now: mottled with purple bruising, swollen up to twice its normal size. I tried strapping it with bags of ice wrapped in a towel, but now the numbness is fading, leaving that sharp ache in its place again.

  But the pain in my foot is nothing compared to the emptiness in my chest, a tide of disappointment and blame.

  “So did you and lover-boy have fun?” Karla asks, brushing out her hair. “Don’t tell me you were just walking around—Oh my god!” She turns, seeing me properly for the first time, my ankle stretched out in front of me. She stares at it, aghast. “What the hell happened?”

  “I twisted it,” I answer dully. “Trying to sneak back in.”

  Karla’s eyes meet mine, full of horror. “But tomorrow is the audition for our production. You have to dance!”

  I shake my head. “I can’t, it hurts too much. I’ll be lucky if I can even walk on it.”

  “Oh, Annalise,” she breathes, coming to sit beside me on the bed. Karla squeezes my hand. “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe it.”

  “Me either.” I sniffle, feeling a fresh wave of misery. “I never should have gone out with him. I can’t believe I let myself get distracted. What am I supposed to do now?” My voice breaks, and I fall against her.

  Karla hugs me, wordlessly. She doesn’t try to reassure me; she knows better than anyone, there’s nothing she can say. A ballerina lives in fear of injuries like this. One wrong move, and your whole career is over. But to have it end like this ... It’s one thing taking a fall in rehearsal, or tripping trying to master a tricky step, but to throw it all away on a tempting smile, and a devastating kiss?

  I deserve it, I think, through the haze of misery and pain. I deserve it, for taking my dance for granted like this, for pushing the rules, for putting anything above ballet.

  Karla tenses, so I pull away. “Sorry to cry all over you.” I wipe my eyes, self-conscious.

  She frowns. “No, it’s not that.” She puts a hand to her stomach, expression queasy. “I just—don’t feel so good.”

  Karla scrambles up, and knocks on the bathroom door. “Can you hurry up in there, please?” she calls.

  There’s an answering groan. The door swings open to reveal Rosalie, sitting slumped on the floor by the toilet, a matching expression on her stricken face. “Join the party,” she manages, before turning away and retching violently into the bowl.

  Karla stumbles in, pushing her aside to reach the sink. Then there’s nothing but a chorus of vomiting sounds drifting out from the bathroom. This is awful.

  “Are you guys OK?” I call, gingerly easing myself onto my feet.

  “Does it sound like I’m OK?!” Karla manages to call. “I feel like I swallowed an angry parasite.”

  “I feel like I’m going to die!” Rosalie whimpers. The toilet flushes.

  “What can I do?” I ask, but they only reply in groans.

  I hear a commotion outside, so I limp to the door and open it, looking out into the hallway. Everywhere, I hear moaning and retching, and miserable cries.

  Mademoiselle rushes past, her face looking decidedly green. “What happened?” I ask. “Is everyone—?”

  She waves me off, stumbling away on unsteady feet.

  I look around for someone who doesn’t look as if they’re about to faint. Lucia strolls past, looking smug. “What’s going on?” I ask her.

  “Bad shellfish,” she replies, looking way too pleased. “Half the company are vomiting all over the place.”

  “Why aren’t you?” I ask.

  She shrugs, pleased. “I always order the steak.”

  3.

  In the end, the company’s pain is my salvation: with half with dancers struck down with food poisoning, auditions for the solos are delayed until Monday. We’re all given the weekend off.

  I don’t want to get my hopes up, but I can’t help thinking my prayers have been answered. It’s a sign. I shut my phone away, ignoring all Raphael’s texts and calls. I’ve learned my lesson. This is my second chance, and I won’t let him get in the way. Instead, I spend Friday resting up my ankle: strapping it with ice, rubbing it with healing salve, and doing everything I can to fix it, while Karla and Rosalie lay groaning in their beds beside me.

  “You had a lucky escape,” Mademoiselle tells me, when she comes around with the doctor to check on everyone Saturday morning.

  She has no idea.

  “Mhmm,” I murmur in agreement, making sure to keep my ankle hidden under a blanket, so it looks like I’m just hanging out, watching movies with Karla and Rosalie.

  “Drink plenty of fluids,” the doctor tells them. “You should be feeling better soon.”

