A Dance for Him

by Richard, Lara

  “Oh, they lived in Italy, did they? Where did they live, if I may ask?”

  “Milan. Oddly enough, their old apartment’s really close to the conservatory, but of course they don’t live there any more, all that was when grandpa was in the Foreign Service.”

  For some reason, a total shift of mood comes over him, and the fact that he’s spent most of the last twenty minutes looking so flushed only makes his current pallor all the more obvious. His foot remains next to mine, but it’s stopped moving in response to mine, and he’s looking at me with the strangest expression ever, with what appears to be a combination of dismay and unbelief.

  “Milan … the Foreign Service …” he mutters. “Tell me, what was your grandparents’ last name?”

  “S-Smythson,” I stammer, not understanding his sudden agitation.

  His foot abruptly pulls away from mine.

  “Smythson? With a Y?”

  I nod dumbly.

  “They had a daughter named Victoria, didn’t they?”

  I don’t even know why I’m thinking this, but I have a terrible, sinking feeling that, for some reason, he’s not going to like my answer.

  “She’s my mother,” I reply.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Fuck.

  How could this even be? She doesn’t even look like Victoria, who was the blonde bombshell type, like a young Anita Ekberg - the complete opposite of the charming gamine sylph who’s just been running her pretty foot up and down my trouser leg for the last five minutes or so.

  They’re so different as well, the mother blithe and outgoing, the daughter quiet and conscientious - well, at least she must be, I assume.

  One doesn’t get to play that well without working at it, whereas I’m sure Victoria’s never worked at anything for even a day in her life.

  I reckon that must be the dad’s side of the family she takes after. Probably not something I want to think about too much. She’s nineteen, which makes sense, clearly she’s the result of Victoria’s liaison with the older man, the one who knocked her up.

  Obviously I never met him, or even cared to find out his name, though I suppose I know now at least that his last name’s Courtenay!

  Some rich guy, a businessman, that was all I heard. I assumed he was sophisticated, well-heeled, smooth - everything I wasn’t, at least at the time.

  Isn’t that ironic, if I were to fuck Evie I’d now be the rich older man in the scenario …

  Can I even fuck her now, knowing what I know?

  And yet I still want her. My cock’s still aching for her, and what’s worse, my heart is too …

  She’s looking at me, slightly frightened. Poor girl, I can see why - I’m furious, though I don’t even know with whom. With Victoria, for betraying me all those years ago? With Evie, for stealing my heart, even if only innocently? With myself, for being such a wretched fool and falling for yet another Smythson?

  “Did you know them?” she asks, her voice soft, tentative.

  I look at her, wondering how much I should tell her, wondering how much I actually want to tell her. “Yes, vaguely,” I end up saying abruptly, hoping that will be the end of the discussion.

  She looks both alarmed and curious. To forestall any further questions I pull my phone out of my pocket and pretend that I’ve just gotten an urgent text and need to make a call. “It might take a while,” I say grimly, “please just go ahead and eat, I’ll be back once I’m done.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  What was that about, I wonder. I can’t help but feel that I’ve said something I shouldn’t have. He was so happy before, and then suddenly he got so upset when he realised that I was related to the Smythsons.

  I wonder what his connection with them is. Whatever it is, it’s probably the reason gramps always flinched slightly when his name was mentioned.

  But what could that connection possibly be? He would have been just a student at the conservatory at the time, how would he have known them?

  And he mentioned mom specifically by name. He didn’t mention gramps, didn’t mention grandma. The allusion to the Foreign Service tipped him off, but it was mom he mentioned, not them.

  How utterly aghast he looked when I told him I was her daughter! …

  He must have known her somehow. Perhaps he was in love with her?

  That would be so typical. She was so beautiful, so glamorous. And so utterly unconcerned with consequences. She wouldn’t have run off with Fred Newton otherwise and left poor old dad to fall apart. There wasn’t a touch of malice in her, but she was completely oblivious to her effect on people.

