by Lynn Turner
Mina was practically panting now. Pure bass had replaced the heartbeat in the music and she looked like she was struggling to breathe. Zack licked his lips at the intensity on her face. Part of him simply desired to share his art with another exceptional artist…but there was something else inside him that was finding it increasingly satisfying to stun this pristine ballerina until she was hot and flushed.
Wait for it, he willed her silently.
The dancer’s thighs returned to their position over her partner’s shoulders, her legs extended behind him as he pushed her down again. This time, her hands trailed slowly down his thighs, her torso aligning perfectly with his. His hands held her in place by her ankles, and her arms hugged his waist, their heads nestled between each other’s legs. They were posed in a perfect sixty-nine.
Audible reactions filled the studio. Mina’s gasp was full-body this time, forcing her chest forward, her eyes widened in shock.
Zack’s ego soared. Working with her was going to be fun.
The music faded back to lyrical piano and persistent heartbeat, signaling the demo’s finale. The male dancer pushed one of his partner’s legs until they scissored apart into a split while she was still upside down. She clung to his waist as they pulled apart, and he leaned back as far as he could go. It was a stunning show of strength and flexibility. Gripping an ankle in one hand, he arched his back until their bodies formed a T.
Zack had to know. “What do you think?”
Mina shivered when Zack spoke. The room had fallen quiet as the dancers held their pose. She hadn’t noticed that he’d moved so close. She couldn’t look at him. His voice was way too deep and low, and given what she’d just watched, it felt like whispers between lovers. The imagery that traitorous thought drummed up…hot, naked bodies twisting and writhing together…made her blink like mad.
Bordel!
“Is… that what we will be doing?” She didn’t mean to sound so panicked.
“Part of it.”
She gasped.
Zack grinned. “It’s a little suggestive.”
“Suggestive?” she breathed, unable to stop herself from staring right into the deep-sea green of his eyes.
“No, you’re right.” He studied her face with unmistakable amusement. “It’s pretty overt.”
Loud whistles, clapping and cheers interrupted the words Mina couldn’t manage to get out anyway, and Harper was already making his way over.
“My guy!” he congratulated Zack with a grin. “I think that pretty much spoke for itself, but I’ll let you say a few words.”
“Hey, shut up, will ya?” Zack said playfully at all the noise. When it died down, he cleared his throat. “Thank you to those phenomenal dancers, by the way. Now I remember why I hired you.”
That brought good-natured jibes from the cast, and then the man who’d introduced himself as Pete Something-Or-Other (the dramatist who’d helped Zack write Lady in Red) handed him a glass of wine.
Zack shook his head. “And the genius that is Harper Holloway—I mean…come on, that was amazing.”
The room erupted with more praise.
“Can we just take a second and appreciate that this guy deejays nightclubs in a suit and tie? People have no idea they’re getting cultured by a Julliard grad. He’s got them twerking to Mozart. Incredible.”
More laughter.
“Holy hell.” He rubbed his chin. “This is really happening. It took three years from the time the idea came to me, to write the first words…two years after that to write just two songs-”
“And by then I thought it might be time to move things along,” Pete cracked, and more laughter ensued.
“It’s true,” Zack said. “But we’re finally here, and I couldn’t be more grateful. A few weeks from now, one of the best ballerinas in the world is gonna help us shut down the Tony Awards—No pressure, Mina.”
He was obviously joking, but a tiny tornado of terror was brewing in her stomach. What the hell did I get myself into? She managed a small, embarrassed smile.
“I realize our rehearsal schedule is a little unprecedented,” he continued, “but so are we, and so is Lady in Red. I know you’re as invested as I am, and I know we’re gonna kill it.” He dragged his fingers through his magnificent hair. “Shit, I’m no good at speeches—and yes, I realize the irony, thank you very much, Pete.”
Pete guffawed, and Zack wrapped things up. “Just…thank you, from the bottom of my heart. I’m one step closer to my dream, and I can’t think of better people to bring along with me. Cheers.”