  They exit the room.

  Checking the door, just to be certain we’re alone, I throw back the blanket and inspect my ankle again. “I think it’s a little better.” I unwrap the bandages. “Look, it’s more a greenish color now, and half the size.” I get up and test my weight on it carefully. To my delight, it doesn’t hurt so much, just a dull ache from the pressure. “Maybe by Monday...” I feel hope take flight in my chest. Maybe I’m not doomed, after all.

  I feel a flush of guilt as I remember how I screamed at Raphael, blaming him for everything.

  I slide deeper under my blanket. It doesn’t matter what he thinks of you, I remind myself. The twisted ankle was a warning. You’re going to stay away from him now.

  Right?

  I spend the rest of the morning hanging out with Karla and Rosalie, changing channels at their request and bringing them club soda to sip, but after a full day of doing nothing already, I’m getting restless – and hungry.

  “Can I get you guys anything while I’m out?” I ask, pulling on some jeans and a T-shirt, and carefully testing my ankle again. The ache isn’t too bad, so I figure I can get as far as the deli on the corner, as long as I take it slow. “A sandwich or something?”

  “No!” Karla replies in a muffled groan. “No food. I’m never eating again!”

  I take my shoulder bag and let myself out of the room. The dorms are quiet as I head down the hallway and downstairs, everyone either still resting up or using their unexpected free time to rehearse at the studio or see more of the city.

  I wish I could do either one of them, but I know it would be tempting fate to try to push my ankle too far, too soon. Just walking slowly is risky enough for me, and I make sure to keep to a snail’s pace as I step onto the busy street and limp towards the lunch spot down the block.

  I’m only a few paces outside the building when I hear my name being called.

  “Annalise!”

  I turn, my eyes widening with shock when I see Raphael crossing the street determinedly towards me. He’s dressed in a casual white T-shirt and jeans, but everything about him is darkly intense.

  “Raphael.”

  Just the sight of him hits me like a chemical reaction: my heartbeat racing, my skin prickling with awareness. I gulp for air, my head spinning. “What are you doing here?”

  “I had to see you,” he says in a rush, talking over me, “I know you said you didn’t want to see me again, but I won’t stay away. I can’t, Annalise, you and I both know, this thing between us is real.”

  His words crash through me, and despite myself, I feel a glow at his words.

  He thinks this is real. He needed to see me.

  I glance fearfully back at the dorms in case someone is watching. “How did you know I was comin
g down?” I demand.

  “I’ve been waiting all day.” He nods to a café across the street. “I would have climbed up that balcony myself if you didn’t come out soon.”

  “You wouldn’t!” I gasp.

  His eyes pierce me, glinting and fierce. “You can’t hide from me, Annalise. Please,” he adds, softening. “I had to know that you’re alright. Your ankle? Is it—?”

  “It’s healing,” I admit. “I can’t dance yet, but maybe in a couple of days.”

  He exhales, and only then do I realize his tension was on my behalf. He was worried about me, my dancing career.

  “Forgive me,” he says, taking my hands.

  Heat flushes my face, my neck, and straight down into my thighs.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” I protest. But I can see the anguish still in his eyes.

  He shakes his head. “I should have kept you safe. You have to know the last thing I wanted was to put you in danger.”

  “It was an accident,” I say firmly. “And it all worked out OK.” I quickly explain about the food poisoning and the new audition set for Monday.

  Raphael breaks into a stunning smile. “But that’s wonderful!” He suddenly grabs me by the waist and swings me around. “It’s not the end, after all!”

  I catch my breath, caught up in the whirl of movement and the feel of his arms around me. Then Raphael sets me down gently, and I laugh, reeling.

  “Not yet. I still have a chance. Just a chance.”

  “But that’s all you need.” Raphael’s eyes meet mine, full of confidence. “You’ll be wonderful.”

  I look away, embarrassed. “You’ve never even seen me dance,” I say. “I could be terrible.”

  “No.” He says it calmly, so certain. “You were born to dance, I can tell.”

  There’s an awkward pause, and then my stomach rumbles loudly, sounding like a thunderstorm even on the busy street. Shit! I clamp my hand over it, blushing furiously as Raphael chuckles.