  She was a creature of pure caprice - that was probably why the men were all mad for her. If Fred and she had survived the accident, she’d probably have run off with someone else eventually.

  Oh, why does she always have to ruin everything for me? … First dad, now this thing with Maestro Moretti. Were they lovers? I feel sick with jealousy at the thought.

  And yet, if they had been - how could anyone have dumped Lorenzo Moretti for dad?

  I mean, yes, dad was a very handsome man, especially before the drinking got to him. Tall, distinguished, always impeccably dressed, a touch of silver in his hair. The sort of guy whom people used to refer to as a matinée idol type.

  I’m sure it would have been easy for him to find a replacement for mom in short order, but I guess he must have been terribly in love with her. In any case, he was a perfect gentleman, always comme il faut, always kind and courtly.

  But he wasn’t Lorenzo Moretti …

  Of course, I can’t imagine that she’d have understood him either. She lived for pleasure, for the parties and dinners she went to or hosted every night. The perfect society lady, the sort of woman gramps would have liked me to be. Well, maybe apart from her inability to resist scandal.

  No, I can’t see them being lovers. She didn’t even particularly like music.

  On the other hand, why else would it have upset him so much to hear that she was my mom? …

  I pick away at my food, my appetite gone, not sure what to do about the Maestro, not sure what he’ll do. He said he would come back, but who knows?

  They always disappear on me …

  He’s been gone about ten minutes now, and it feels like forever. The waiter asks if he should deliver the second course; mortified, I say to wait until the gentleman returns, not knowing if he will indeed return, and sit there sipping my orange juice.

  Thank heavens for my cellphone, at least I can look preoccupied rather than pathetic …

  Eventually he does return, his expression still grim. He takes one look at his still half-filled plate. “You haven’t had the second course?”

  “I thought I’d wait for you.”

  “I said not to wait,” he says sharply, though his expression softens and he sighs when he sees that I’m on the verge of tears. “All right then, let’s just get the second course done with,” he says resignedly, and signals the waiter.

  So now all he wants to do is to get this “done with”, I think, crestfallen.

  The second course arrives, and we eat in silence - I barely dare to look at him. At this point I’m not even thinking about how disastrous this was as a date - I’d be relieved just to not be in disgrace with him. When we’re done, he asks me if I want dessert, and I decline - it’s obvious he’s not in a good mood, and I don’t need to annoy him by dragging this out further.

  He calls for the bill, and we leave, again in silence.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  This is horrible. It’s obvious I’m hurting the poor girl, and yet what can I do, sit her down and tell her everything?

  I feel like I should, that I should give her up altogether. And yet I can’t bring myself to, precisely because it would make her even more off-limits to me than she is already.

  And I don’t want that. It’s ridiculous, preposterous, especially since I already see her now as being off-limits, but for some reason the idea that she might see me as off-limits is incredib
ly painful.

  Perhaps because the latter would mean that I’d lose her forever for certain, as opposed to just knowing that I’d have to lose her forever.

  It makes absolutely no sense at all, of course, not that I expect it to. I don’t even know why this upsets me so viscerally - did I actually allow myself to fall in love with her to that extent, in so short a time?

  I mean, perhaps it is the pain of losing Victoria from all those years ago coming back to haunt me. And yet that can’t possibly be - I haven’t thought of Victoria in a really long time, and if I had to choose between the Victoria of twenty years ago and Evie now, I know which of them I would pick without hesitation.

  Or am I also motivated by a sort of perverse desire for revenge?

  As I walked outside in the market square earlier in an attempt to distract myself from this terrible revelation of Evie’s parentage, it did occur to me with a sort of bitter irony that, if I married Evie, I’d be making a Courtenay into a Moretti, reversing what her father did with Victoria back then - even if, yes, Victoria wasn’t a Moretti for all that long a time, ha!

