by Logan Belle
“I’m sure. What’s The Painted Lady doing for their theme?”
“I don’t think I should discuss that with you.”
“You’ll just have to make sure ours is better.”
“I’m not working with you, Violet. Working exclusively for The Painted Lady means no outside work—not even for the Vegas Burlesque Fest.”
Violet leaned back in her chair, stretching. Gemma watched Violet’s hard nipples strain against the sheer fabric.
“Are you from London?” Violet asked.
“No,” said Gemma.
“But you are from England, right?”
“Yes.”
“I’m going to call you London,” said Violet. “That okay with you?”
“Certainly not,” Gemma said.
“So tell me, London: Have you ever been dominated?” Violet said.
“Excuse me?”
“Have you ever been tied up? Blindfolded?”
Gemma said nothing. She simply stared at Violet blankly.
“Is that a yes?” said Violet.
“No. It’s … no.”
“You’ve never been whipped?”
“Lord, no!” said Gemma.
Violet straightened up in her chair, then leaned forward, elbows on the desk. She tapped her fingertips on her jaw. Gemma noticed her nails were painted a purple so dark it was nearly black. She wondered if she could get away with that color on her own hands.
Violet focused her eyes on her with an intensity that made Gemma squirm.
“I think you’d like it,” Violet said finally.
“Like what?”
“Being dominated.”
Gemma exhaled a nervous laugh. Violet rose from her seat and walked around to the front of the desk. She was so close Gemma could smell her. Gemma felt Violet appraising her like a piece of cattle, her eyes moving from Gemma’s feet, sweeping over her body, trying to make eye contact, which Gemma resisted. “And I’m never wrong about these things.”
Gemma found herself holding her breath. She didn’t dare look at Violet until Violet moved from her perch in front of the desk to walk past her to the front of the small office. She opened the door and held it.
“When—and not if, when—Justin flakes on paying you, give me a call. I’ll be waiting.”
15
Nadia led Max through the lobby of her building, as self-conscious as if she was sneaking a boy into her dorm. The doorman, Francisco, eyed Max warily even as he greeted Nadia with his usual, “Good evening, Ms. Grant.” Francisco had been a big fan of Jackson. They always used to talk about basketball. Nadia had never followed a professional sports team—she couldn’t name a professional athlete if her life depended on it. Not even the ones married to Kardashians.
“Do you like basketball?” she asked Max, searching for conversation as they were enveloped in the intimate space of the elevator. She tried to ignore the pain in her back, a sharp twinge on the lower right side just above her buttocks. Ever since her last injury, she felt this pain every time she exerted herself on her feet. She accepted it as part of the new reality of her life and resolved not to let it ruin her night.
“No,” he said. She took this as a positive sign. “But I do occasionally watch ice hockey.”
“Really? Why ice hockey?”
“My mother was Canadian,” he said. And something about his face looked strained when he mentioned her. She remembered him saying that his parents had been an unlikely couple, and that they never should have married. She wanted to ask him about that. “The sport is so ingrained in Canadians that I couldn’t help but inherit some of her enthusiasm for it.” He reached for Nadia’s hand.
She felt a flutter in her stomach. He was the most irresistible guy she had met in as long as she could remember. Maybe ever. Luckily, she had already made peace with the notion that she had no intention of resisting. It was time for her to get back in the game, and he was the perfect player to bring her onto the court again. Or, the ice, as the case might be.
She opened the door to the apartment, Max following closely behind her. Whenever she brought a guest to the apartment for the first time, she saw the grandness through her guest’s eyes, and was instantly compelled to explain, “It’s my great aunt’s. She’s in Paris now, and I’m taking care of it for her.”
“It’s beautiful. Really classic.”
She felt proud of the apartment and more comfortable on her own turf than she ever had felt before in Max’s presence. If it weren’t for the pain in her back, prodding her to get off her feet, she could almost have forgotten the turmoil of the past nine months.
She offered him a drink, but he said he just wanted water. He sat on the couch, prompting Twiggy to jump off in a huff.
Nadia made her way to the kitchen, and the twinge shot through her right side more deeply. She inadvertently cried out.
“What’s wrong?” Max asked, jumping up.
“Oh, nothing,” she said, hiding behind the kitchen counter as she rubbed her lower back.
“That didn’t sound like nothing,” Max said, appearing in the entranceway to the kitchen.
She forced herself to straighten up and retrieved the filtered water from the refrigerator.
“It’s not a big deal. Sometimes my back hurts after I’ve been on my feet a while.”
“You do physical therapy since the injury, right?”
“Of course.”
“Have you told them about the back pain?”
“Yes. They said it’s normal to compensate for loss of balance or strength in one area by overextending yourself in another area—usually your back. They said in time, when my leg muscles have returned to full strength, the pain will go away.”
She handed him a glass of water. He set it on the black marble countertop and put his arm around her shoulders, steering her back to the living room, where he took her by the hand and seated her on the couch.
“Lie down,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“Lie down on your stomach. I’ll massage your back.”
