Moved (3 page)

He says his freedom is
more important to him than love, which in his opinion is vastly
overrated, and he's not at all interested in having kids. I think
he's a fool and he'll be a lonely old man when he starts to age and
his good looks fail to attract any more hot blondes. I told him
this in no uncertain terms. As his friend and flatmate, I felt it
was my duty to try and point him in the right direction.

But it only made him
laugh. Which was a shame, because I meant it to be taken seriously.
He's definitely not the serious type, though. He said he planned on
getting his fill of life as a young man. Who the fuck cared what
happened in his forties and fifties. He'd worry about that then, if
he lived that long.

He was clearly laying
down our relationship ground rules. Making sure I knew the lie of
the land and didn't initiate any unrequited emotional
entanglement.

It did cross my mind
that he might be warning me off because he was worried I'd sneak up
on him somehow, marry him, and have his babies without him
noticing. But in any case, I did appreciate his upfront honesty. It
was thoughtful. He could have taken me for a ride, in between
Barbies, and abused his friendly position a little, but he didn't.
That's a big plus to his character.

So, we've now put each
other firmly in the friend and flatmate category.

We really are good
friends, despite our differences. And we need to get along, on a
nice even keel, because we spend so much time together. It would be
a painful and difficult existence otherwise.

I've told Sandy, more
than once, in very simple terms, so there's no ambiguity in her
mind.

'Don't even go there,
he's a nightmare...'

Unfortunately, this
has only served to make him all the more appealing to her.

The fact that he's a
bad boy, a dyed in the wool player, a Barbie junkie, and not
looking for love or even a sixth date, turns her on like nothing
else.

She literally swoons
with lust and flushes all over at the mere mention of his name,
like a teenager with a mad crush on a high school jock.

It's kinda sad really.
Because she'll never get anywhere with him. She'll never be 'the
one' to change him. From what I've seen, I don't think anyone
will.

*

There's twenty of us
in his crew. We're progressive, urban, modern, traditional, fringe,
and just about everything else.

We're 'Censored.’

It's an apt name for
our particular style and brand of dance. Because it's for adult
eyes only. It's tasteful but rather erotic. We tell a story, in
heated choreography. Love, passion, betrayal, hatred... and all the
other strong, essential emotions...and we set the scene in any era
in time, from early stone-age to futuristic.

We're booked up for
the next three months at the Adelphi, currently allotted Tuesday,
Wednesday, and Thursday evenings. Not the best of days, but it's
regular pay.

When we achieve the
dizzy heights of Friday, Saturday, and Sunday stardom, I'll crack
open the champagne and run around Trafalgar Square in a thong
bikini yelling... “Yee-ha...We've fucking made it...!”

But until then, I'll
keep my inner joy, at our continuing steps up the success ladder,
all to myself. Just in case I tempt fate and it all goes pear
shaped.

Mason and I are
partners, and the principal leads in the troupe. We know each
others strengths and weaknesses. Not that we have many of the
latter.

Dancing with him is
the love of my life. And I'm pretty sure it's a two way street.

Acting the part of
lovers on the dance floor suits us both down to the ground. I get
to roll all over a good looking man and he gets to roll all over
me. It's not sex, but it feels pretty good at times. And tit size
aside, he thinks I have the best body and the cutest ass he's ever
seen or grabbed. A true compliment, if I ever heard one.

Off the dance floor
we're wicked buddies who straight talk to the point of rudeness
with each other. It's irrelevant that we have X and Y chromosomes
and different body parts.

I know that men and
women don't generally have this kind of strong friendship
successfully, because sex gets in the way. But we seem to manage it
with no effort whatsoever. We're strictly compartmentalised and
controlled.

I could sleep naked in
the same bed as him and not be tempted at all.

Not that I plan on
testing that out, just in case I'm wrong.

I'm getting ready for
my big Friday night of fun. And my grand lip stud unveiling...

