Stripped

by Allie Juliette Mousseau

  “Stone never brings friends—” Jack says.

  “Or dates,” Linda coos, “to these types of events.”

  “To any events,” Jack agrees seriously with his eyes on the road.

  “Or to meet us, ever,” Linda marvels. “Except in high school. But that was forever ago.”

  “Okay! Enough with the history lesson,” Stone breaks in.

  “What do you do, Emilie?” his mom continues, undaunted.

  Loaded question. “I’m a retired dancer.”

  “Retired at your age?” Jack says with disbelief.

  “Em was a principal for the New York Ballet. She got injured,” Stone says.

  “Em, huh?” Jack smiles and I can see who Stone inherited his cocky grin from.

  “She can answer for herself, Stone. We talk to you every day,” Linda lovingly complains. “I’m so sorry about your injury. Sounds a lot like what happened with Stone when he was playing footy. Missed out on his scholarship and everything. What do you do now, dear?”

  “Emelie works at the dance studio.”

  “Stone! Hush!”

  That breaks the tension for me and I chuckle.

  “Ugh!” she remarks, frustrated. “He was naughty and unruly as a child and never grew out of it.”

  Oh, if she only knew how naughty and unruly he is!

  And I think he definitely grew into it.

  The ceremony is very nice. Stone is more of a celebrity than I originally thought—and not just for dancing or taking off his clothes. Looks like he and his family’s company often donate property and supplies to Habitat for Humanity.

  Stone says a few poetic words before pounding in the first symbolic nail.

  I swear, I can feel that man imbedding himself into my heart as surely as he secures that nail into the wood.

  “I want to dance with you,” he says abruptly during rehearsal a few days later.

  “You are dancing with me.”

  “I mean I want to dance a duet.”

  “Why? It’d distract from your practice and be a complete waste of time.” Why would he even suggest this?

  “Dancing with you could never be a waste of time.”

  Immediately this discussion scrapes over my mind like fingernails on a chalkboard.

  “It would in this case.”

  “I’m not taking no for an answer.”

  “Then…” I sputter, “you’re going to get really frustrated.”

  “I’m already frustrated. You cut me off after the ’rents meeting, if you recall.”

  I don’t think I can do this anymore! Every minute is like torture, on so many levels!

  “I need a break.” Before I lose it. “I’m going next door for coffee. Want one?”

  “I want something, but it isn’t coffee.”

  “Ugh!!” Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I push through the studio door and walk along the sidewalk in front of the mini-mall to the coffee shop three doors down.

  He doesn’t get it! I don’t even get it. Freaking Thursday morning was like… and…. Yeah. No words. No words to describe what it did to me to meet his parents. Or to have him tell them we were dating! Which was news to me and never spoken of again, so I know it was just to rile them like he riles everyone else! Then there was everything they said and the informative tidbits, like the fact that Stone never brings girls to meet them or that he hasn’t been steady with someone since high school!

  Seriously, what woman could do this? What the hell is Stone’s game, anyway? Stripper, dancer, businessman, and homebuilder for-the-needy—who the hell is all those things?

  Although it must seem terrifically bipolar, I did shut him off—again. No more sex! I can’t think straight with him doing all his… Australian kissing and hot boomerang action.

  Of course, he remains just as spunky, undaunted, and bold as always.

  Now he’s started sending me gifts—or bribes. Every few days, a new package arrives. The first was a box stuffed with two plush pink towels, a set of rubber duckies, a bottle of luxury bubble bath, and my favorite Jasmine Intoxication essential oil fragrance—he’d been paying attention. The second contained an array of decorations for my room: a Keep Calm and Dance On framed poster, several strands of small white twinkle lights to hang over my bed with a sheer white chiffon canopy to give the illusion of a cloud, and thin, banner-like curtains for the two windows—blue, the same color as his eyes.

  What is he doing?

  What is he doing to me?

  That tingly sensation hits my nose and eyes. I swallow the emotions down—I’m not going to cry, damn it.