She thought she’d gone into this evening ready to roll, but now, in the moment of truth, she froze.
“No, no—I’m fine. Really. That’s not necessary.”
“Nadia, don’t be ridiculous.”
He sat on the couch and looked at her with his big, dark eyes.
She knew that she was probably being ridiculous. Also overriding her reserve was the fact that she wanted him to touch her, and that compelled her to follow his direction; she stretched out on the couch in front of him, taking care that her long sundress stayed down over her legs, not hiking up, as she moved into the prone position.
She turned her face to the side, fanning her hair over her cheek so she felt less on display.
The sundress left her back bare to the middle, with thin straps. Max eased the straps over her shoulders and pulled the swath of fabric in the middle of her back down even farther so he had room to work.
He pressed both hands into her upper back, spreading his palms over her shoulder blades. She exhaled deeply, experiencing an instant release of muscle tension.
“Do you have any lotion?” he said.
“Um, yeah. I’ll get it.”
“No—stay relaxed. Just tell me where to find it.”
She directed him to the linen closet in the hallway outside the master bedroom. She was fairly certain there was an unopened container of Lubriderm from her last shopping trip to CVS. Of course, there was definitely an open moisturizer in her own bathroom, but she couldn’t recall what condition she’d left the bathroom in that morning, so she wouldn’t risk sending him in there.
He left her on the couch, and she immediately missed the warmth and gentle pressure of his hands. When he returned to smooth the moisturizer along her back, she sighed with pleasure.
“You’re good at this,” she said.
“I think you just really needed it.”
He hit a knot at the base of her neck, and she tensed as his finge
rs worked at it.
“Breathe through it,” he told her. His hands worked down her spine, until he pressed the base of each hand against her upper buttocks, kneading them gently, which elicited a tingling, rolling sensation of pleasure that made her squirm.
He lifted her dress to her upper thighs and moved his hands down her legs. Even her muscled legs, crafted by the toughest taskmaster—ballet—were no match for the strength of his hands. He kneaded her thighs, then her calves, and she felt her muscles yield to his firm but gentle touch, melting away months of pressure. And when his hands continued moving up, she did not object as he pulled her dress above her waist, his thumbs grazing the inside of her thighs.
This is it, she thought, as his fingers skimmed the edge of her panties.
“Turn over,” he said, so quietly she was not sure he’d actually said it. But when he stopped touching her, she realized he had. He was waiting for her to move.
She complied, moving onto her back. The skirt of her dress twisted around her waist. When she tried to adjust it, he held her hands at her sides.
“Relax,” he said. She felt her heart beating fast.
“Okay,” she said. And then she let him lift her dress up, over her shoulders, her arms reaching above her head to let him remove it entirely.
His eyes swept over her. She wished that, for once, she’d worn a bra. It would have at least bought her a few more minutes of modesty. But with her tiny build, she never bothered with what was ultimately a useless undergarment. And so she was there on display for him, nude except for her petal pink lace underwear.
The expression in his eyes as he looked down at her was one of such intensity, she almost couldn’t endure looking at him. He did not say she was beautiful, but his gaze told her so.
He dipped his head, his dark hair brushing across her chest softly as he took one nipple into his mouth. The gesture seemed audacious to her, just as everything he said and did was audacious.
She moved one hand to stroke his hair, and she felt a warm throbbing between her legs from the mere flicker of his tongue against her breast. When his teeth grazed her nipple, she surprised herself by moaning.
Max moved one hand down her body as his mouth kissed and sucked her breasts. She found herself spreading her legs for him even before his fingers reached her, and when his finger was inside her, she had to resist the urge to use her own hands to press him even deeper.
“That feels so good,” she said. He moved his body almost on top of hers, now kissing her neck and then her mouth. She used both hands to hold his face to hers, kissing him until she was breathless.
“Do you want to move to the bedroom?” he asked.
She didn’t—the logistics of getting to the other room, naked and highly aroused, were not appealing to her. But on a practical level, it would be more comfortable. Plus, she had condoms in her nightstand—from the early days with Jackson, before they were engaged, before she had gone on the pill. Before he was cheating on her.
Ugh. She pushed away all thoughts of Jackson. “Sure.” He moved off of her and helped her stand. She pulled a chenille blanket from the far end of the couch and wrapped it around herself.
“Why are you bashful?” he said. “You have the most beautiful body I’ve ever seen.”
She didn’t know what to say to this, so she simply walked to her room and let him follow.
Nadia sat on the edge of the twin bed. “I decided when I moved in not to use the master bedroom,” she explained. “This just felt more comfortable to me.”
“It’s cute,” he said, pulling her to him and kissing her. “Kind of like a dorm room.”
This made her smile since she had thought of a dorm, too, when she’d brought him through the lobby. And it was possible she had not been this nervous with a man since college.
He gently pulled the blanket from her and pressed her down on her bed. She lay back and watched him remove his shirt and pants. She knew she was spoiled with these dancers as lovers: Their bodies were so magnificent. His thighs were long and lean with visible muscles—how could she not want them wrapped around her?