Mason calls out,
“Don't wait up honey-bunch,” and leaves. I'm getting my dress on.
It's a sweet little number, in black, of course. Short, tight, and
sleeveless with a slash neck.

It's a squeeze, but
I'm finally in there. And it's looking kinda slinky and cute,
hugging my ass tighter than Mason in a fast uplift.

I put on my make-up
and straighten my long brown hair, then pin and arrange it in a
sleek side style, sweeping across one shoulder. I curl the ends for
a little more glamour.

“Mmmmm, not too bad at
all,” I say out loud, looking at the finished result, and smiling
to myself.

I can do glamour
pretty well, with a little effort.

I smother myself
liberally in Miss Dior, to complete the knock-him-dead look.

Not that I know if he
will be going or not. He tends to be working most evenings. He does
backstage lighting and audio stuff. The technical side of
showbiz.

I know I really
shouldn't do it, behind Mason's back, but I send Jackson a sneaky
text.

Mason doesn't know we
have each others numbers and so far we've managed to avoid the
temptation of using them.

“Going to the bar, see
you there maybe?”

He replies
instantly.

- Hey KD :) Got the
weekend off work – hanging with the guys already

I smile such a big
smile my face hurts.

- Masons gone out with
Summer.

I
text pointedly.

- He mentioned it –
doesnt know I'm here - game on.

He replies unsubtly.
We're on the same wavelength, it would appear.

- G
oing to the
party later?

- Raring to go - how
long will you be babe – drink?

- B there in five. Red
wine. TY :)

It's only half seven,
Sandy's not there till eight, and I see a small window of
opportunity opening in my love life. I shove my phone in my purse,
grab my key, and shoot out of the flat and hurtle downstairs. I
literally run down the road in my haste to get him to myself, for a
short, but hopefully, wonderful half an hour.

I know I'm playing
with fire. But I rarely get a chance like this. Mason's always
around and on guard. At our place and when we're out. Keeping us
separated and well away from each other.

He doesn't care for
the look in our eyes.

The one which clearly
says, 'We like each other. Lots. Let's date and whatever.’

Mason doesn't want us
mixing too much, talking too much, or even standing remotely close
to each other. He's telling us, none too succinctly, 'you're my
best friends. You can't do that kinda thing.’

Not only is he off
limits, so's his pal.

For some odd reason,
we play his game. Although being adults, we can do what we like, in
theory. But it seems neither of us wants to rock the Mason
boat.

Apart from this sneaky
half hour tonight, that is.

It's strange, and
probably a bit deep for me to be thinking it, but I'm not
completely sure who he's guarding from who. Me from Jackson, or
Jackson from me, or just me from myself. I get the feeling he
doesn't want me to be hurt. Because he knows everything about my
past. But I also get the feeling there's more to it than that.

Now I am getting
deep.

I swing through the
door of the bar and there he is. Black jeans and tight white T to
match the beautiful white smile he's blasting me with.

He's lounging against
the bar with Grant as I arrive at his side, and he moves in on me
quickly.

“Hi...” I say
breathlessly.

My heart's thumping
out of my chest. Mainly because I've just run five hundred yards
really fast, in high heels. It takes a lot out of a girl dodging
the cracks in the uneven pavement, even a fit dancer, like me.

He's making my heart
pump harder and the breathless part isn't going away any time
soon...

I get a good dose of
his cologne...and the scent is so ethereal, I start to get
high.

“Kaydee... Look at
you... You're lovelier than ever tonight, honey...” he drawls
slowly, hugging me close, and giving me a peck on the cheek. The
heat's rising so fast, like an oven's been switched on inside me.
“Mm mm, that's a really nice dress wearing you,” he whispers in my
ear. His lips touch my ear lobe and his breath is hot against my
skin. I'm swamped by a fiery flash over.

He pulls back, pushes
my wine to me with one lovely long finger, and his eyes come
sweeping up to mine. They're the warmest, deep brown girl-grabbers
on the planet.

