Firebird (15 page)

“Eight!” was the last. He put the belt down on the table and helped her up. She swallowed hard and looked up into his eyes, feeling ashamed and aroused. Or perhaps ashamed
because
she felt so aroused. His gaze was direct and stern, and for a moment she had difficulty finding her voice.

“I’m so sorry, Sir. Next time I’ll do what you say; I promise.”

“Every time you’ll do what I say. Okay? And if you can’t, you’ll let me know, and you’ll explain to me why.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Are you tired, girl?”

“Yes. I’m very tired.”

He put a hand under her elbow. “Then let’s get you to bed.”

* * *

He led her straight to his bedroom. He shouldn’t have. She was tired, and she was supposed to be recuperating. There was a second bedroom where he’d put all her things earlier, but that room was on the top floor, and he didn’t want her that far away. She was still an invalid. She needed supervising. That’s what he told himself anyway. He sent her to shower, lingering outside the bathroom in case she got dizzy and fell, then gave up and joined her, drinking the water from her luscious skin.

He should never have moved her into his house. He wouldn’t be able to leave her alone.

When she got out of the shower, he forbade her to put on pajamas. He didn’t want her body covered from his gaze. He took her towel and nodded to the bed. “Left side.” She walked over and climbed between his sheets, curled up there, not a lost kitten anymore. He hung up the towel and came to join her. Once in bed, he pulled her close. She was so cold, and he noticed too that she felt thin. She really was run-down. Letting her move in was something he simply had to do for her health and safety. She needed looking after. And he needed her in his bed because…because…
Because you have to have her.

She sighed and arched back against him.

“You need to rest,” he said. But two seconds later he turned to the bedside drawer to get a condom and sheathe himself. He eased inside her with a slow, steady motion that would have been impossible to halt. She gasped as she always did when he first entered her, shifting her hips to adjust to his girth. Gasp turned to moan—hers or his, he didn’t know. Both, perhaps. They moved together like that, slow and splendid, for what might have been an hour but probably wasn’t. It was as if they sealed some new contract, some new promise. Deep feelings. Immense possibilities.
Prosperity.

Later when he held her sleeping body against his satiated one, he hoped against hope he hadn’t made a mistake.

Chapter Twelve

Prosper woke up alone to silence. No small, depressing apartment. No screaming and yelling from next door. Just silence and a wide white bed. The diaphanous curtains undulated over semiopen blinds that let in bright morning light. The temperature was perfect, not too hot and not too cold, and Prosper stretched under the covers, pulling them up to her ears. She could smell Jackson.

Jackson.

Had he left for work already? She listened, thought perhaps she heard the rattle of a newspaper. She left the bed, padded to the door, and cracked it open. She went upstairs to the guest room to find her pajamas, and then tiptoed down the stairs. Why was she tiptoeing? Why did she feel like an intruder? She reached the bottom of the second flight and peered around the corner to see him sitting at the table over coffee, eggs, and bacon. Sunlight fell across his face as he mulled over the headlines. He rattled his paper again and put down his cup.

“You live here now, Prosper. You don’t have to skulk around.”

Her heart thumped at the sound of her name on his lips. He looked up and smiled, beckoned her over. “Sit down.” He nodded to the chair beside him. “I’ll get you some breakfast.” He stood and headed for the kitchen.

“I’m not hungry. I don’t usually eat breakfast—”

The look he gave her as he passed made her voice trail off.

“In this house we eat breakfast. Sit.”

She sat, her heart surging in her chest. “
In this house we eat breakfast
.” It sounded so domestic. Don’t get excited, it’s just for now, she reminded herself as she sat on the edge of the chair, then sank back into it. She stared at the table and blushed, remembered Jackson spanking her over it with his doubled-over belt. He chuckled as he set a plate of eggs, bacon, and toast in front of her.

“No room here for a dungeon to keep you properly in line. We use what we have. Don’t we?”

She smiled up at him, her face on fire. “Yes, Sir.” She picked at her eggs. “I… Do I…call you
Sir
? Here in your house? Now that I’m living here full-time?”

He shook his head with a slight frown. “We’re not going to be full-time, Prosper. I don’t have the energy or inclination to do it. But you may call me
Sir
whenever we’re alone if you like. Just don’t forget and come out with it during rehearsals or something. People will have enough to talk about as it is.”

