Firebird (7 page)

When at last her wrists were untied, he moved aside and leaned down to kiss her. “Turn over,” he said against her jaw. And then when she hesitated, “Just obey. I’ve already told you I won’t hurt you.”

She turned over, and when she was on her belly, he knelt between her legs and pushed her thighs wider apart. She felt the impulse to resist him, but he made a noise in his throat, and she yielded.

“I’m not going to tie you this time. Put your hands over your head. Hold the headboard. Stay that way.”

She did as she was told. He ran his hands up her back, warm, rough contact, then snaked them around and underneath to grope her breasts. She arched, trying to draw her legs together, but his knees were impeding her, spreading her wide. She lay still instead, taking short, panicked breaths like a trapped animal.
He won’t hurt you. He won’t hurt you.

But that wasn’t why she trembled. No. It wasn’t pain she feared. It was something she wanted, something so overwhelming she could barely control herself. She ground against the coverlet, felt the silk triangle of fabric adhere to the wetness between her legs. She tried to ease the ache building there, but he made a noise of disapproval. He put his hands around her waist and stilled her, preventing her attempt at relief. “No. I’m in charge right now, not you.”

She moaned—a fervent, desperate sound she couldn’t believe had come from her own lips.

He didn’t relent. “No. I said no.”

He rubbed the small of her back with his thumbs. His hands were large enough to almost completely span her waist. The hard grip reminded her of the way he partnered her in rehearsals. His touch then had hinted at a power, a ruthless ability she didn’t understand.

She understood it now.

She went pliant under his hands, gave herself up to his mastery. Her past D/s experiences had been nothing like this. She felt, for the first time, truly dominated. She was at his mercy. She shivered and tensed, resisting the urge to let go of the headboard and soothe the part of her that ached.

He shifted behind her and moved closer. He drew one hand up the inside of her thigh, the other arm wrapped under her hips, cradling her, or perhaps holding her so she couldn’t get away. His palm hovered, lingered over her hot, aching center. Oh, he was going to touch her!

“Don’t move. Not one inch.”

Oh God, she was going to die. She felt the heat of his palm where he held it still over her pussy. If he didn’t touch her, if he didn’t plunge his fingers inside—It took every fiber of her control not to arch forward against his palm. She vibrated under his fingers, craving, needing satisfaction. If only he would touch her—

“Good girl,” he said, releasing her. “Time’s up.”

Chapter Six

She pulled on her clothes, blushing and coy again the moment the naughty lingerie was hidden underneath. He watched her dress with a mixture of wonder and depression. He squelched the urge to strip her naked again and take her down to the bed. His fantasies of a raunchy, sex-soaked romp with Julie were long forgotten. His chaste little scene with Prosper had been much better than anything he could have dreamed.

He hadn’t slept with her, they hadn’t had intercourse, but he’d touched every part of her he’d longed to touch since he first watched her take class. Well, he hadn’t touched
every
part of her, but close enough. Close enough to hold him until the next time. There would be a next time; that was sure. He hadn’t asked her about it because he wouldn’t leave it up to her. No, her first instinct would be to run away, to create safe distance. He wouldn’t leave the decision with her.

When she was ready, Jackson walked her back to her apartment. He was alert for troubled signals, impending hysteria, but she seemed strangely calm. She didn’t talk, and he chose not to press her into conversation. He assumed that, like him, she was still working through what they’d just done.

He pulled her close in the stairwell outside her apartment and brushed a quick kiss against her ear. “Okay, Prosper?”

She nodded. He looked down at her.

“What’s wrong?”

“We didn’t do much negotiating, did we? Much talking?”

“We talked enough,” he said. “I learned some things about you.”

Her blush was delicious. He wanted to lick it right off her face. He settled for another lingering kiss. “Prosper…” His tongue glided across her lips. He took her head in his hands and kissed her more deeply. He felt her grasp at his arms for balance and, without thinking, shifted to compensate. Once a partner, always a partner. Is that why he felt he already knew this girl inside and out? Because he’d danced with her? He pulled away, unbalanced by the sudden rush of possession he felt.
No strings…

“Okay,” he said. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow after class.”

