But, now as we recovered and sanity returned to me, I felt like shit.
I’d fucked her hard without mercy. I couldn’t help myself. A mixture of possessiveness and rage had consumed me. Breathing hard, she could barely stand up as the elevator opened to my loft.
“Why are you limping?” I asked as she stepped out, thinking it was all my fault.
She winced. Quietly, but loud enough for me to hear her.
“It’s my feet.” I was surprised by her answer, thinking it must be on account of her ravished pussy or ass.
“What do you mean?”
“They’re sore from dancing.”
Relieved, I lifted her into my arms and carried her into the living room where I set her down on one of the leather couches. Her beautiful face contorted in pain.
“Would you mind taking off my shoes?”
I did as she asked, slipping the red stilettos off her slender feet. My eyes grew wide. Her blistered toes were a bloody mess.
“Jesus!”
She grimaced, her brows knitting together. “The life of a dancer.”
“Sheesh. I need to bandage your toes.”
A small grateful smile curled on her lips.
Five minutes later, her toes were covered with Band-Aids.
“How do your feet feel?” I asked, observing my handiwork and thinking how much I loved taking care of my frail but feisty ballerina.
She wiggled her feet and grimaced again.
“They’re still sore?”
She twitched a pained smile. “Yeah. They’re cramped. It’s been a while since I performed.”
“Sit back. Let me massage them.”
“Really?” She gazed up at me with eyes that reminded me of a puppy’s begging to be pet. Leaning back against the armrest, she stretched her long, limber legs across the couch. I sat cross-legged facing her, still in my tux.
“Put your feet on my lap.”
She did as I asked, my dangerously close cock flexing as her heels touched down. Gently, I took her right foot in my hands.
“Close your eyes, baby. This is going to feel good.”
Her glittery lids lowered as she surrendered to my touch. Expertly, I kneaded her arched sole with my thumbs, going deeper and deeper, hitting all her trigger spots. Despite the calluses on her heels, her feet were as soft and smooth as her satin ballet slippers.
My eyes glimpsed the expression on her face as she arched back her head. It was one of pure ecstasy. She moaned.
“Oh my God, Ryan. That feels so good. How did you learn to do this?”
Allee. For a split-second, the memory of Allee teaching me how to do foot massage flashed in my mind. “It’s like making love to your feet,” she’d told me.
Forcing myself back in the moment, I simply told Willow I had a good teacher as I pressed harder into her soles. She moaned again, louder.
Yes, I was making love to Willow’s tender foot, her soft moans arousing me. My cock throbbed, and I longed to spread her legs, knowing she was bared to me beneath her dress. My eyes closed as I imagined massaging her beautiful clit and ravaging her all over again. As if she knew what I was thinking, she slid her left foot on top of my rigid cock and began to rub it.
I hissed, positive my cock was going to burst through my fly, and managed a few words. “Are you still sore?”
“Please, Ryan, more,” she breathed out.
The throbbing so great, I could no longer hold back. With my free hand, I unfastened my trousers and pulled down my fly with a whoosh. Willow’s moans drowned out the sound, her eyes still closed as my huge erection sprang out. On my next heated breath, I curled my hands around her slender ankles and slid her down the couch. As she let out a gasp, her eyes snapped open. At the sight of my erection, they smoldered.
“Baby, I want to fuck you again. Sit on me.”
The lustful expression on her face was all I needed. She lifted the skirt of her dress and mounted me, squatting over my folded legs, a position that only a lissome dancer could manage. So fucking sexy. So hot and erotic. Her supple legs spread far apart and her hands clutching my shoulders, she lowered herself onto my cock, taking me in inch by raging inch.
She felt so fucking good. My fingers caressed her pussy as she went down on me.
“Jesus, you’re so fucking hot and wet for me.”
“The massage,” she murmured.
The heat of her pussy intensified as I penetrated her. Pushing deep inside her, I splayed my fingers on her haunches to support her.
