by Lacie Thorne
“Hey,” Garret caught me in the kitchen. “Dad said not to forget the pralines.”
“Pecan pie and pralines?” I asked. “He needs to take it easy if he plans on making it to seventy and beyond.”
Garret held his hands up in surrender. “You can break it to him.”
I snorted and searched the kitchen for the secondary dessert, locating it on the far corner of the counter. As I reached for them, so did Garret, and we almost crashed into each other. I gasped as he slipped his hand around my back to steady me, palm settling just below the dip of my waist, too close to my ass.
“Sorry,” I mumbled as I pulled away from him with a jerk.
“Yeah, because it’s really terrible having you pressed against me.”
I didn’t know how to respond, so I smiled and stepped back. “Feel like grabbing the ice cream?” When he didn’t answer, I turned to find him frowning at me. Again. “What? You always have ice cream in the freezer. Don’t tell me you forgot—”
“Why are you acting so weird today?”
The fine hairs on my neck rose. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve been cagey about Sam and his company all afternoon. Barely talked to Dad when I usually struggle to get a word in between you two. Now you pulled away from me when I touched your back.” He crossed his arms and leaned against the kitchen counter. “Is your injury bothering you?”
My shoulders sagged. This was the perfect opportunity to tell him everything. Confess I was sleeping—well, kind of—with his best friend. But the words caught in my chest, lodged deep in my throat, and my lips glued shut.
“If you’re in pain, I can make an appointment with Dr. Mathis. He can—”
“My back’s fine.”
“Then what’s going on?” He unfolded his arms and stepped closer. “Is it the retirement thing? You can’t still be worrying Sam has anything to do with that, or Martin forcing you out. Everyone knows you’re amazing.”
I rolled my lips between my teeth, wetting them with my tongue as I tried to think of something to say. Anything plausible that wasn’t the truth. I wasn’t ready to go there just yet, especially with Mr. Lacroix around. I didn’t know how Garret would react and I needed more control of the situation before I broke it to him.
Garret touched my shoulder, a light stroke of his fingers, but it carried far too much weight. “Don’t you think it’s weird?”
The furrow between his inky brows deepened. “What?”
“This.” I gestured to the small space between us. “It’s weird. We act like a couple, but we’re not. You touch me like I’m your—well, not like a friend.” I sighed and closed my eyes. “It’s confusing, Garret.”
“It doesn’t have to be.” He drew even closer, until his body heat radiated along my front. He brushed my hair off my face and behind my ear, proving just how non-platonic all of this was. “It could be really simple.”
I shook my head and opened my eyes to look up at him. “We’ve been over this a hundred times.”
He nodded and let his hands fall away, stepping back so I could breathe again without his scent filling my lungs. “I know. And I’m not pushing, Emily, but you tried The Noire House, and it didn’t work. I’m just offering an alternative.”
Again.
The word drifted through my thoughts, unsaid but hanging between us all the same. I needed to tell him. Finally spill it all before I truly hurt him. “Garret—”
“Are the two of you making the pie?” Mr. Lacroix asked, stepping into the kitchen with a chuckle. “I thought I bought dessert readymade, or was I mistaken?”
Garret laughed and headed over to the freezer. “Just grabbing the ice cream, old man. You’ll get your sweet fix in a few minutes.”
I zoned out their banter, taking a moment to steady my racing heart as I picked up the pralines.
Tomorrow, I promised myself. I’d ask Garret to meet me for coffee at my place. The small shotgun house was far from the luxury he was accustomed to, but it was perfect. Familiar ground where I could control the situation. Confined space so he couldn’t escape without listening to me first.
I took a deep breath and followed the men back out to the patio, already dreading the conversation I’d have to have with Garret. I only hoped I didn’t break his heart.
Chapter Twenty-One
Sam
The week without Emily was pure torture.
