Dance: The Collected Series

by Charlotte Eve

  For the first time in my life, I curse myself for never having been a girl scout. Because I have absolutely no fucking clue how to tie this knot around his wrists. But I can’t let Dylan Campbell know this, of course. He needs to think that I’m totally experienced in kinky shit like this. That I do this kind of stuff all the time. In which case? I’m just gonna have to fake it.

  I distract him with a long, urgent kiss as I wrap the rope around and around his wrists, making sure I pull it as tight as I can, and then I just tie a simple knot that I hope to God holds out. I lift the rope and tie that to the wooden posts of the headboard too, so that he’s bound on his back, arms above his head, fixed firmly in place.

  Finally I pull at the rope to test my knot. Hey, not bad! He’s not going anywhere tonight. Well, not unless I let him.

  He looks at me as if to say, Very good, what’s next?

  I give him another long lingering kiss, just to whet his appetite, and then I begin to loosen his tie, and undo a few of his buttons for good measure, brushing my lips against the flesh I uncover in soft, playful kisses. He tastes good, and my senses whirl with that delicious cologne he wears, his skin so soft yet taut beneath my lips, his body so hard and masculine it’s kind of ridiculous.

  I run my hands sensuously up and down his body, pulling open the rest of his shirt, tugging playfully on the cropped fuzz of hair that grows between his sculpted pecs, then finally resting my hand over the hot, hard bulge in his suit pants.

  Now I’ve got him exactly where I want him, I stare straight at my prey as I unbuckle his belt, then unbutton his pants, enjoying the way his breath shivers past his full lips, the more of him I uncover. He lifts his hips off the bed to help me as I pull down his slacks, along with his cotton boxers, his hard cock springing free, thudding heavily against his toned abs, his balls tight and full beneath.

  “Look how fucking hard you’ve made me,” he murmurs, nodding down, urging me to look at his cock.

  It’s magnificent, but I force myself to pull my eyes away, directing my kisses once more to his chest, but working my way downwards now, until I’m inches away from that hot, twitching prize between his legs. But I don’t ever let my lips touch against it, instead positioning myself on my knees between his legs, so that he can watch everything I do as I take him between my hands and begin to stroke his shaft, the swollen head of his cock just inches from my parted lips, which I moisten suggestively with my tongue, as if I’m about to take him in my mouth at any moment ...

  Now don’t laugh, but I suppose I should let you know that I am an expert at hand jobs. I know, know: it’s hardly the most sophisticated sexual technique in the world. More like the sort of thing nervous high school dates gets up to while making out in parked cars. But it’s something I’ve gotten really good at over the years.

  From the way he starts writhing beneath me as I stroke him, I’ve quickly worked out exactly which parts of his cock are the most sensitive – the little patch of skin beneath his head, the underside of his shaft, and of course his balls, and I start to work him up into a frenzy, all the while keeping my mouth tantalizingly near to the head of his cock, the warmth radiating against my face, but never actually sucking him, even though he’s thrusting his hips now, desperate for me to enclose my parted lips around him. But the closest he gets to that is when I let a little saliva fall from my parted lips, to help me stroke him.

  “God, you’re such a tease,” he gasps, straining at the ropes.

  Still stroking him with one hand, I pull down the front of my dress with the other, wanting to give him a little more excitement, uncovering my breasts, my nipples by now rock hard, standing out like bullets. And then, for good measure, I spread my legs, too, letting my trembling fingers slip into my panties, finding myself so fucking hot and wet, that I know instantly that it wouldn’t take more than a few strokes before I’m the one coming, let alone Dylan.

  A moan escapes my lips, but this one isn’t planned.

  I keep jacking his cock with my right hand, while working my throbbing aching clit with the other, both of us now becoming frenzied with lust and arousal.

  My orgasm when it hits takes me by surprise, exploding through me so quickly and powerfully that I almost let go of his cock. Almost. I shudder and moan, my body bucking, but even during the intense pulses of pleasure, I keep my hand stroking up and down his swollen cock.