“Thanks. How are you
anyway?” I ask inanely, my whole being ceasing to function. I take
a quick gulp of wine to get me going again.

“I'm good,” he
replies, his eyes searching my dazed expression with a hint of
amusement.

The eyes flick down
and focus on my mouth. His lips break into a little grin and he
lifts his finger and strokes my stud. The effect on me is
electric.

The breathless feeling
has been replaced by not breathing at all.

Up and down, round and
around. I'm tingling and hot all over.

His fingertip is
getting to know my stud very well. Better than I do.

His lips part with a
sigh and he rolls the little ball between his fingertips.

A tinge of sublime
erotic pain shoots through my newly pierced lip and my eyes half
close in heated reaction.

I'm absolutely
steaming.

My sex muscles have
clamped tighter than a vice and things are dampening up downstairs
already.

“When did you get this
done?” he asks quietly.

I find my voice from
somewhere far away.

“Today. And it still
hurts, so be careful.”

“Sexy little thing,
ain't it...” he says, twisting it some more, very softly.

I'm now imagining his
tongue playing with it and his teeth nibbling it.

I can't help it, I
moan with desire and our eyes meet.

He knows... and so do
I.

Oh God...

Jackson's very well
built, and naturally so. He's into fitness and health. He doesn't
smoke and only drinks a little. But more to the point, he's mixed
race and incredibly hot looking.

And unlike his bestie,
he doesn't seem averse to my piercings or my shoulder tattoo
either. He has a few of his own that I can see and that I'd love to
examine at close quarters, My rose is getting a lot of attention
from him at the moment. The long finger is on the move, exploring
it.

He's taller than
Mason, by an inch, and just about the coolest, sexiest thing, I've
seen on two legs.

And if the looks
weren't enough to make any woman weep with want, his voice is so
deep it shoots a sonic shock-wave straight through your brain.

And he's one of
'those' types of men.

A woman ambusher.

The type that sweet
talks, finger brushes, and eye fucks you so naturally and
beautifully, that suddenly you can't remember your own name or even
where you are. All you can do is stare, like a hypnotized rabbit,
and gulp and sigh and smile like an absolute idiot.

Like I'm doing
now.

I realise it's rather
pathetic of me.

I'm like Sandy. All
misty eyed, and bursting into flames over Mason.

It's impossible to
ignore or do anything to stop the intense, heated attraction that's
going down right now. It's been building for months, ever since we
first met. We've been kept apart, deliberately, by the friend
gatekeeper. And now we're like two little magnets, being drawn
together.

The only way we can
avoid this moving on, is if one of us leaves the bar, and pretty
soon.

And that ain't
happening.

Up till now, we've
never had much of a chance to pursue things. Just snatched minutes
to chat when the bodyguard was otherwise occupied, and a quick hug
hello and goodbye, here and there.

There's one thing I
know for certain. He's way more than just interested in me.

He's no angel, I know
that. He's had more than a few one night stands and short term
flings since I've known him. But unlike Mason, he has normal
relationships, with normal looking women. He was with Rea for two
months, although that ended a month ago.

“We're gonna pay for
this,” he says with a rueful smile.

“For what?” I reply
innocently.

“For standing next to
each other, flirting like this, and stopping on the double yellow
lines. It's not allowed, is it?”

His eyes have taken on
a deeper serious look, and the smile's gone.

I'm staring and
breathing hard, my eyes locked onto his.

“I don't care,” I
whisper.

And suddenly, we both
know we've crossed over that line.

He picks up my hand
and rubs it softly, all over, like he's examining and committing it
to memory. As if it's something precious. My brain goes into visual
and stroked meltdown.

“Kaydee... come with
me.”

I don't have a clue
what he just said. My mind isn't working after the hand orgasm.

My hand is still in
his as he walks out of the bar and around the side alleyway. My
heart is pounding like mad as he stops and pulls me to him, around
the waist.