She reached one arm back and pulled open the drawer of her nightstand, feeling around for the plastic of the condom wrapper. She found it and handed it to Max.
He took it wordlessly as she set her eyes on his cock for the first time. The sight of it, big and hard for her, stilled all of her anxious thoughts. She was free to act on instinct and drive, and so she leaned forward and licked the length of his cock, down to his balls, then brushed her lips over the tip before taking him in her mouth. While she sucked his cock, his hands played over her breasts.
“Nadia,” he moaned, and the sound of him saying her name like that, thick with desire, set her off.
“Fuck me,” she said, shocking herself. Where had that come from? That was not part of her typical verbal repertoire. Nonetheless, it seemed to do the trick: Max had the condom on before she could blink twice.
He knelt over her, and she lay back, looked up at his cock. She ran her hand over it lightly, and their eyes locked. His desire for her, so evident in his eyes, removed any last ounce of reserve. She spread her legs and guided him inside her.
She gasped. His cock filled her completely—any more, and it would have been too much.
“Is this okay?” he said.
“Yes,” she breathed, kissing his neck. She felt the strength of his body as he fucked her. She didn’t want him to worry about her—she was small, but not delicate.
“I’ve wanted you so much,” he said, his hands underneath her, cupping her ass, helping her body move more seamlessly with his own.
She knew she was going to come and was embarrassed that it took so little. She felt herself contract around him, the wave of pleasure through her body, and then a sense of calm. Her head cleared for a moment, as if she were coming out of a daydream.
And then Max’s movements quickened, the thrusting of his pelvis so fast and hard it carried her own body along with its rhythm. She felt he was literally riding her, and along with the thrusting, she felt his cock almost vibrating inside of her. The sensations were so extreme and exciting that, to her shock, she shuddered with another orgasm, more powerful than the first. Seconds later, he cried out, his mouth open against her cheek, his hands clutching her ass.
After a moment of stillness, he rolled off her. They were both slick with sweat.
He reached for her hand.
“You were worth the wait,” he said.
“What wait? I’ve known you for just a few days!”
“Exactly,” he said, and they laughed.
Nadia curled her body against his. She felt a sense of calm that she recognized as relief. Between the months of celibacy following her breakup with Jackson, and the limits on her dancing after the accident, she had felt completely out of touch with her body. Working with Mallory had helped a little. But the way she had felt while Max made love to her was like surfacing after being underwater for too long.
The magnitude of how miserable she had been finally hit her, and she started to cry. She rolled over, hoping to hide her tears from him, but he wouldn’t let her.
“What’s wrong?” he said, pulling her back to him.
“Nothing’s wrong. Just the opposite—I’m so relieved. I feel like you gave me my body back.”
He held her face in his hands and kissed her forehead, her nose.
“If I’ve given it back to you, then I should have a say in how you treat it,” he smiled. “Don’t throw it away on that club, Nadia. Spend time with me at the studio. You have a place there.”
She sat up, pulling her sheet over her breasts.
“You’re too hard on the burlesque thing,” she said. “As much as you’ve given me something tonight, burlesque got me out of this apartment when I just wanted to hide under the covers forever. It’s so important for me to feel like I’m moving on with my life, not trying to go back to something that doesn’t exist anymore.”
Max sighed.
“I’m not saying burlesque didn’t serve a purpose. I’m saying it’s not right for you long-term.”
“I haven’t even successfully performed yet.”
“Yes, you did. You were magnificent tonight.”
She sighed. “I didn’t take my clothes off.”
“You shouldn’t have to. It’s beneath you.”
“No—it’s not. You have to stop thinking like that. That is the art form. I believe in art forms as they are defined—for ballet, it’s dancing en pointe, which I can no longer do. For burlesque, it’s a striptease. I’m not going to dance ballet half-assed, and I’m not doing burlesque half-assed, either. And I want you to stop asking me to.”
“Why are you so hell-bent on this? It’s not like you have a full schedule of club dates set. When’s your next performance?”
“A few weeks. I’m performing at Martha Pike’s birthday party.”
“Her birthday party,” Max repeated.
“Yes. Justin and Martha throw big, elaborate parties. Mallory told me the guest list is always the most interesting mix of celebrities, artists, socialites… .”
“Yes. I’ve heard.”
“It will be good exposure for me.”
“Exposure being the operative word.”
“Please just back off on this, Max. It’s not your business.”
He sighed. “I care about you. I can’t just sit back and let you make a huge mistake.”
“It’s not a mistake. And even if it is, it’s my mistake to make.”
“If we’re going to be together, then we have to be able to discuss this.”
“Are we going to … be together?” Nadia said.
“I’m starting to suspect we might,” he said, pulling her against him. It felt so good to be in his arms, it was tempting to just give in, to let him hold her and love her and tell her their relationship was the most important thing. But she’d believed in that sort of thing once before, and where had it gotten her?
“Then you’re going to have to learn to accept the fact that I’m done with ballet, and I’ve moved on to burlesque.”
He kissed the top of her head. “I don’t know if I can do that,” he said.