  And the sight of me coming like that between his legs is what finally pushes him over the edge, too.

  “No ... wait ... stop,” he murmurs, his eyes widening as he comprehends what’s about to happen, but instead of slowing down I pick up speed, my fist gliding smoothly up and down his swelling cock with a brand new ferocity. And with a final gasp and a shudder, he comes hard, squirting an impressive series of thick white jets powerfully upwards, over his tensed, muscular chest.

  “Wow,” he says afterwards, as I’m climbing over him to untie him, straddling him now, my breasts still exposed, my chest flushed, my whole body tingling from the intensity of my own orgasm. “I mean just wow. How did you even do that, Julia? My head’s spinning. I don’t even know what just happened ...”

  “You’re gonna learn this about me,” I say, untying his wrists, which are pink from where the rope has cut into them. “I’ve got many hidden skills ...”

  “You’re telling me,” he laughs, moving his head to close his lips around my hard left nipple for a moment, causing me to shiver. He sucks it further between his teeth, then gives it a playful little nip, causing me to squeal and punch him on the shoulder.

  I stand back to assess my work: he’s lying there, messy and disheveled on the bed, not to mention grinning from ear to ear.

  And you know what?

  Maybe a little part of me is enjoying this weird game we’re playing, too ...

  CHAPTER TEN

  Four more days to go, I tell myself at breakfast. Dylan’s dressed in another beautiful tailored suit, this time deep navy with pinstripes, matched with a burgundy tie, and it’s weird to admit it to myself, but I don’t want him to go. I want him to stay here with me. Because even though this is what it is -- a contract, a job, whatever you want to call it – I find I’ve been enjoying talking to him, getting to know him, finding out how he works.

  I can’t help it; I sigh as I pick at my eggs with my fork.

  “Any thoughts on how you’re going to spend the day?” he enquires.

  “Jeez,” I say. “Let me see ... Yep, I guess it’s another busy day, hanging out at the pool, doing ... nothing at all.”

  He springs to his feet and grabs my hand, urging me up, too. “Come with me,” he says, leading us out of the breakfast room and back towards that large central staircase.

  “Where are we going?” I say, as he marches me urgently past the stairs and down another corridor, into yet another wing of the house, a place I’ve not yet explored. “Where are we going?” I repeat, but he won’t answer, leaving me wondering just what in the hell he’s playing at, as he pulls me along, his grip strong on my upper arm.

  “Here you go,” he says, pushing open a door at the other end of the corridor.

  I can’t believe my eyes. This is crazy. Because what I seem to be staring at is an amazing, private, fully-equipped dance studio, complete with a huge mirror along one wall, a practice barre, polished hardwood floors and a proper sound system.

  “What the actual fuck, Dylan?” I say, still completely blown away.

  “I thought you’d like it,” he replies casually. “And anyway, you need to practice your flexibility, for when I get back.”

  “It’s incredible,” I gush. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  “I wasn’t sure you’d earned it.”

  “What d’you mean, earned it? I didn’t realize I was supposed to be scoring brownie points all week.”

  “The contract,” he explains. “You agreed to do whatever I wanted. And I’m not quite sure how you’ve managed it, but things don’t seem to be working out quite that wa
y, now do they?”

  Oh my God. He knows what I’m up to. This means he’s definitely gonna demand it tonight. Game over, Julia ...

  “Oh, um, I ...” I say, flustered, trying to buy myself some time and work out what I’m gonna say in reply. But before I can think, he cuts me off.

  “Don’t worry. I think maybe I kinda like it ... And anyway, you should get some practice if you’re going to be starting at Eldridge soon.”

  “Huh, you remembered,” I say in surprise. “I’m impressed.”

  “No,” he replies. “I’m the one who’s impressed. It’s a very prestigious school. You have to be extremely talented to go there. And from what I’ve seen so far, you definitely are.”

  “Thank you,” I say, blushing a little.

  And then without even thinking about what I’m doing, I’ve jumped into his arms and kissed him. I pull away, wondering if this is maybe a weird thing to do, and we’re left looking at each other in surprise. And I don’t know if maybe I’m getting the wrong end of the stick, but it feels like something changes subtly between us.