  I just know that by the time this is over and he’s done with me, it’s going to hurt and bleed like a bitch!

  Shoving open the door to the coffee shop and walking in, I ignore all of the eyes that land on me, as if my entrance was for the customers’ entertainment, and get in line.

  My dad is telling me to come home. My mom is telling me to follow my heart—problem with that is, I’m pretty sure my heart is in Stone’s hands and I have no real say. Vi is loving all the gifts and helping me put them up in the room. She thinks Stone is good for me, even if it does end in heartbreak—her words of advice: you’ve got to live a little, even if you wind up with some stitches.

  I don’t think I’ve ever been that kind of risk taker.

  “What can I get for you?”

  “One caramel latte.” I lay a five dollar bill on the counter and move aside to wait for my order.

  Now he wants to dance a couple’s dance! I’m already dancing his pieces alongside him—he’s been great at giving me instructions in hip hop, street, and freestyle. I’m getting better at it and having a lot of fun. But a duet would require more touching and intimate contact that I’m sure I can’t handle.

  What do I do?

  Someone drives by outside, and the boom of low bass shakes the floor. Only it hasn’t passed—and the music is loud, like someone is parking their car and doesn’t want to turn off the music yet.

  I don’t blame ‘em. “Cake By the Ocean” from DNCE is a great tune. Involuntarily, I begin tapping my foot.

  A second later everyone in the coffee shop starts talking, making noise, and moving towards the windows with their cell phone cameras pointed. They’re all laughing, clapping, and shouting their praise.

  What the…?

  Without thought for my coffee, I maneuver to the windows, having to squeeze through the crowd.

  Oh. Shit.

  There’s Stone. He’s parked his Jeep across three parking spots and is dancing furiously in the empty space on the blacktop.

  I feel my mouth gape open in surprise while my heart slams wildly in my chest.

  “Oh my God! That guy is awesome!” a woman declares next to me.

  “Yeah.” I nod in shock and awe. At the same time, I’m completely baffled. What the hell is he doing?

  He’s just incredible. He stands on his hands, does crazy-legs-in-the-air maneuvers, before “walking” with his feet on the side of the Jeep. His body twists, turns everywhere—breaking it down on the ground, then stepping back on his feet—energizing anyone who can see him. People outside the coffee shop are stopping to watch him, and now someone opens the door so everyone can pile out. We can hear the music better now too. I stay in the coffee shop, but move right up to the window, where I have a perfect view.

  The song is sung to a woman that the singer wants to be sexy with, but she’s all serious and cautious. His advice is for them to lose their minds, go crazy, and start living dangerously.

  OH. MY. GOD. He’s dancing this to me! For me!

  Stone animates each part of his body to the plucky, sexy music.

  The fierce confusion I felt when I booked out of the studio seems to diffuse into vapor, dissipating around me.

  I want to be angry. I want to resist him.

  Could he be any dreamier?

  He jumps, pivots, works his arms to the music, and then touches his head, making it look like a bobble head.
He slides across the hood of the Jeep, bouncing back up on it then to the roof, where he executes a killer rotating leap! His feet hit the ground and his audience roars.

  A loaded charge of pride like gunpowder goes off inside me. I know him.

  Stone’s so phenomenal.

  Slowing down momentarily, Stone lets his arms wave in different directions while his knee bends up then down, dropping to a knee walk on the pavement.

  How does he do that? Make his body seem like it’s robotic one moment, then made of liquid the next. He has such mastery over his body…

  In so many ways.

  Watching him do this, knowing that I’m the one on his mind—I think about the way he makes me feel when we’re together, how I miss him when we’re apart, how he pushes me to be a better me—all of a sudden, the high stakes of being with him in any capacity seems to be a risk worth taking.

  Stitches and all.

  With a boost of power, he slides away from the Jeep, then comes back at it running, takes a leap, steps up high on the door casing, then flips backward. Once he lands, he stomps his feet, rolls his torso, pivots, swivels, and does a bunch of kick ass moves until he gets to the two stone benches that are sitting one next to the other so people can sit outside and drink their coffee.