  No, it’s not right, it wouldn’t be fair to her. She’s so innocent, so untouched. Maybe if she was a party girl type, maybe it wouldn’t be as big a deal - as much for her as for me.

  But she isn’t … at least not for now.

  Oh God, when she goes off to conservatory the other guys there will just eat her up. It’d be just like it was with her mother … I’m not going to get to have her, because of my stupid scruples, and then I bet she’s going to run right off with someone else.

  An awful thought - the idea of other men getting their hands on her makes me nothing if not livid, and yet I know I have absolutely no right to feel that way, especially since I’m going to have to give her up anyway. Fuck, I should have made a move this morning, so that the boundary would already have been crossed, and then maybe this wouldn’t have to be the dealbreaker it is now.

  As things stand I don’t see how I can do anything about it. I mean, it’s true that I never slept with Victoria, and it’s true that I wanted Evie long before I knew who she was, but it just seems wrong somehow - taboo, almost. And while even then I wonder if I could still get away with seducing Evie, I have to admit I fear her reaction if she ever finds out - what if she thinks I’m some kind of gross creep, like that landlord of hers?

  I don’t want to disgust her - the idea that I might disgust her fills me with despair. I feel like I’d rather die …

  We’re now at the door of the palazzo. We haven’t spoken a word since we left the restaurant, and while I haven’t been able to resist glancing at her every now and then on the way back, I’ve turned away every time she’s looked at me. And now she looks stricken, the poor little thing …

  I unlock the door and silently usher her in. After I close the door behind me, I turn to see her standing there, looking at me timidly, pleadingly, her sweet timorousness a strange contrast with the saucy figure she cuts in that dress of hers.

  And this time I can’t bring myself to tear my gaze away from hers. Maybe it’s the half-bottle of wine, maybe it’s that I’ve used up all my self-restraint.

  Or maybe it’s just that she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met and I want her like I’ve never wanted anybody else …

  She must have picked up on my desire. She’s standing there, a mixture of fear and longing in her eyes, frozen by indecision.

  I take a step closer to her. She doesn’t flinch, just continues to look at me in that same nervous, submissive, doe-eyed way. Our bodies are so close that I can smell the sensual scent she’s put on, and involuntarily, without thinking, I find myself looking down her dress.

  That does it - my cock, that’s been twitching convulsively since we started eye-fucking each other again, begins its inevitable ascent when I see those gorgeous, half-exposed tits of hers rising and falling as she breathes.

  I have no idea if she’s noticed, or if she’s reacting to my excitement, but she timidly touches my arm and looks up at me in an unmistakable invitation to kiss her.

  It’s a balmy night, we’re alone in the palazzo, she wants me, and I’ve got an incredible hard-on for her. I know I’ll probably hate myself tomorrow, and maybe she’ll hate me tomorrow as well once she finds out that I’m her mother’s ex and didn’t tell her about it, but I can’t, don’t want to resist any more …

  I stroke her cheek with one hand, tilt her face up further, and cover her sweet mouth with a kiss.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  He’s kissing me!

  I don’t even know what happened, or why he appears to have suddenly changed his mind, but it’s hard to care when he’s backed me into the nearest wall and is kissing me like there’s no tomorrow. Our bodies are pressed tightly against each other, almost as though we were trying to merge and dissolve into each other, and he feels incredible, all hard muscle and broad, strong shoulders.

  All man, I think breathlessly as I feel not just his chest pressing against mine but also what is unmistakably a huge rock-hard erection against my tummy.

  It’s hard to imagine how dejected I was just minutes ago, when all I can think about now is how good it feels to be making out with him, about how wet I am.

  It just feels like the most natural thing in the world, yielding to this strong, virile, thrillingly dominant man, whose kiss has gone from tender and gentle to passionate and devouring in the meantime, and whose hands have begun to explore my body as he claims my mouth.

