by JJ Knight
“You better call her,” I say. “Otherwise they’ll roll cameras and we won’t even be there.”
“I’ll have Shelly do it,” Blitz says. “She’s supposed to be running interference.”
When Jacob looks confused, Blitz says, “My personal assistant when I’m shooting.”
“Isn’t she in Afghanistan?” I ask. “The women’s caucus? Volunteering? That’s why she wasn’t at the live finale.”
“Right,” Blitz says. “Well, crap.”
Little dancers flow around us as the next series of dance classes begin to fill.
“My point,” Danika says, “is that if you’re going to have a live wedding, or even if you’re not, the press is going to follow you. Please draw them away from here.”
“Will do, Big D,” Blitz says. “If we have to take a break until it blows over, we will.”
Danika nods. “Also, congratulations. I assume since all this is public, there will be a wedding soon, even if not the TV one?”
“We were planning to do it on a cruise,” I say. I was also hoping Gwen could bring Gabrielle to be a flower girl. If it’s a TV spectacle, we can’t do that.
I seriously want to cry.
“Can they make us do this?” I ask.
“Of course not,” Blitz says. “It’s just a matter of what it will cost us to refuse.”
“Is it like the proposal?” I ask. “Property of Dance Blitz?”
He frowns. “Yeah, I probably signed something foolish like that.”
“I’ll leave you two to sort it,” Danika says. She takes Jacob’s arm and drags him with her.
The parents settle on benches or hurry back to their cars for quick errands, the dancers all in their rooms. Thankfully they’re all used to me and Blitz being around and aren’t like the wild and crazy fans we encounter out in public.
I want to sit down and just weep that we’re stuck. First the stressful short season where I had to compete for Blitz, then the live proposal.
And now this.
Chapter 8
Blitz tracks down Shelly, but with the time differences between Kabul and California, she can’t easily get hold of Hannah. She tells Blitz he’ll have to handle this part, but she’ll be back for the “wedding.”
Within a day of the announcement, Blitz and I have to abandon our house. It’s fairly modest and tucked in a quiet neighborhood. Nobody’s really followed us since we finished our Dance Blitz season. We haven’t gated the property or worked to keep people away.
Up until now, all we had to contend with was the random paparazzi hanging out on the street trying to photograph us leaving. But our house is set pretty far back from the road, and our windows are well tinted. Blitz likes to zoom out and away so fast they can only get a few shots of the car itself before we’re lost in the neighborhood maze.
It hasn’t been a big deal.
But it is now.
We can barely get down our own street. Blitz immediately calls our driver and bodyguard Ted to bring a rental car, so we can make a dash inside for essentials.
After that, we leave Ted behind to watch the house while we hole up in a hotel. We can’t go to the dance academy. We can’t easily go out to eat or shop or anything. Blitz hires a second bodyguard, so we can leave Ted at the house and have someone else run errands for us.
Then somebody leaks our location, and the hotel gets flooded with fans. The manager assures us no one can get up to our locked floor, but we’re totally stuck. I put on a scarf and sunglasses just to look down from the balcony and spot vendors selling Blitz and Livia T-shirts on the sidewalk below.
I’ve never seen anything like this.
On the third day of the madness, Blitz breaks down and calls his agent. He sets the speakerphone between us.
Hannah picks up on the first ring. “About time you called. You have the first planning meeting in three days. They want footage of a cake tasting. We have fourteen dresses arriving in less than a week for Livia to try on. Everyone and their dog wants her to wear their design. People have been literally slaving to create something fresh for her.”
“I don’t get to choose my own dress?” I ask.
“Of course you do,” Hannah says, her voice dripping with annoyance. “There are fourteen to choose from.”
“What if I don’t like any of them?” I ask.
“The winning designer will adjust it until you do,” she says.
“Wait,” Blitz says. “Did you green light this?”