  He sweeps his hands in the air, and the spectators seem to understand, getting out of the way and clearing the benches for his use.

  He stands a few feet from the middle of them, spies me through the window, smiles—cocky bastard that he is—and does a free drop to his hands in front of him. Everyone, including me, gasps and repositions themselves to see him better.

  He executes perfectly formed push-ups on the ground then bounces mid-push to land a hand on each bench to continue his sexy push-up display and show off the power in his arms and upper body.

  I can’t help thinking to all the other girls watching, Be jealous, ’cause he’s doing that for me!

  Oh yeah, and I know him know him!

  A second later, the benches become his dance floor.

  A second after that, it becomes apparent to everyone that it is me he’s dancing for.

  Not only is his gaze fixed on me, but now he bounces into the coffee shop and does his seductive thing right in front of me… around me.

  Grinding his hips, he runs his hands in a silhouette about me as if I have a force field protecting me, then acts like he’s electrocuted and thrown off, away from me.

  I can’t help but laugh.

  Stone slides his hand into his back pocket and retrieves a folded piece of paper. Pulling himself up by his elbows as if he’s a dying man, he passes me the note…

  Then he feigns dying. With one eye, he peeks up at me.

  “Read it, lady!” a teenage boy standing close to me demands.

  I sigh. Stone always seems to draw a crowd and finish up by making me the center of attention.

  “I’m not going to read it out loud,” I say, disappointing the kid.

  My eyes glance over the words—

  Don’t quit on me.

  (Kiss me if you won’t)

  The butterflies in my belly flutter wildly! My breathing quickens. It may be illogical and irrational. It may be a chemical crush—brewed and distilled with adrenaline, hormones, and pheromones—but I don’t care.

  Today, he’s mine.

  Kneeling down next to Stone, I lean into him. “What if I’m afraid you’re the Big Bad Wolf?”

  “Kiss me and maybe I’ll turn into Prince Charming.”

  I surrender and press my lips to his.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Stone

  Home décor

  She doesn’t quit me.

  For the next week, we dance—and she even agrees to dance a duet for fun—but I’ve had to promise not to cop any feels while we work on it.

  And I haven’t.

  But only God knows how long I can hold out.

  Ever since I met Emelie, everything in my life has been transformed from being merely mundane to positively magical.

  Our connection is so fucking intense.

  There is no better feeling! I can hardly explain it to myself, but when I see her, my blood races, I want to touch her a lot, yes, sexually, but not just sexually. I need to feel her; her body, her hand, her shoulder, her arm, the small of her back.

  And yes, my evil-brain dick really misses the feel of her kitten.

  I can’t get enough of her—her voice, her body, her laugh, even just bloody looking at her—and whatever’s going on around me, nothing else matters but her.

  She’s becoming my reason. For everything.

  Em gets me like no one else.

  With her around, I’m more in tune with my body and my dancing. And now, instead of dancing strictly for the competition, I feel like I dance for her.

  My parents don’t seem to be on my case as much as they were, and when they get on it, it hardly bothers me. I’ve got a constant smile on my face. Even work isn’t so bad, knowing she’s waiting for me at the end of the day.

  Right now we’re so focused on the competition, but there are so many things I want to do with her—camping, boating, biking, road trips, adventures; and I want to do a lot of nothing with her too, like binge-watching shows on Netflix while snuggling on the sofa together—and that’s the important word: together.

  That’s when the pang hits—she’ll be leaving soon.

  Since she kissed me that morning in the coffee shop, I’ve been in a headlong, tumbling rush forward—no safety net—I can’t help or save myself and I don’t want to.

  What I want is Emelie Cartier, all of her, but I’ll take whatever she’s offering for as long as she offers it.

  Tonight is Friday—ladies’ night at Foreplay—and I’m nervous as hell. Like a crash test dummy who suddenly grew a brain.