“You’ll tell them that I’m staying here?”

His frown deepened. “I won’t tell anybody anything. But you know how dance companies operate. The gossip, the whispering. And Blake knows.”

Prosper swallowed. “He does?”

“Not about the specifics, so you can start breathing again. But he knows we’re together. He says he won’t say anything, but…”

Prosper looked down in her lap. “One more reason for them to despise me. Believing I slept myself into the role.” She looked up at Jackson, a horrible thought occurring to her suddenly. “Or maybe I did.”

He shook his head. “You got that role based on your talent, Prosper. Don’t let anyone make you think otherwise.” He waved his fork at her. “If I do anything before I leave here, I’ll get you to understand how talented you are, that you deserve every success you get.” He pointed at the bacon untouched on Prosper’s plate. “Are you going to eat that?”

At her small shake, he took it and stuck it in his mouth, then stood up to take his plate to the kitchen. “I’m off. You stay in bed today and rest. Read a little, or watch some TV. There are DVDs next to the couch, naughty ones too.” He smiled. “Watch them if you want. You might learn something. But Prosper”—his face rearranged itself into stern lines again, just like that. How did he do it?—“do not dream of doing anything else, unpacking, cleaning up. No dancing,” he emphasized, pointing to her feet flexing under her chair. “Seven days of rest. Doctor’s orders.”

“I can’t go seven days without dancing. You know I can’t.”

He cupped her face in his hand. “No dancing. Not full out. But if you like, when I get home and I can keep an eye on you, we’ll have a little class.” There was a glint in his eye she didn’t miss. “Do you understand your directions, girl? I’m not kidding. When I get home, I’ll know.”

“Yes, Sir, I understand. But I really do feel okay.”

His reproving look made her blush again. He lifted her from her chair, pulled her close, and kissed her, his smooth, morning-shaven skin a soft surprise.

“Be good. I expect you to be good.”

* * *

Time in rehearsals dragged by. He felt a strange combination of contentment and agitation knowing Prosper was resting back at his home. He would have preferred if she was here, but she couldn’t be, and really, how greedy could he be? She would be in his home until he left in the spring. He would see her at work, in practices, in
Firebird
performances starting in February. Life was good.

But practicalities dictated that he choose another girl to learn Firebird for now, to mark the steps in rehearsal as the other choreography went on, and he chose Elsa over Kristen only because he knew Kristen led the revolt against his girl. Kristen pouted so hard Jackson had to stifle laughter. He drew her aside to explain that, as the Tsarina, she was too indispensable to understudy the lead. Blake watched all of this with a cool detachment. If his allegiance to Kristen caused him to be irritated, he didn’t show it. Jackson suspected he had more allegiance to Prosper than he let on.

And if Blake decided to cause problems for them, what would result? He wasn’t the first choreographer to romance a company dancer. Balanchine and Farrell were the stuff of every ballerina’s dream. What would they do? Send him away? Hardly.

It bore absolutely no repercussions for him. Only for her.

He stuffed that thought down and concentrated on rehearsals, then left early for home. The streets were decorated for Christmas holidays, but his mind was full of
Firebird
. The choreography was all falling into place, although without Prosper it had been missing that special something that sent it over the top. Elsa made a miserable replacement. Her willowy limbs were unable to match the precision of Prosper’s shorter, quicker legs. Thinking about her legs had him semihard already as he took the steps to the town house two at a time.

He let himself in and found her sleeping in his bed. He thought he should make her sleep in her own room, a way of preserving the power imbalance they both craved. But a part of him knew that was folly. They were like magnets. The pull had been there from the start, from the first moment he had seen her. Whatever explained it—pheromones, attraction, subconscious signals—the pull made it almost impossible for him to leave her alone.

But he did. She needed to rest, and he was pleased to find her resting as he’d ordered. He went into the kitchen and started to put together a simple dinner. He was already looking forward to watching her from across the small table, her smiles and gestures making the blood rush straight to his cock.
No, no, she needs rest. Seven days.

He had other plans for tonight.