“Ride me, baby. Ride me hard. Fucking take me to the moon.”
As I began to pump her fast and furiously, her hips bucked up and down, meeting my every deep thrust. Our ragged breaths filled the room as she rode me to ecstasy. An orgasm of epic proportions was building quickly and I hoped she was as close to coming as I was.
“Oh my God, oh my God,” she repeated, her voice between a cry and a whisper.
Then, everything broke loose as she sobbed out her orgasm, her pussy pulsing all around my combusting cock. I cursed under my breath as I emptied into her while her head fell forward onto mine.
I kissed her lips as I rode my orgasm out. Tonight, my Firebird had taught me how to fly.
A few minutes later, we were soaking in my deluxe Jacuzzi tub…yeah, the one fucking Charlotte had insisted I install in my loft. I’d never used it with the psycho bitch… only with Allee, and now, for the first time in five years, with Willow. I’d forgotten how amazing it was.
Willow’s beautiful lithe body was in my arms, between my legs, her back to me. The powerful jets caressed us.
“Are you okay?” I breathed into my beauty’s ear.
“Yeah,” she hummed back. “This feels amazing.”
“Is the water too hot?”
“It’s perfect.”
“Are your feet okay?”
She let out a soft moan that could barely be heard above the sound of the gurgling water. “They feel great. In fact, every part of my body feels great.”
I couldn’t agree more as I ran a large sponge around her pert breasts. Her body was perfect. Perfect for me. And I didn’t want anyone to touch it. Especially that bastard, Gustave. I wanted to banish him to the back of my mind, but his ugly presence lingered. And despite my oneness with Willow at this moment, burning questions whirled around in my head.
“Butterfly, that was a one time thing, right?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know…dancing. Performing.”
I could feel her body tense up. “I-I don’t know.”
I parted her curtain of hair. “What do you mean you don’t know?” Anger crept into my voice.
“Simply, I don’t know. I’m tired. It’s been a long, emotional day. I don’t want to talk about it. Or him.”
Him? My blood curdled. “Fine,” I snapped back, wishing I’d taken the bastard out or at least kicked him in the balls so hard he could never walk, dance, or fuck again.
Willow spent the night, spooned naked in my arms in my new bed. Exhausted, she fell asleep quickly while I stayed up for hours worrying about our future. I loved Willow Rosenthal with all my heart and soul, and I didn’t want to lose her.
After a few hours of shuteye, I woke up early at seven while Willow remained fast asleep. Slipping out of bed, I admired her as she rolled over onto her back, her flaming red hair fanned out on the white bedding, her chest rising and falling. My sleeping beauty, in her naked glory except for my necklace around her neck, the diamonds of the ballet slipper charm capturing the morning sun. Quietly, I threw on my robe and went downstairs to make a pot of coffee before heading outside to retrieve my Sunday New York Times. My Sunday morning ritual. When Allee was alive, we always purchased the paper at a nearby newsstand on a Saturday night, but after her passing, I had it delivered. It was too hard to visit that newsstand.
The paper tucked under one arm, I marched back upstairs with two mugs of steaming hot coffee. To my surprise, Willow was awake sitting up in
the bed, my comforter pulled up over her chest. Propped against the pink tufted headboard, she looked like a pre-Raphaelite beauty.
“Hi, baby,” I said brightly. “You sleep well?”
She twitched a small smile. “Yeah, I did.”
Not telling her about my tormented night, I handed her one of the mugs and rejoined her in bed.
She lifted the mug and inhaled. “Mmm, the coffee smells so good.” She took a sip as I set the thick Sunday paper down on the bed. It didn’t get better than this on a Sunday morning—fresh coffee, the Times, and the girl you loved. The tumultuous events of last night drifted to the back of my mind.