“Cheers!”
*
First Rehearsal…3 Weeks Before the Tonys…6:27 pm
She was going to have to stop flinching every time he touched her.
A thin sheen of sweat covered her satiny brown skin, lending a slightly acidic note to her natural aroma. Years of grueling rehearsals made him accustomed to the smell of musk. It was unique to every partner, like a scent signature. It tended to be strong, which was why he detested dancing with partners who wore perfume.
Mina’s musk was burning wood and cinnamon and flowers—and the distinct odor of sweat. His mouth and nose were millimeters from her long, graceful neck. With every inhale, he tasted her, and for the first time in his career, it felt deeply personal.
“Try and relax.” His voice wasn’t as steady as he’d intended, but his hand was, pressing gently against her lower back, encouraging her to arch more deeply. He felt her abs tighten in protest.
“It doesn’t feel right,” she panted, losing her balance despite his support, her leg dropping from its high position behind her.
The vein in his neck throbbed, as much from exasperation, as from the way her words blended together in that sweet French accent. He’d never had this much trouble staying focused before. Dancing required everything: every muscle, every breath, every thought. It was far too demanding—and frankly, dangerous—to be distracted by a partner.
A huffing, puffing, sweaty partner.
For fuck’s sake.
It was more awareness than arousal. He was aware of her, of her breaths and movements, and the thoughts in her head. On some level, it was like this with every partner. He had to anticipate her next move, familiarize himself with her body. He knew women’s bodies the way astronomers knew the sky. Years of partnering had made him aware of the pockets of space most people didn’t think about, the hidden crevices beyond peaks and valleys most recognized and oft-traveled.
His favorite part was a woman’s true ribs, those first seven bones extending from her underarm and down beneath her breast. There was something provocative about them, the way they were strong by design, fragile in his hands. He itched to hold Mina there, to nestle his fingers between those fine grooves, his thumbs brushing the smooth skin of her back; to be entrusted with her safety, to help her make the impossible look effortless. But he couldn’t do any of that until her thoughts stopped screwing with her confidence. He needed to get into her head.
“It’s not going to feel right,” he said finally, in a soft tone. “Not until you relax.”
Merde.
His voice was like velvet, so deep and soothing…and so annoying.
Her back ached, because he insisted she lean forward into the arabesque instead of keeping her spine straight. Her feet felt sticky…and cold. Dancing barefoot was more challenging than she thought. New callouses were forming in all the wrong places and her feet kept slipping. Toe splits were not fun. And his hands…
Dieu, his hands!
They were on her. All over her. All the time. Shockingly, he spoke more with his hands than his mouth, and it was driving her insane.
“I need to catch my breath,” she huffed, feeling quite like she was at the end of her rope.
“You’re fine.” His timbre was even more soothing this time. “The best way to get used to the water is to just jump right in. So jump.”
She groaned inwardly, but positioned herself again, hugging the floor with her foot, extending her arms out wide
for balance as she lifted her leg behind her again.
“Good.” He adjusted his palm over her poor, overworked core muscles. “Go as far as you can.”
She did. Flexibility wasn’t her problem. Her arch could go as deep as a Chinese classical dancer’s, and she could hug her leg to her face. So it was a shock to her psyche to feel her weight shift forward suddenly, to have to hobble on one foot to compensate. She winced, her toes splitting again.
“Merde!” she spat. “It’s no use! If I cannot get this stupid move, the others will be impossible!”
“Whoa, hang on, petite.” He was obviously taken aback by her outburst. “Mind over matter.”
“Pardon, ‘petite’?”
He had the nerve to grin. “You’re small. French. Seemed like a no-brainer.”
Espèce d’idiot! The comeback in her head was too easy. She refused to voice it aloud.
Massaging his temples, he seemed disappointed at her lack of enthusiasm for his feckless wit. “Mind over matter, it’s a saying.”