“Of course I did,” Hannah snaps. “This was always the plan. Have you forgotten how your original seasons were supposed to end? Before you went off-script? Contest. Choose girl. Meet parents. Propose. Engagement party. Planning. Wedding. Have you forgotten the two-million-dollar wedding bonus?”
“Right. Can’t forget your percentage,” Blitz says.
“Blitz,” Hannah says sharply. “You got this gig because you were willing to sign over your wedding to the producers if you chose a contestant. If you hadn’t signed that clause, there would have been some other hero of this story.”
“I’m a producer now.”
“That doesn’t change your contract,” Hannah shoots back. “You made this bed. Now lie in it.”
“You want to film that too?” he shouts. “How about a honeymoon cam? Mount a lens right over the bed! What would THAT do for ratings?” His voice echoes off the hotel room walls.
“Don’t be crass, Blitz,” Hannah says. “It doesn’t suit your new image. You are now a devoted future husband of the girl you found on your show, and you aim to marry her in full view of all the fans who voted her into your life.”
“This is ridiculous,” Blitz says. “I met her because you guys kicked me OFF my show, and I found her on my own, thank you very much.” He moves his hand to jab the call button on the phone, but I stop him.
“Hannah,” I ask. “What’s the penalty for backing out?”
“Sixty-three million,” she says coolly. “And that’s only if I don’t also sue him for my cut.”
“Done,” Blitz says.
“You think you can afford it, but once this happens, your share of the show will be worth virtually nothing,” Hannah says. She pauses, and I picture her sharpening her claws.
“This is the same old threat,” Blitz says. “We’re tired of it.”
“You danced with the devil. And now the devil is calling due.” She lets out a long sigh. “Here’s the thing. Nobody felt Mack’s finale was good. The network is considering pulling out, canceling the show.”
“What?” Blitz says. “It’s a great show!”
“It’s about to be a dead show.”
“But I own part of it now.”
I reach over and squeeze his arm. “Maybe we should let it go,” I say.
He draws in a long breath. “So, they think the wedding will help save it?”
“Everybody loves a happy ending,” Hannah says. “You guys seem to deliver.”
“But it’s our wedding,” he says.
“It’s still just a show. Do your real vows however you want. Imagine this is just an extended dance number.”
“Are we dancing?” I ask.
“Of course,” she says. “I have the treatment printed up right here. Should I forward it to you, perhaps, Livia? You do seem to be the more reasonable of the two, as hard as that is to believe.”
“Yes,” I say quickly. “But I want Jessie back on set with me.”
“Jessie?”
“My assistant from season three,” I say.
“All right,” she says.
“And I’m going to vet my contract about the dress,” I say. “I know I signed about additional shows, but I seriously doubt anyone put the dress in there directly. I’ll hire my own lawyer for that.” I’m already composing a message to Bennett in my head. He’s Danika’s son-in-law and one of the few powerful people I trust even if he's not part of the show anymore.
Hannah sighs. “You’ll love one of the dresses,” she says.
/> “Just in case I don’t,” I say.
She sighs again. “Very well.”
“We’ll be in LA tomorrow night. Please let Duke know.”
“If I can track that scoundrel down,” Hannah says.
“Never mind,” Blitz says. “I can find him.”
“See you Thursday,” I tell her.
Blitz aims his angry finger at the call button again and kills the connection.
“So you’re on board?” he asks.
“You seem to want to save the show,” I say. “I want what you want.”
He stands and draws me up from my chair into his arms. “But it’s our wedding.”
“The wedding is just a day. It’s the marriage that matters,” I say.
He draws me close. “Livia, whatever did I do to deserve you?”
I laugh against his strong chest. “You learned to do an arabesque from a two-year ballet student and haven’t let me down since.”
He lifts my chin, his lips landing on mine. Everything relaxes in his kiss. The tension of the call. The shock of the possible cancelation of the show. The difficulty of dealing with his old agent.
It’s just the two of us again.