When dinner was on the table, he went in and crawled onto the bed next to her. She woke at once, and the sleepy, happy eyes she turned on him almost made him lose his resolve not to molest her. “You’re being my good girl, yes? Resting?”

“Yes, Sir.” She sighed and snuggled her warm body close to him.

“No, not now. Come on, cuddles. Dinnertime. Slowly, in case you’re dizzy.” He helped her up, but she insisted she hadn’t felt dizzy all day. He supposed a dancer’s brain would be least susceptible to dizziness, since a ballerina routinely spun in circles on one toe.

They sat and ate, and she had a decent appetite, ate nearly everything he gave her. He felt reassured that she was indeed up for a little class. He had fantasized about putting her through her paces privately since the first time he’d seen her dance, since the first time he’d seen her legs flex and her toes slide neatly across the floor. After dinner he had her sit and rest next to him on the couch while he wrote some e-mails on his laptop. Then he stood and pushed the furniture against the walls. She watched in silence, the only outward sign of excitement the clasping and unclasping of her hands.

“Here, girl.” He pointed to the center of the floor. “Class time.”

She hesitated.

“Will I need pointe shoes, Sir?”

“Of course you will. You’ll also need to undress completely. I want to see your lines.”

She took a deep breath at those words, then went for the shoes and returned. He watched with his arms crossed over his chest as she took off her pajamas, revealing the body he knew, the body he loved. The body that still struck him every time with its power and perfection.

“Shoes,” he prompted, when she stood, still staring at him. Her mind was clearly as muddled with lust as his. Her fingers fumbled with the ribbons as she drew them up and around each ankle, tied them, and tucked the knots inside.

“Okay, up. First position.” He took her through a short series of rudimentary exercises.
Pliés, chassés, battements, relevés
. He stood right in her dance space and scrutinized her form. If only she made a mistake, even a small one, he could smack her lovely bottom in reprimand, but she was perfect as always. He thought about making the exercises harder, the tempo faster, to purposely trip her up, but the practical part of his mind kept insisting on rest.
Seven days of resting.

Maybe next week.

For now, once he’d warmed her up and watched her lovely, nude body work through the movements, he put on some music, some indie with a good strong beat. It wasn’t the classical she was used to, but he’d seen her dancing to it in his head. He partnered her, fed her the steps as he thought of them. She performed flawlessly. Her little hand grasped his, and her body moved through space. When she leaned on him, he gave her perfect balance, his own solid strength.

Then he pulled her down with his heart full of desire and his limbs alive with lust for her. He spread her legs. He would only taste her; that wouldn’t tax her too much. He would only slide his tongue over her pussy lips, up to her clit that bloomed under his kiss. She tasted so sweet; the scent of her triggered some deep animal impulse inside him. He sucked and stroked her and thrust his fingers inside her tight wetness. She moaned in response and twisted her fingers in his hair.

He could feel the exact moment she started climbing, and he pressed his tongue hard against her clit, moving it back and forth. She bucked as his fingers found and stroked her G-spot inside. Rest be damned. He feasted on her until she screamed her release. He reveled in the feeling of her walls clenching around his fingers and the soft satin of her pointe shoes sliding across his back.

* * *

Jackson woke before her the next morning. It was Sunday. No class, no rehearsals, no performances—a day of rest for them both. Well, rest in a certain sense of the word, he thought, watching her sleep. As it turned out, Jackson didn’t leave the bed until long after noon.

No, he stayed and watched her sleep, adjusting his erection when it became too painful. When she began to stir, he leaned over and fingered her awake, preparing her to take his cock. She was quickly wet, and he slid his fingers through her pussy, gathering the moisture. He pressed one slippery digit down to rest against her asshole. She flinched and tensed.

“Okay, girl. Not this morning. But soon.” She made a soft, scared noise that excited him. He fumbled with the condom wrapper, then gathered her close and plunged into her tight, hot pussy. He looked down at her, thrilled by the way her features softened and her mouth fell open as he fucked her. The pleasure he gave her was written all over her face. They moved together, and each time he slid into her, he felt closer and closer to her. Tension grew in his dick, his balls. Sensation threatened to overcome him. He pulled himself together and refocused on her. God, she was never more beautiful than when she let herself go, when she gave herself up to his ownership of her.