She opened her mouth, then shut it. He thought perhaps she was unsure whether to answer
yes, Sir
or simply call him Jackson again.

“‘Sure, Jackson’ is perfectly fine now.”

“Sure, Jackson,” she said. “See you at rehearsal.”

“Do you have your key?”

She fumbled in her bag for it. Before she could unlock the door, he took her arm and leaned close, his lips at her ear.

“One more thing I forgot to tell you. You may not touch yourself. At all. When I see you, I’ll know.”

Her beautiful mouth gaped. He gave her elbow one last squeeze and left her on her doorstep.

He walked back to his place slowly, basking in the afterglow of a highly satisfying afternoon. He went straight upstairs and collapsed facedown on the bed. Her perfume, the smell of her hair, the primal fragrance of her center was in the bedding. Like a predator, he already knew her by scent. He turned over and stared at the ceiling, daydreaming about black stockings, straining hips, and fiery orange hair.

* * *

“Prosper!” Glenna ambushed her as soon as she shut the door behind her. “What are you all dressed up for? You were out with someone? A guy?”

She shrugged. “We just met for coffee.”

“Who is he? Do I know him? Where did you meet him?”

“Um…well…” She wished she had prepared some kind of story in advance.

“Is he a dancer?”

Prosper coughed. “Well, um…no.”

“Cute? Is he cute? What’s his name?”

“His name is J-John. And he was cute, yeah. It was kind of a blind-date thing.”

“What did you do?”

“Um, well, we mostly talked and had coffee. We’ll see where it goes.”

“God, you look so cute. I love those shoes. I’m sure he liked you. Damn, I’m so jealous of your hair! I love it curly like that!”

Glenna went on awhile longer, until Prosper managed to excuse herself. The rest of the day was a complete waste. All she could do was think about him, the things he’d said, the things he’d done to her. That night she tossed and turned, remembering every moment, from the time he’d turned to her in the coffee shop and shocked her senseless to the time he’d kissed her outside her apartment door. “
You may not touch yourself
.” Her fingers curled into tight fists, trying to resist. He had awakened new sensations, new vistas inside her that she hadn’t even known existed. All her past sexual experiences paled in comparison to her interlude with Jackson, and he hadn’t even fucked her. She placed her hand between her thighs the way he had, hovering just over her hot, slick core. She arched and squirmed, desperate to contact her aching clit but at the same time knowing she didn’t dare.

Why not? Because he’d told her not to? Did she owe him obedience like that? Did she have to allow him to control her?

No, she didn’t have to, but she wanted to. Every moment she lay in bed trying not to fondle herself, her mind fixated on him. He might as well have been lying right beside her, staring a warning at her. She could still feel the tensile fingers, the broad, warm hands. The rough lips against her earlobe. She would see him the next morning after class. He would
know
. She had to do as she’d been told.

But it was so hard not to touch herself, to try to soothe the ache. She pressed her legs together, turned, and sighed, and when morning dawned, she’d hardly managed any sleep.

* * *

He didn’t have to turn to know when she was standing in the door to the rehearsal room. Her soft footsteps alerted him, the bright flash of hair in the mirror.
Keep it together, Jack
. He could already feel his cock rising, and he hadn’t even turned to her yet.

Dammit.

He sat by the wall, held his dance book in his lap, ignoring her with everything he was worth. He wondered how she’d looked at him when she’d entered. Shyness? A smile?

He heard soft murmurs of greeting between her and Blake, saw her begin to stretch at the barre—again, from under his lashes. He would never survive this.
Focus. Work is work, play is play.

For a moment he actually considered sending them home, canceling practice, but that was impossible. He looked up at her finally, and she turned her back on him with a frown. What did she want him to do, acknowledge what had happened between them last night? Here? Now? In front of Blake?

“Let’s begin with the capture,” Jackson said. “From the top.”

The dancers moved through the sequence. They were really improving as partners. Blake was getting used to her smaller, lighter stature, and she was relaxing into his grip. He made them repeat the steps two, three times, added more, tried newer, more intricate combinations they both struggled with but eventually achieved.