Back in a hotel, like the early days, before we had a home.
Blitz has been my home for two years now. We’ve weathered a lot.
His fingers slide through my hair. It’s long and tangled, and he works it smooth, his mouth still warm on mine.
The kiss deepens, and I let the world fall away. I hook my thumb in the belt loops of his jeans, reveling in the feel of his strong body against mine, his deft fingers working my hair.
“Shall we pretend there’s a honeymoon cam above the bed?” he whispers against my mouth.
I sputter a laugh against his lips. “Blitz!”
“I could give them a show.” He walks me backward across the hotel room until we’re at the bed. His face turns up a moment. “Yes, it’s right there pretending to be a sprinkler head.” He waves.
He reaches around my back and slowly slides the zipper down the back of my pastel yellow sundress.
“Are we going for R or X ratings?” he asks me.
I shake my head. “You’re terrible.”
“Good. Triple X.”
He runs his hands down my back. “Oh, no bra. The viewers are scandalized but titillated.”
He pulls thick sections of my long black hair forward and curls it around my breasts. “For modesty. At first.”
His hands slide beneath the thin straps of the sundress and pull them outward. With one swift movement, he tugs the dress away from my body and lets it fall to the floor.
“Mmm, perfect,” he says, making sure my hair covers the front of me. “Now they’re on the edge of their seat.”
“Blitz…” I say, but his voice is mesmerizing.
“Now we dance, just a little.” He holds my waist on one side, the other hand taking mine.
He squeezes and slides one leg toward me, his pelvis thrusting forward. I know the move. It’s a rumba step, fast and long. We go forward and back.
He spins me in my panties, feet bare. The air caresses my skin, and my hair tickles the tender swollen tips of my breasts.
“It stayed in place,” he says when he pulls me back in close. “We’ve kept it clean for the people.”
His hand presses into the small of my back, just above the lace. He pulls me in very close as he continues the steps. I can feel the rough denim of his jeans against my belly. His silky shirt is a cool breath against my ribs and arms.
I reach my free hand between us and move to the buttons. “The people need to see more of their crush, their dance boyfriend,” I say. “It isn’t fair, keeping the lady mostly naked while you’re dressed.”
Our feet keep moving, forward, back, perfectly timed in the silent rumba running through both our minds.
I release the last button and push the shirt away from his chest.
His skin is warm after the cool fabric of the shirt. I want to flick my hair behind me, feel him close. But there’s something erotic about the ruse. The imaginary crowd, the camera, our slow, rhythmic dance.
Blitz shrugs and the shirt slides away, landing on the edge of the bed.
I step back, then forward, then slightly to the side. I dance around him, my hands caressing his shoulders, his back, then around to his chest. We keep the rhythm, our feet moving in time.
“They’re asking for more,” I whisper, and catch the snap of his jeans.
“Are they?” he asks. His voice is lower now.
His zipper comes down with a soft hiss. Still we move, forward, back, just a few inches apart. I feel my hair shift and adjust to make sure I’m still covered. It’s silly, but fun. I’m loving it. I push down on the jeans, and he dances right out of them as if it’s a standard move you might learn in a beginner’s class.
Once he’s free of the pants, Blitz’s footfalls slow down and become even more rhythmic. STEP, shuffle shuffle, STEP. I follow his lead, taking the hand he holds out. He turns me in to him, our bodies flush against each other, then his grip shifts, and I follow his lead, twirling out carefully, my hair heavy and in place.
His hand changes position, and he pulls me in sharply. I spin wild, my hair flying, but before I can be exposed, I’m against him, skin to skin, crushed against him.
“You think they saw?” he asks.
“Too fast,” I say.
“They’ll freeze frame it,” he argues.
“True. The censors will shut us down.”
We dance close now, allowing nothing to show, along the length of the bed and near the side table where the breakfast dishes sit from this morning.
“We’ve blown PG. Let’s move into R,” he says.
“Let’s,” I say.