  Violet and Glenda talked Em into coming out again to see me. I’m anxious about taking my clothes off—not in front of Em, obviously—but in front of Em and a couple hundred other screaming women. It’s going to be entirely fucking awkward.

  I take the steps to her apartment two at a time and beat on the door.

  Raphael answers it. “Hey, Stone! Good to see ya,” he says when he sees me then gets close to my ear. “Whatever you can do, Em needs to get laid. She’s being bitchy and impossible lately.”

  I bark a laugh. “That’s not from a lack of trying on my side, mate. I guarantee that. The woman has an iron will when she wants it.” I add, “Are you coming tonight?”

  “It’s ladies’ night.”

  “So what—I’ll get you in.”

  “Damn! Not only are you fine, you’re generous too.” He smiles like I gave him a house full of male strippers. Oh yeah! I did. “It’ll take me just a few minutes to get ready!” Raphael runs off.

  I walk through the hallway to Em’s room. I refuse to call it the guestroom anymore, and even she has started to call it her own space.

  I knock against the closed door.

  “It’s open.”

  I let myself in.

  How can so much beauty, sweetness, and talent be housed in one amazing package? She’s wearing a short, flowy pink dress with spaghetti straps.

  “You look beautiful,” I say, ogling her blatantly. “I see Vi talked you into a pair of heels.”

  “Do you like them?” she asks, modeling the sexy silver stilettos.

  “I’d like to fuck you in them.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “I need to use your loo to get changed.” I indicate the suit and tie I’m still wrapped up in. “Unless you want me to lock the bedroom door and we’ll take those shoes on a hit and run.”

  “Bathroom—go for it.”

  “Oh, Em.” Unzipping my mammoth duffle bag I usually carry my music in, I reach into it and grab one large, flat present and one smaller, soft one. “Pressies for you.”

  She beams brightly and gives me a playful shove. “You have to stop bringing me gifts.”

  “You don’t
like them?”

  “I like them.”

  I can almost feel her inner conflict—should I stay or should I go? Maybe I should feel guilty for pressing so hard for her to stay, but I don’t. All I have to do is think about her leaving and I’m a fucking mess.

  “Open one,” I tell her.

  She chooses the smaller present first and tears off the sparkly silver paper.

  “A stuffed… kitten?” She laughs.

  “I know how much you love your kitten, so I figured maybe you’d like to start a collection.”

  “Alright, she’s cute.” She sets it on her bed. “And you’re funny.”

  “Happy you like her. Open the other one.”

  Her gentle hands rip at the blue wrapping paper to unearth a mounted fine art canvas print of Van Gogh’s Starry Night.

  “Stone, it’s beautiful.”

  “Now you’ll always have stars to wish on, whenever you need them.”

  The way she looks into my eyes, full of tenderness and desire, makes a storm flurry in my gut. One that doesn’t feel like it’s going to go away. Ever.

  I know what I want to say. I know what I want to do. But she needs me to wait. She’s made it clear that we’re hands off right now. She hasn’t even let me kiss her goodnight or hold her hand again.

  What would she do if I told her how I was really feeling?

  “How about I go get ready and you don’t run away?” I suggest, breaking the tension.

  “Okay.” She nods but finds my gaze. Her deep brown eyes catch the light and sparkle, drawing me to her.

  I want to kiss her. I want to press over her body with mine.

  Instead, I point my thumb over my shoulder toward the loo.

  “Yeah,” she whispers.

  “Okay.” I drop my eyes to the floor and get my arse to the loo quickly, shutting the door behind me.

  Taking a deep breath, I lean against the basin and check myself in the mirror. “That was way too close, Stone,” I whisper.

  Shaking it off, I jump in her shower for a quick wash up. Like a stalker, I can’t resist smelling her shampoo. I nearly have to relieve my jolly stick—it’d be easy to, imagining her naked, soapy body. NO! Can’t be late; plus, if she called me on it for some fucked up reason, I wouldn’t be able to lie with a straight face.