Sipping my coffee, I flipped through the paper until I found my favorite section. The section I always began my Sundays with. The New York Times Book Review. I immediately turned to the bestseller lists. My book, Undying Love, was back on the mass-market chart. Number One. My appearance on Good Morning America and the recent announcement that Ryan Reynolds had been chosen to play opposite Emma Stone had re-kindled interest in the book. I smiled while Willow pulled out the Arts and Leisure section.
“Oh my God!” she cried out, startling me.
“What’s the matter?”
“There’s a review of the ballet on the front page!”
My pulse quickened. I was more anxious than thrilled.
“What does it say?”
She began to read it out loud, beginning with the headline, and with every word, I could feel my blood pressure rising.
Headline: A Firebird on Fire
The Royal Latvia Ballet may have shined last night during a benefit of performance of Stravinsky’s masterpiece, choreographed by Gustave Fontaine at Lincoln Center’s Howard Koch Theater, but principal dancer, Willow Rose, who played the title role of the Firebird, literally shimmered, her feathers glowing and in perfect form. Her speed, precision, and artistic expression made sparks fly, bringing the audience to their feet. Known mostly in Europe, this a dancer to watch. She is bound to set the dance world on fire.
My chest tightened as Willow’s voice trailed off with the glowing review of her coupling with Gustave. Stunning…dazzling… explosive chemistry…a match made in heaven. I wanted to puke.
Lowering the paper, my companion clasped her mouth.
“Oh my God! I need to go.”
My nerves buzzing, I shot her a puzzled expression.
“I need to get over to my dad’s deli. Before he reads this or some customer tells him about it.”
“He doesn’t know you danced last night at Lincoln Center?” I asked, now wondering why her father wasn’t there.
Setting her mug of coffee on the nightstand, she jumped out of the bed. All naked. All panicked. In a frenzy, she slipped on her red cocktail dress, which I’d folded over my desk chair, and then retrieved her stilettos. She cursed under her breath as her bandaged toes squeezed into the spiky shoes.
“Ryan, do you have something I can borrow? I mean, something I can wear over my dress?”
Five minutes later, wearing my way too big overcoat, she dashed out of my loft.
Leaving me alone with a cold cup of coffee and my New York Times.
I tore up the Arts and Leisure section and then went for a run.
THIRTY-NINE
Willow
Breathlessly, my feet killing me, I hobbled into my dad’s deli. Not even eight a.m., the place was packed with regulars, who were either working their cell phones, reading a Sunday paper, or attending to their families. Sunday morning was one of our busiest days, with New Yorkers from all parts of town flocking to Mel’s for the best breakfast in the city. My eyes bounced around the busy restaurant in search of my father. Embarrassment creeping through me as I did my walk of shame, I asked one of the counter guys if my dad was around.
“He stepped into the kitchen,” he replied. “He should be back any minute.”
My chest tightened; my feet throbbed. Maybe I should run upstairs and deal with things later. With this thought and no longer able to bear the pain, I tugged my stilettos off my feet, one after the other. Closing my eyes for a brief second, I sighed with relief. When I blinked them open, there he was. My father.
He met my gaze as I nervously hugged Ryan’s big coat, acutely aware I was not wearing underwear. My father’s eyes roamed down my body, landing on my bandaged toes. His expression stern, he ambled toward me. My heartbeat quickened, my muscles clenched. Shit. What was I going to tell him? After my physical and emotional breakdown eight months ago, the last thing my father wanted was for me to dance professionally again.
He stood before me and I suddenly felt like I was three feet tall in front of this burly bear of a man. As I cringed, his lips pressed thin.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
My cheeks heated. He knew.
“I read the review.”
My mouth twitched.
“I would have liked to have been there.”
“I-I’m sorry, Pop. I should have told you, but I was afraid you’d get upset. It was a last minute thing… And with your heart condition—”
He cut me off. “Does this mean you’re resuming your dance career?”
“Pop, I don’t know.” I deliberately kept things vague, but there was no denying that dancing on stage had made me feel more alive than I’d felt in months. I didn’t know until last night how much I missed it. Ballet was in my blood. It was my oxygen.