He picks up a piece of mango from the bowl.
“What are you going to do with that?” I ask.
He slides it along my shoulder, then trails his mouth in its wake.
Our dance steps slow down, a bare whisper of feet across the floor.
“Delicious,” he says, and shifts his body away. My skin cools quickly without the warmth of his chest against mine.
“Now the cameras slide in,” he says huskily.
The mango skims my collarbone, down the swell of my breast. The chill of it sends goose bumps rising along my skin.
But his lips are warm. His tongue slips along the path of the mango, resting on the tip of my nipple.
Then he takes me fully in his mouth, and I forget the steps, my feet faltering in our dance. His arm comes around my back for support as he leans in, taking his time with each long, carefree caress of his mouth on my body.
The sensation of falling steals my breath, then I land on the soft, airy puff of the comforter. Blitz slips the bit of mango into his mouth and licks his fingers.
The room is gauzy and half-lit, light glowing through the sheers. Blitz puts a knee on the bed near my thigh and crawls up and over me, his face near mine.
My hands slide up his knees and thighs, resting on the silky pale blue of his boxers. Because we’ve so recently done the show, his hair is TV perfect in its cut and layers, his eyebrows sculpted. He’s perfect. The world’s crush.
And mine.
His lips land on my mouth, sweet from the mango. We grip each other, hanging on, communicating in gasps and the meeting of tongues.
Blitz slides down, his mouth trailing my body again, stopping in favorite places. The hollow of my throat. The valley between my breasts. The rise of the base of my ribs. Belly button.
He arrives at the white panties with faint yellow polka dots. “So cute,” he breathes against them, moving farther down, his breath warming between my thighs.
I relax into the bed, eyes closed, feeling him, luxuriating in his attention. Blitz takes his time. His fingers lock around the lacy edge of the panties and slide them down with aching slowness.
The fabric slips along my skin, down my thighs, catching at the back of my knees. H
e has to shift to pull them down my ankles.
Then they’re gone.
“I’m not sure where I want to go first,” he says, making me let out a little laugh.
He lifts my leg, kissing the inside of my knee. His hair brushes against my tender parts, setting off a fierce longing.
His mouth leaves a cool trail as he makes his way up. My hips rise involuntarily, anxious for him to arrive. He’s so good at what he does there. My breathing speeds up in anticipation.
He pauses high on my thigh, nibbling at a bit of skin.
“The censors have shut down the feed by now,” he says.
I laugh. Silly Blitz. Still in the fantasy.
“Maybe,” I say. “Or else everyone in the world is waiting to see if you’re any good at—” I’m cut off abruptly when his mouth lands exactly where I want him to go.
I cry out, my body rising to meet him. I’m shocked out of whatever thought I just had, pleasure blasting out from where his tongue licks fire inside me.
I clutch his head with one hand, the other gripping the bedspread. He dives in more deeply, plundering every warm fold, and I move with him. I’m lost, desperate, clambering through waves of need.
His hands grasp my thighs, pushing my legs wider. I’m so open, so exposed, and he works me so well. He shifts his arm, slipping first one finger, then another inside me. A third slips along my skin, pressing lower, adding another layer of dark pleasure to the other sensations.
Our bodies move together, his head rocking with the movement of my belly and hips. The desperation is gathering, radiating into tight circles. I let out a long guttural sound, and then it all breaks free.
The rhythmic pulse of the orgasm starts tightly, then rolls outward, taking over my whole body. My cries cascade over us, echoing on the walls.
Blitz plays it out, moving with me, teasing, stretching the moment for as long as it will go. I’m barely breathing again when he pulls away and neatly flips me over on the bed.
After a whisper of silk hits the floor, he crawls up behind me.
His desire is palpable, heat coming off his body. He lifts me to all fours, his hands running up my thighs, along my belly, and taking both breasts.
Then he spreads my legs a little wider, and I feel him hot and throbbing against me.