I snuck into her dressing room to leave little notes whenever I could, only bumping into her once, right before a performance, for the briefest make-out session we could manage under the time crunch. I ended up helping her dress, just to steal a few moments more with her, thankful I knew my way around ballet costumes as I fastened little eyelets at the back of her dress.
During the day, I worked on my own company. Tuesday, I met with Penelope Foster, the owner of Le Salon Rouge, to discuss the possibility of working with her amazing performers. It was the perfect set up since her stars only performed one night a week each, their roles at Rouge more of a part time deal.
In exchange, I proposed we worked together, using our collective talents to benefit both of our businesses. And present the top tier of artists on our respective stages. I was incredibly excited about the prospect, and ideas began flowing faster than I could reasonably get started on them.
It didn’t help that I was rushing the renovations on the upstairs studio in my home. I wanted it complete—or at least close to—by Sunday night, which meant speeding up the construction crew. If Garret questioned my reasons, he didn’t ask. With any luck, he simply thought I was anxious to get everything done so I didn’t have to live with the renovations for much longer. He knew I hated it, and the extra people in the house always bothered Blue.
Friday night, I got tickets to see Phantom of the Opera again, incredibly pleased when Garret bowed out due to work commitments. I searched for Emily after the show, but couldn’t find her, eventually working my way behind the scenes to surprise her in her dressing room. She was already out of most of her costume, but I was more than happy to assist with the rest.
Our second dressing room tryst was longer but still not enough, though it did help to edge Emily, since I was back to denying her orgasms in preparation for when I truly fucked her. Although, that sounded crass, even in my own head. But hell if I was thinking of it as making love. No matter the situation, that phrase always sat awkwardly in my mind and it sure as fuck had never left my lips.
But fucking Emily didn’t sound right either.
By Sunday, I was more than a little desperate to have her in my arms again. But I had to wait until she’d finished lunch with Garret and his father. I tried to push aside the jealousy, reminding myself that I refused to repeat my actions from last Monday night at Le Salon Rouge.
But we needed to tell Garret. As soon as Emily had some free time. Without Mr. Lacroix present.
I distracted myself preparing a healthy dinner but with a heavy dose of carbs to give her energy. I fully intended to help her burn it off. We might even have to refuel.
I made sure the studio was perfectly set up, then I waited, wine glass in hand, dinner ready, and Blue glued to my side for scratches. My phone chimed with a text from Emily, apologizing because she was running late.
I sent off a don’t sweat it response, then took Blue for another quick walk in the park, suspecting I might have to shorten our usual evening trip. We’d stopped under the oak trees so he could sniff around when my phone chimed again. Garret this time.
—Emmy’s acting weird. I swear to fuck, if you’re giving her shit, it won’t matter how long we’ve been friends.
Not exactly a verbal threat, but it was there between the lines. I debated what to say, because I needed to acknowledge it. But how? I was, indirectly, the reason she was acting differently but not the way Garret assumed.
—I’ve barely seen her this week. But point taken. And accepted.
Good enough. My finger hovered over the send button a moment too long, but it was
the best I had, so it’d have to do.
Garret’s response came fast.
—Then do me a solid and keep an eye on her. Something’s bothering her, and if it’s not you or her injury, I need to know what the fuck is going on. She usually tells me everything, so it’s gotta be serious if she’s being this tight-lipped.
If a text could convey tone, his was oozing with concern. Guilt stabbed through my torso, but I tried to push it back. He’d find out soon enough.
—I’m sure she’ll tell you when she’s ready. Give her time.
I cringed, realizing I hadn’t agreed to his request and quickly sent another text promising I’d watch out for her. At least it wasn’t a total lie. But nowhere near the truth, either. With a huff, I called Blue, and we headed back to the house to wait for the ballerina in question.
I’d barely sat at the dining room table when Emily arrived, panting and cheeks flushed. She set her bag down, along with her purple yoga mat, words tumbling from her. “I’m so sorry I’m late. Lunch went longer than I expected, and I wanted to stop at home to shower and—you know, freshen up for tonight.” She straightened, brushing her loose hair off her face with a huff. “I hope I didn’t ruin dinner—”
I reached for her waist, pulling her between my knees. One hand on the back of her neck, I dragged her down for a scorching kiss as she swayed into me, body sagging against my chest. When we came up for air, she licked her lips, tempting me to dive back into the kiss.