“I know what it is,” she snapped. “English is my first language.”
“Splendid. Then you know it means you have to stop overthinking things. Stop analyzing. That’s what I’m here for, okay?”
She blew a long, uneven breath. He was the teacher. She would try to trust him, though she knew quite well what she was and was not capable of, and the fact that he didn’t was about to break her foot.
She needed her foot.
“D’accord,” she said skeptically, but moved into position again.
“Okay,” he parroted her in English, returning his hands to her waist. “Again.”
This time, she made it all the way into the arch, her arms ascending to the ceiling, her hands wrapping around her ankle. She concentrated so hard, she didn’t notice it when he removed his hands…which is probably why it shocked her so when her precarious balance was lost again.
Leaning forward, she stumbled hard. Her leg swung down fast, providing the sinister momentum needed to twist her other leg just so, that her poor toes split…again.
He stepped forward swiftly to set her aright, but she swatted his hands away.
“Non!” Her eyes watered from the pain. “I don’t understand. What is this? Balanchine? Graham? Lucifer? Hades?”
“Calm down,” he said gently, visibly trying not to laugh at her theatrics, which just further irritated her. “That was actually not ba-”
“Stop telling me to calm down!”
Turning away, she tried to collect herself. Her toes were still smarting, and she mumbled softly to herself in French, trying to get out of her own head.
“I’m not exactly fluent in French from my touring days,” he offered unhelpfully, “but I think I caught enough to know you’re trying to psyche yourself up.”
“I’m a ballerina…” She tried to drown him out. “From the Paris Opera Ballet.”
“Yeah well, we all have to start somewhere.”
She spun around, her eyes stinging. (Annoyingly, she was a crier. Especially when angry.)
Superbe.
Now would be the perfect time to cry. Right now, when she needed to look capable and competent and strong.
“Fuck me…You’re not gonna cry, are you, petite?”
The room grew eerily quiet. Still, but for the sound of her breathing. Heavy and deep, as if she was slowly drawing the energy from the air into her body. The heat of anger roiled through her. She felt flush with it, suffocated by it. She wanted to crawl from her skin until it cooled, but since she wasn’t a lizard, and he had to stand there with his stupid lock of hair falling over his forehead, staring at her like an insipid, crazy, fragile piece of glass…
Merde.
She broke.
A stream of French epithets slammed into him like a ship blown ashore in a tsunami. He recognized quite a few of the choice words (not that he needed a translator to understand she wasn’t singing him a sonnet).
Finally, it was quiet again.
Oh, what’s this?
It seemed he’d just witnessed his first nuclear meltdown from this tiny ball of fire. And damned if it wasn’t the sexiest, most confusing shit he’d ever seen. The cloud of hyper focus evaporated, and desire hit him like an eighteen-wheeler. He trailed his eyes over her sweaty, seething frame with deliberate slowness. It was probably bad that he wanted to snatch her up and lick the pulse in her throat, to bite her pouty lower lip and suck her toxic little tongue into his mouth.
Definitely bad. He’d have to give his dick a stern talking to later.
For now, he smiled inwardly, stowing this particular button away to push as needed. The passion was clearly there. He had three weeks to whip his volatile star into shape and he’d do it by any means necessary. Outwardly, his expression remained passive, and his voice was flat when he spoke again.
“Feel better?”
She gave him a curt nod.
“Good. Again.”
Chapter Five
It was probably bad that he thought of her when he did this. Definitely bad. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t conjure a face that wasn’t Mina’s, hips that didn’t swell softly from her short, trim waist, lips that weren’t full and deliciously curved.
Unbidden, an image of her taking him into her mouth clouded his mind, her expression full of promise. He moaned and shut his eyes. Maybe, if he gave himself over to the fantasy, didn’t let his mind take over, he could get off this way…
No, no, no…dammit! No!