He stood and moved nearer to his Firebird and tried very hard not to remember her as she had been the night before. It wasn’t difficult. The silent girl before him in a light pink leotard and tights bore no resemblance to the black-stockinged siren of last night. Her frown was exhausting, though. He finally stopped looking at it. When an hour had passed, he let them go.

She skittered from the room, head down, those tiny tension lines all around her mouth. He could have gone after her, called her back. He could have pulled her close and whispered in her ear,
Did you touch yourself last night? Or did you obey me?

But there was no reason to ask if she’d obeyed him, because he knew with absolute certainty that she had. He wasn’t even into orgasm denial, not really. In fact, if he got his wish, he would be making her come up and down and sideways—and soon. No, it was an exercise, a test. A way to gauge if she was going to cooperate, if she was invested. If she would obey him when the things he asked for were hard. He knew she had a strong drive to please, a drive to receive approval. He could use that to suit his own purposes very well.

So Jackson didn’t go after her. Such behavior would draw attention. There were dancers all around, and dancers gossiped hard. He did stay for the show to watch Prosper from the seats. He went backstage for the second half but didn’t see her. He’d intended to talk to her, reassure her that his cool demeanor during rehearsal was only to keep their secret safe. But instead of Prosper, he ran into Lawrence, who grilled him on the new
Firebird
. Yes, yes, he would start rehearsing with the corps soon. Yes, Prosper Ware was turning out quite well.

“Such a surprise sometimes,” Lawrence said. “What they have inside them.”

Jackson nodded.
Tell me about it
. “You know what they say, Lawrence. It’s always the quiet ones.”

“Just so,” he agreed. “And how is she doing with Blake? Good partnership?”

“Yes. They’re finally starting to get comfortable.”

Lawrence paused. “Kristen is making noises about going to another company. Do you think Prosper will expect to move to principal permanently?”

“Don’t you want her to?”

“I don’t know. I hate to lose Kristen, but if you think Prosper is principal material…”

“She’s definitely principal material.” He looked hard at Lawrence. “Is it only her small size that you don’t like?”

“She’s just so serious in her focus.” Lawrence shook his head so his white-gray hair fell into his eyes. “Almost joyless in a way.”

“A small price to pay for perfect dancing,” Jackson said. “When you watch her Firebird, you’ll see.”

* * *

Tuesday after class Prosper dawdled, stretching and rubbing her legs.

“Tired from all your prima ballerina dancing?” Glenna teased.

“No,” she said. “Just basically tired.”

And she was tired. Prosper hadn’t been able to sleep last night again, this time not from sexual frustration but from ire. Yes, they’d said no strings, but how dare he just totally ignore her? As if nothing had taken place between them at all? And now she was off to suffer the same indignity again. She was waiting outside the rehearsal room as the other dancers filed in, not quite ready to face Jackson yet, when Blake loped up to her side.

“Prosper. Hey.”

The southern lilt to his voice always surprised her, at odds with his ethnic face. “Hi, Blake.”

She wondered what was going on. Even after weeks of rehearsals, he hadn’t deigned to speak to her outside of short exchanges required by their Firebird parts.

“Company rehearsals today. Excited?”

She shrugged. “I guess.”

“It’s good. When they see what you’re doing, what Jackson’s been doing—”

“They’ve already seen it.” What did he think would change? They’d been watching through the windows for weeks, had already seen Jackson berating her, seen her trying to capture the choreography with debatable success.

“Listen, Prosper, maybe you don’t want to hear this. Maybe you hate me, maybe you don’t want my advice, but I’m going to say it anyway. You’re a talented dancer. You know what you’re doing, and you could very well be a principal soon. You should lighten up a little.”

She moved to leave, but he blocked her and backed her against the wall. She was about to shove him away when she looked to the side and saw Jackson turn and disappear into the rehearsal space. Had he seen Blake cornering her there, leaning in for what could have been a kiss but was only a lecture?

“I mean, you need to learn to network, Prosper. The world of dance is social. Why don’t you try cracking a smile every once in a while?”