“Do we really need to eat first?”
I laughed. “You’re gonna need your strength.”
“I’m not really sure I could even eat.” She rolled her lips between her teeth. “I’m kind of nervous.”
I clutched her closer, wrapping her legs around me so she straddled my lap. “Don’t be. We’ll go slow.” I sealed my mouth over hers, giving her a deep, demanding kiss. “After we eat.”
“I kind of ate more than usual at lunch.”
Fucking Garret probably forced the wrong foods on her again. “Just a little, then.”
She sighed and nodded. “If you insist.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Emily
Of course he insisted. I swore he dragged out dinner for longer than necessary, just to push my anticipation even higher. But thankfully he didn’t complain when I barely touched my dinner. My lingering tension after lunch with Garret quickly melted away under Sam’s sexy smiles, easy conversation, and Blue’s nose nudging my hand for cuddles.
Finally, when the plates were cleared, the kitchen spotless, and Blue tucked into bed, Sam locked up and switched off the lights. He took my hand, and led me upstairs. I expected him to take me to his bed, but we went up the next flight to the top floor. My eyes widened, taking in what looked like a dance studio—wooden floor, a wall of mirrors with a ballet barre right in front of it.
Yet there in the corner was a canopy bed. White fabric draped across the top, linking the four wooden posts with billowy sails. Fairy lights were entwined in the fabric, creating a soft, glowing cocoon. At least a dozen candles decorated the floor, dotted haphazardly around the studio—the battery-operated kind, so no open flames in sight.
“Sam?”
He shrugged, but there was a twinkle in his eyes, lips curving up on one side. “I figured you deserved something special.”
“This is not what I expected from a D—” I cut myself off before I could blurt out more, especially when I didn’t mean to speak aloud in the first place.
“A Dom?” he finished for me. “Usually not, but it seems you bring out the softer side of me. Who knew?”
He laughed and took my hand, leading me to the haloed bed. The amber light made his skin an even more gorgeous bronze and danced through the golden strands of his hair. I was about to have sex with the Samuel Roche, choreography legend who’d become my Sam, loving and tender some days and fiercely demanding others. He’d gone from someone I admired professionally, to the man I could potentially love. All within a short space of time.
He frowned at me, apparently noticing I was distracted. “What?”
I shook my head. “Just wondering if you planned for us to stand here all night.”
He glared teasingly, but his mouth descended on mine a second later. Hands reaching for my clothes, he removed them even as he kissed me harder, light stubble rasping against my chin. When I was naked except for the legwarmers I’d worn for his benefit, he hesitated. “As sexy as these are, I had a different idea for tonight.”
He dropped down to the floor, and I marveled at how he was probably on his knees more than I was. Not exactly the typical picture of a Dominant and submissive. I started to laugh at the thought, but his hands on my ass cheeks stopped me. He squeezed gently, then slowly slid them lower, gliding over my thighs, fingers grazing between my legs.
I closed my eyes as he kept going, dragging the woolen socks down, stopping to stroke the backs of my knees before continuing to my ankles. Hands on his shoulders for balance, I lifted each foot so he could free me of the legwarmers. He tossed them with the rest of my clothes, then rose, gripping my waist to lift me up onto the mostly-bare mattress.
He eased me down onto my back, hovering above me with his hands either side my head on the lone pillow. “Do you trust me?”
“Implicitly.”
He smiled, leaning closer to thrust his tongue between my lips, rubbing it against the roof of my mouth. One hand reached for my wrist, pushing it above my head before he repeated the move with my other arm. I shivered, already knowing what he intended to do. He made me simmer in anticipation, kissing me deeper while both hands circled my wrists, applying enough pressure to cause a painful twinge.