  He started out by stroking my face, but his hands have since wandered - he’s got one arm wrapped tightly around my waist, and his other hand is cupping one breast and squeezing it before he moves my left arm from where it is around his neck so that he can push a strap of my dress off my shoulder, freeing my left breast.

  He breaks off our kiss and looks at me as if to ascertain my reaction.

  I shrug off the remaining shoulder strap, so that I’m now effectively topless. I can feel my face flushing at the shamelessness of my gesture, but I hold his gaze, as though to let him know that yes, I want this, that I want him to take me and make me his.

  He smiles, his eyes growing dark and predatory as he takes in what I’ve done, as he stares hungrily at my bared breasts.

  “Fuck, Evie, you’re so beautiful,” he growls, and before I know it, he’s backed me up against the wall again and his mouth closes in on mine even more roughly than before, except that this time both his hands are mauling my breasts, tweaking my hard nipples, pinching them, rolling them between his fingers.

  I shudder and moan into his mouth as I run one hand over his broad, strong back and caress an impressive bicep with my other hand.

  Before very long he begins trailing kisses down my neck and shoulders as he pushes up my dress and slides a hand between my legs. My white lace thong is completely soaked, and I see his eyes gleam as he starts caressing my clit through my panties, causing me to cry out with pleasure and even more of my juices to gush out of me.

  He then raises his sticky fingers to my mouth and pushes them in. They taste interesting - pleasant, mildly salty. Without thinking, I begin sucking on them, and am rewarded with a lustful smile from him.

  Perhaps he’ll make me suck his cock next, I think hopefully, but he makes no move to undress himself, not even to unzip his pants.

  Instead he orders me to take off my panties and give them to him while continuing to suck on his fingers.

  I obey, of course, and ease the thin flimsy fabric off my hips, stepping carefully out of it before handing them to him.

  He smiles, removes his fingers from my mouth, wipes the wet crotch of my panties over my lips, so that my juices are all over them, then kisses me. I close my eyes, drinking in his kiss, and soon I feel his hand between my legs again.

  This time he doesn’t just touch my clit - I feel his thick strong fingers at my opening, teasing my lips apart, then slowly pushing a finger in.

  I gasp.

  It’s true that I’
ve experimented with a vibrator in the past, but this is the first time someone has been inside my virgin passage, and what’s more, there’s just something about the way he’s touching me. Once he’s got his finger completely in me, all the way up to his knuckle, he slides it out, making me moan both from the sensation of his thick digit moving inside me, but also from an intense desire for him to fill my slick canal again.

  Except this time it’s a desire that is doubly fulfilled - he pushes two fingers into me and begins alternately to thrust inside me and stretch my inner walls by parting his fingers.

  It’s an incredible feeling, it’s as though every nerve inside me was sending off sparks of its own. He’s also staring at me as he moves his fingers inside me, and that familiar fixed, intense smile of lustful triumph spreads over his face as he sees me react to each movement of his fingers, as he sees me tremble and melt into his embrace, as though I were rendered helpless by pleasure.

  It’s obvious he knows I know that he’s stretching me out to prepare me for the onslaught of his monster cock, and that I’m eagerly anticipating that moment …

  As those sparks build up, generating heat in my core, he kisses me again, this time even more hungrily than before. His fingers are now picking up speed, making an excitingly obscene sound each time they drive into my soaking pussy.

  When he finally draws his thumb over my clit and starts playing with it, it doesn’t take long for him to push me over the edge, and I come while holding on to him and moaning under his kiss, in what is probably the most intense orgasm of my life so far.

  While recovering I look up at him, and he looks almost radiant - well, radiant and lustful, but that’s hardly surprising given the size of his boner.

  “So, Evie,” he says, smiling roguishly, “you liked that, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” I whisper. “I’d like to do something for you now, though,” I continue, as I reach for his still-clothed erection.

  He laughs. “I’d like that too, beautiful. But first I want you to tell me in detail what exactly it is you’d like to do for me.”