He tried to re-focus his thoughts, change their course, but it was too late: Mina’s rich brown irises faded to soulless, chalky blue. Her lips thinned and turned sinister, muttering threats instead of promises. Her hands aged and paled, holding him captive rather than willing. He cursed—at his lost erection, at his stupid, stupid vulnerability—and his lashes flew apart despite the hot water running over his face. It stung like hell, but at least it was real.
Blinking rapidly, he bent his head, letting the swirl of the water down the drain ground him to time and place. He felt the sting of tears and swallowed against the nauseating shame that always came with those memories. The ones he could control if he stuck to what was safe.
Safe was Mina’s legs, long and limber, hiked over his shoulders, her arms pinned above her head as his thrusts sent her breasts bouncing in a tantalizing rhythm.
Fuck yes. He sprung to life again in his hand. That’s it…
He gasped, gripping himself harder, jerking himself faster, as if the rapid motion could propel him further from the pain.
It was working.
“Yes,” he sighed with relief, hunching over.
Sultry brown eyes that had glared at him in annoyance just hours ago were glazed over in his fantasy now, and those angry French oaths softened to delirious moans in his ear.
His body convulsed with such force, his palm shot forward, planted against the tile for purchase as pleasure rippled through every limb. Squeezing his eyes shut, his ass clenched tight and his toes curled as evidence of his release joined the hot stream of water swirling down the drain. He had to blink several times to clear away the hazy darkness and tiny flashing bulbs. His heart beat out of control, his flaring nostrils sucking in hot water each time he breathed.
“Jesus.”
It was a good thing the world wasn’t crashing down around him, or he’d be screwed. He could hardly stand up straight, let alone run. The thought sent him into a fit of laughter that echoed off the shower walls.
He turned his face up directly into the spray.
Fucking hysteria.
Maybe, but the nightmare was forgotten.
*
Non.
She wasn’t going to do it. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
Even as the warm pulse intensified until it felt like someone was beating a war drum in her clit. Even as that traitorous clit swelled until she was shoving her fist between her thighs and clamping them together in agony.
The hotel bed
was cushy and big and inviting…and Mina tossed and turned across every centimeter. She dreamed of arrogant lips pressed against her inner thighs, and a tongue too busy circling her clit to annoy her with flippant remarks. When he moved his lips to murmur (probably something filthy), she snatched up handfuls of his glorious hair and pushed his face against her.
She woke up with her fists full of sheets, panting from throbbing so intense, simply turning onto her stomach was her undoing. Her breasts were crushed deliciously beneath her weight, her panties brushing her clit with enough friction to send her muscles fluttering uncontrollably. She buried her face in the pillows to muffle her frustrated scream, holding her hips still because she refused to give in and press herself into the bedding for the ultimate release.
When it was over, the emptiness felt bigger. Wider. She squirmed, yearning emanating from her abdomen to her core until she couldn’t take it anymore. Sitting up in bed, she reached for her phone. The voice on the other end was soft and groggy.
“Allô?”
“I can’t sleep.”
“Mina?” Sofie asked. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s…I feel…” She couldn’t think. How was she supposed to put her frustration into words? She couldn’t understand it herself. Her sigh was shallow and shaken. “Merde! I don’t know!”
“It’s four in the morning here, Mina. I need you to try.”
“It’s hard.”
“You knew it would be.”
“Oui, but it’s not just the choreography, it’s…I don’t think it’s working out. We’re so different. His teaching style…It’s like he doesn’t know how to use his words. Always touching me. Always saying these things…”
She broke off as Sophie’s laughter pierced through the phone.
“Why are you laughing? I’m serious.”
“Believe me, I know,” Sophie said. “Why do you sound so raspy?”
“It’s the singing,” Mina explained. “I spend all day running lines and rehearsing with the other principals… and then I eat if there’s time. Then, I change my clothes and go back to the studio to rehearse the death trap he calls ‘choreography.’ I had to see my voice coach tonight. So, I’m raspy.”