My father’s dark eyes wavered from me. “You have a visitor.”
His face pinched as a familiar, accented voice sounded in my ears.
“My petite oiseau…”
I whirled around. Swaggering toward me was Gustave, carrying my pink ballet bag in one hand, his cane in the other. He was clad all in black except for a white cashmere scarf that draped over his fitted velvet jacket.
My heart stammered. “P-pop, this is—”
“I know who he is.” My father cut me off, his voice as cold as ice.
“Enchanté.” Gustave smirked as he gave my apron-clad, still meaty father the once over. “Obviously, your beautiful and talented daughter inherited her genes from her mother.”
My blood ran cold. Gustave could be so charming in one breath, so cruel and cutting on the next. His onyx eyes zoomed in on me.
“We need to talk, oiseau.” He tapped his cane as he shot my father a dismissive look. “Privately.”
My eyes flitted to my father. I could tell from the reddening of his face that anger was bubbling in his blood. “Pop, would you excuse us for a few minutes?”
My father scowled. “Fine, but don’t make it too long. I could use your help. I’m down a waitress.” Without another word, my father stalked off.
“Can we sit down somewhere?” asked Gustave as soon my father disappeared. “Perhaps over there?” he added, pointing to an empty table in the corner with his cane.
A few moments later we were seated at the table facing each other. His nose was still swollen from Ryan’s assault.
“I’m sorry if my friend hurt you last night,” I murmured, not knowing where to start.
“That is not why I’m here. I have no time to waste on that despicable lowlife.” He adjusted his scarf. “I shall simply get to the point. I need you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I want you to return to the troupe. I shall make you principal dancer. A star.”
“I don’t know if that’s what I want.” My voice was shaky.
He huffed a haughty breath as a waitress, lugging a loaded tray, scurried by us. “Puh-lease. Is this the pathetic life you want? Wearing a dirty apron and serving peons?”
“I respect waitresses.” I really did. They were honest, hard-working human beings.
He laughed. “You’re only fooling yourself, Willow. You were born to dance and you know that. Did you see any of the reviews?”
“I saw the one in the New York Times,” I said hesitantly.
“They’re all like that. You’re all over the Internet and the Twitter world can’t sto
p buzzing about you.”
Shock coursed through me. I had no idea.
“I need you to return to the company. With Mira’s injury, I have no one who can dance the White Swan.”
I registered his words. The White Swan in Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake? He wanted me to perform that role? The coveted role every ballerina in the world dreamed of dancing.
“We shall be touring the world, starting in France at L’Opéra de Paris.”
His words whirled around in my head while my heart pounded in my chest. I’d always dreamt of dancing in Paris at the grand L’Opéra. Oh my God. And to dance the role of the White Swan there?
“My oiseau, you will become an international star of mega-proportions. This is the opportunity of a lifetime.”
Words were trapped in my throat. I was speechless.
“Do you want to spend your life here in this eggshell or do you want to set the world on fire with your dancing? Think about it, my little bird, and let me know in twenty-four hours. We depart tomorrow afternoon.”
And with that, he grabbed his cane and walked out of the restaurant, leaving my emotions in a tempest.
FORTY
Ryan
From the minute Willow fled my loft, I felt like my life had become a ticking time bomb. Over dinner at her father’s deli, she told me her plans. She was going to rejoin Gustave’s ballet troupe and resume her dance career. Upon hearing this news, rage pummeled through me. A huge fight erupted.
“No fucking way!” I yelled at her.
“Please, Ryan, try to understand.”
“I get it. You’ve chosen him over me.”
“No, Ry-man, it has nothing to do with him. It has everything to do with me.”
“Bullshit. You’re fucking obsessed with him.”
This is how the conversation bounced back and forth. My rage rising with each harsh breath. Before we ended our relationship right then and there—and I combusted—we reluctantly agreed on a next step. Something I’d resisted. Couples therapy.
Endless Love Page 18