  What exactly?

  I have no idea ...

  §

  Once he’s left for work, I run excitedly up the steps to my room.

  While I was going through the wardrobe, I noticed that in amongst all the high end suits and dresses and jackets there were also some things I might actually wear: plain t-shirts and Lululemon yoga pants, the kind that cost you a hundred dollars but fit like a dream.

  I’m excited to change into them.

  Okay, now this is amazing, I think. Money isn’t just about sitting around all day. It can buy you the time to do things like this. I’ve only been thinking that it was about the things you no longer had to do – washing, cleaning, cooking your own meals. But now I can see that it’s also about the things you are able to do, too. If I were rich, this is exactly how I’d spend my time and money ...

  §

  It’s been days since I’ve really let go like this: really worked my body, really stretched out, and most of all really danced. Not like in the club last night, but really pushing my body to its limits. After a few hours, I’ve worked up a good sweat, and maybe this is stupid, but I keep thinking about that advice that Natalia gave me about my audition piece. Because since I’ve been here with Dylan, I can feel my body moving in a different way. Maybe I’m finally learning how to dance with passion, with fire ... with sex.

  I’m practicing my spins, turning and turning and turning, twirling on my toes, and I feel dizzy, lost in the moment, when – bam – the music stops abruptly, and out of nowhere a voice says, “Who the fuck are you?”

  The shock makes me lose my balance and I come crashing to the floor, landing hard on my ass.

  I pull myself unsteadily back to my feet, as the figure sharpens in my vision. It’s a young woman, tall and rake thin. She’s blonde, with watery blue eyes, and I’m guessing she’s probably about the same age as me. Oh, and she does not look happy to see me here.

  “I .. I ...” I stammer.

  “And what the fuck are you doing in my ballet studio?” she continues, cutting me off.

  “Your ballet studio?” I say, confused.

  “Oh, I get it!” she says, clapping her hands together in sarcastic delight. “You must be another one of Dylan’s! I didn’t know he was in town.”

  “Yeah,” I say quietly. “I guess I’m ‘one of Dylan’s’.”

  At this her face switches from fake smile to fake pity.

  “Don’t spare my feelings,” I say. “I know I’m not the first.”

  As I say the words, I know it’s true. I guess I’ve known it all along. I’m not the first, and I won’t be the last. And how do I really feel about that? I don’t quite know ... But with this crazy bitch standing in front of me, whoever she is, now’s not the time to think about it.

  The girl sighs and shrugs, eyeing me up and down as if she’s never seen anyone quite like me in real life before – in other words, someone who’s never set foot inside an Ivy League school. “I thought I was gonna get some quiet this week,” she says. “Guess I’ll just have to kiss goodbye to that now won’t I?”

  “It’s not exactly a small house,” I offer. “I think we can avoid each other quite easily, don’t you?”

  At this, the girl takes a few steps closer to me, getting all up in my face. “You’re making it kind of difficult,” she hisses, her blue eyes narrowing. “After all, you’re the one in my dance studio.”

  Jesus, this bitch is territorial!

  “Listen,” I say, getting closer towards her, stepping up to her so there’s only inches between our faces, fighting fire with fire. “Dylan showed me this space. He told me I could use it all day. And anyway, why the fuck am I defending myself to you? Who the fuck even are you?”

  This bitch might think she’s all that, but where I come from, you don’t let anyone talk to you that way, and I’m ready to give her all I’ve got.

  “I’m Isabella Campbell,” she says, taking another step towards me, so that our noses are almost touching. “And my family have lived here for generations. You’ve been here five minutes, servicing my brother’s dick. So don’t you dare play smart with me, bitch.”

  His sister?

  If it wasn’t for the full lips and the razor sharp cheekbones, you wouldn’t even know they were related.