I squirmed beneath him, testing his hold so he’d tighten his grip. He bit my lip, then stroked his tongue over the sting. He shifted onto his knees and transferred my wrists to one hand, keeping me locked in place as he reached for the leather cuffs I knew were coming. He cinched them around each wrists, tighter than he had the night at The Noire House. My hands were bound close together, but there was enough slack tethering me to the headboard so I could bend my elbows.
My heart pounded, the heavy thumps echoing in my ears and between my legs.
Sam sat back and smiled, rubbing circles over my ribcage and belly, drawing closer to my breasts with every arc. Before he could really touch me the way I wanted, he shifted to lean over the edge of the bed. The last thing I expected to find dangling from his fingers was a pair of pointe shoes. Especially not in deep rose red exactly like the ones I’d worn for Le Petit Prince.
As though it was perfectly natural, he bent one of my knees, hand curving down my calf until he palmed my heel. He slipped my foot into the shoe—a perfect fit—then expertly criss-crossed the ribbons over the top and wound them around my ankle. No, they were different. Not satin ribbons at all, but rather delicate red leather straps that resembled the traditional pointe shoe ribbons.
“Sam?”
He sent me a wicked grin before he kissed my outer ankle where he buckled the two leather ends tightly together like a belt. Or restraints. “I had these made for you by a local artisan, your own special kind of ankle cuffs. They needed to fit just right or they’d hurt, so I had to steal one of your old pairs.”
He’d visited me in my dressing room more than once during the last week, so it wasn’t that hard to imagine him pilfering the shoes. But then he’d had them altered? God, what had the artisan thought when Sam told him what he wanted? Heat rose up my neck, my embarrassment distracting me as Sam bound the second slipper to my other foot, little buckle and D-ring facing outwards.
His hands travelled up both my legs and settled on my hips as he leaned closer to lick my lips—just once. He moved to my nipples, kissing one and then the other, teasing with his tongue and prickly chin. One hand skimmed my belly, up over my ribs, then squeezed my breast. Gentle at first, then rougher, massaging harder.
I rocked my hips against him, nerves tingling everywhere. He bit my nipple, the s
udden sting echoing deep in my pussy. I gasped, tugging at the restraints around my wrists, more to have an outlet for the pressure building inside me than an attempt at freedom.
He stopped and reached above me, hand fumbling beneath the pillow. I swallowed hard as soon as he pulled his hand back and squeezed my eyes shut so I couldn’t see the nipple clamps.
Sam laughed. “I don’t think that’ll help, Emily.”
He toyed with one nipple again, sucking it into his mouth and laving it with his tongue. When he let it pop free, he blew cool breath over my damp skin, tightening the bud to a hard point. I moaned. The sound had barely left my mouth when the cold bite of metal settled onto my nipple, intense pressure squeezing as the clamp took hold.
I cried out. It was so much tighter than the one he’d used the last time.
Sam turned to my other nipple, giving it the same treatment before clamping it hard. I arched my back and kicked out with my legs, desperate to dislodge the biting clamps.
Sam held my hips, pinning me down, his voice hard when he spoke. “Don’t you dare fucking come yet.”
God, as if that was possible right now.
I groaned even louder, wishing he’d do something, anything, to take my mind off the pain in my nipples. His hand slid from my hip, along the crease of my leg and over my mound, down to my pussy. He ran his thumb over my wet lips, then circled it over my clit. Oh, fuck. That’s why he’d warned me not to come. I was already desperate for the orgasm hovering seconds away.
As if reading my thoughts, he flicked one clamped nipple, the sharp sting sending my orgasm into hiding. He did it again, never letting up his assault on my clit. Then again. I bucked into him, unsure if I wanted him to stop or keep going forever. It felt unbearably good, yet edgy at the same time. Pain that wasn’t really pain at all.
He moved away abruptly, and I whined in protest, trying to use my legs to hold him in place. “None of that. You don’t control this, Emily. You know that.”