  Sister or not, I’m on the brink of clawing her fucking eyes out, Jersey Style, when I remember the whole reason I’m here in the first place: one hundred thousand dollars. And even though I didn’t read the contract in full, I’m pretty sure kicking his sister’s ass would no doubt invalidate it.

  So I take a step away from her and hold my palms up, taking a few deep breaths. “Hey,” I say. “Isabella. Let’s both calm down here, what d’you say? I’m sorry I’m in your studio. I had no idea it belonged to you, honestly. But don’t worry. From now on, it’s all yours.”

  I stand and grab my water bottle and head towards the door.

  “Wait,” she calls after me. “What’s your name?”

  “Julia.”

  “I guess I’ll see you around then, Julia.”

  §

  I refuse to hide in my room all day, so I decided to sit by the side of the pool. I change into a black halter neck bikini, wrap myself in a towel, then head out, stopping by the pool house to pick up a novel. Then I shrug off my towel on one of the many loungers arranged around the sparkling bright blue pool and try to relax. But I’ve only been out here about five minutes when I look up from the pages of my book to see Isabella strutting over in sling back mules, and the smallest white bikini I’ve ever seen; believe me, it’s miniscule.

  My own time in this house has given me some clue as to the kind of life this girl leads, and if she’s as bored as I think she is, then I figure she’s coming over here for a little action – to find out a little more about me, or at the very least just to rattle me.

  And sure enough, that’s how it goes down.

  She takes the neighboring sun lounger to mine, even though there’s a ton of others scattered all around the pool, and I try to focus on the pages of my book but all I can think about now is the awkward, frosty silence. She’s pretending like she hasn’t even noticed that I’m sitting right next to her, but I know that she’s come here to check me out.

  I just about ignore her, but she keeps looking over to me; I can see her from the corner of my eye.

  Her white bikini is showing off a tan – an expensive tan at that. But still, it’s nowhere near as good as mine after my last few days sunbathing, and I just know she’s jealous.

  There’s no denying she’s beautiful though. If Isabella and Dylan are anything to go by, the whole Campbell family must have won the genetic lottery. Isn’t it funny how rich people can afford to buy everything, and I mean everything. A house like this, complete with a dance studio, a St Barts tan, and even beautiful genes. And sure, she’s blonde and model-thin, but even so, I’d still much rather have my fi
gure – my toned abs and dancer’s thighs.

  She might have her own studio, I think, but I wonder how much time she actually spends in it. And if she’s thin, it’s probably because she barfs up her breakfast.

  I can tell that she’s bothered by me. It seems every single time I glance up from my book, I catch her checking me out.

  I turn the page of my book and smile to myself.

  You may have won our fight in the dance studio, Isabella Campbell, but I think it’s me that’s winning this round. Bring on Round Three, bitch ...

  §

  “Isabella!” Dylan’s voice says, breaking the moody silence by the pool a few hours later. “I didn’t expect to see you here!”

  “Ditto,” she replies, pulling down her huge sunglasses to shoot him a glance.

  For a moment I stupidly think they might be happy to see each other, but nope.

  They’re glaring at each other in that way that siblings often do: like they’re on the brink of clawing each other’s throats out, but even so, deep down, they love each other, too.

  “What are you even doing here?” he sighs. “Shouldn’t you be at school?”

  “Oh come on, Dylan,” she says. “It’s not like I’ve even left the state. I just have a paper due, and I can’t concentrate. There’s too much drama ... So I figured I’d hang out here for a few days, get some work done.”

  “Well, just make sure you stick to that plan, okay?” he says, playing the role of concerned older brother to a tee. “Mom will freak if you fail this year for the second time. So you stick to the East wing, where the library is. We’re in the West. Got it? I don’t want to see you, okay?”

  “Suits me,” she says, shrugging dismissively and pushing her sunglasses back onto the bridge of her nose.

  “But first,” he adds, “you’re having dinner with us tonight.”

  §

  Jesus Christ. If I thought Dylan Campbell was complicated, his kid sister is a whole other ballgame. It turns out Isabella is exactly the same age as me, but right now I feel like her fucking babysitter, she’s such a spoiled brat.