Dance for Me (Fenbrook Academy #1) - New Adult Romance (7 page)

“It’s called a light tube,” he told me. “It’s daylight, reflected down from the roof.”

I unfastened my sneakers and kicked them off, and then I couldn’t delay it any longer. My hands gripped the waistband of my jeans...and I stopped.

I told myself not to be stupid. I had tights on underneath, and I’d danced a million times before wearing the same outfit. I’d even danced in front of him.

But not like this,
a little voice inside me said.

How could I dance just fine in front of a crowd, and yet just one person could reduce me to helpless mush?

I pushed down my jeans and stepped out of them. The tan tights where thin enough that I could feel the cool air of the cellar. I felt his eyes on my legs.

Of course he looked at your legs. He’s a man. That doesn’t mean—

“What would you like me to dance?” I asked, as much to silence my own thoughts as anything. I took my pointe shoes from my bag and then dumped it and my clothes out of the way.

“Your choice,” he told me. “Nothing that’ll be too uncomfortable on the floor.” He stepped back and stood against the wall.

That threw me. Him choosing would almost have been easier, because now I had to pick between pieces I knew solid choreography for and could do really well and the ones I truly loved but wasn’t as good at. I debated as I sat on the floor wrapping the ribbons around my ankles. In the end, I picked something in the middle. I loved it, I was pretty good at it, and there wasn’t too much that would be problematic on the concrete floor.

He handed over his phone, set up like a remote for his music system, and I scrolled through until I found the piece I wanted. A few seconds later, the first bars filled the room, the notes drifting and echoing in the huge space.

I was moving, almost without thinking about it. This wasn’t like the audition. There was no pressure to be the best and there were no inscrutable judges watching. I could almost have been on my own, dancing for pleasure.

I stepped, sank into the plié and glided into the turn, pushing harder than I normally would because of the concrete’s friction. And then I made the mistake of looking at him.

And suddenly, it was different again.

It wasn’t that he was looking at me with lust—at least, not on the surface. His eyes were as pure and clear as they’d been before, drinking in the movements and the flow. It was that he was watching me so intensely, relying on me to deliver...something. Inspiration? I couldn’t imagine inspiring anyone.

It wasn’t like a rehearsal, because I was alone. It wasn’t like solo practice, because when I got a step not quite right or didn’t nail a turn, I couldn’t go back and try it again. I was performing. For him.

It wasn’t the most challenging dance, especially that first section. So why was my heart racing? Why could one person make me nervous, when I’d danced for full theaters in our end-of-year shows?

I could feel his eyes on the shape of my extended leg as I leaned into a six o’clock arabesque, on the line of my arm as I straightened up. He wasn’t just watching, he was
absorbing,
in some way I couldn’t fathom, and whenever I messed up I felt like I was feeding him false information.
It shouldn’t be like that! It should be like this!

I felt like I was in a spotlight, in the very center of a massive stage and instead of an invisible audience I could forget about, I was being watched by the one guy I wanted—needed—to impress.

Yet something made it bearable, kept me teetering on the knife edge of tension without tipping over. When I made a mistake, he never did that little hiss of breath, never made me feel I’d got it wrong. He just watched, without judging and without commenting. I’d never seen someone so lost in the beauty of dance.

And gradually, I started to relax. My steps became more assured, my moves more graceful. When it came together, I actually felt lighter, the little glides of each bourrée almost effortless. I risked a few small jumps, careful on the concrete but wanting to give him something he’d remember. For the first time in my life, I was dancing not for an audience or for a judge or to play my part in a group, but
for
someone.

I was doing it to please
him.
A little flutter in my chest.

I was doing it to give him pleasure. A sudden, darker heat, lower down.

I realized I was only an arm’s length from him. My last few steps had taken me forward, and normally I would have been near the front of the stage, staring out into the blackness. But here, in this underground room, it put me right up close to him. We locked eyes, and I was breathing harder than I should have been.

I sank down into a grand plié, and instead of just watching he crouched, his movements so harsh and cumbersome compared to my own, like watching a giant made of stone. He settled there, huge and hulking, and we stared at each another.

I rose, turned, feeling his eyes burning into my back. I pushed off into a pas de chat, airborne for just a second as both legs folded under me, then flowing into a turn as I landed. He was still watching me just as intensely, and he’d taken a step forward. I started to move towards him and something flickered down my body, like darkly sparkling starbursts that set every nerve humming. The dance called for me to take just a single step forward.

I took two.

I stopped no more than six inches from his body, close enough that he must have been able to feel the heat coming off me, my whole body glowing from the inside. My chest was heaving, my legs trembling. The leotard and tights felt like they were barely there, as if my body was throbbing nude before him.

The music stopped.

We stood there staring at each other. His eyes were just as clear and striking as before, but they’d lost that innocence, now. They were burning with something even more powerful: lust.

I thought I saw his shoulders twitch, as if his hands were moving, and I caught my breath, keeping my gaze fixed on his eyes. My lips parted just a little, my eyes closing.
He’s going to kiss me! He’s going to—

He stepped back.

My eyes opened and I sort of swallowed and stepped back myself, turning away to hide my blush. For a few seconds neither of us said anything. I didn’t know if he was looking at me and I didn’t want to risk looking.

“Was that okay?” I asked, without turning.

“Beautiful.” There was pain in his voice, as if he was sorry it was over.
“
Could you come back again...tomorrow?” he asked.

I nodded. “Sure.” I retrieved my clothes and started pulling them on. It took me three tries to get my foot into the leg of my jeans. My hands were shaking as I picked up my bag.

When I turned, he was much closer than I expected. I almost walked right into the broad wall of his chest. We both froze, and I looked up at him again. His eyes brightly blue and—

And suddenly we were kissing. His palms were on my cheeks, thumbs brushing along the tightly-bound hair at my temples. His lips met mine and they were as gorgeously full and hard-soft as I’d imagined. They felt so
right,
so like the thing I’d been missing, that I let out a tiny shriek of astonished relief, and that opened my lips. His tongue was between them instantly, searching and pressing, a hot shudder travelling the length of me. I grabbed his arms to keep from falling.

As quickly as it started, it was over. He pulled back and we were both gasping. I felt like I was standing on a ledge no bigger than my feet, with plunging cliffs on every side.

He tried to say something, but no words came out. It was all too fast, too much. Being underground hadn’t bothered me before, but suddenly the thought of all those floors above us, pressing down...

“I—I need some air,” I told him.

He nodded, and led me to the lift. For three whole floors, we stood in silence, only a foot apart, neither of us daring to look at the other.

Just as the doors opened, he turned to speak to me. “Nat—”

The sound of a full-on screaming match hit us and we both snapped back to front.

Chapter Eight

Natasha

The shouting was coming from the kitchen. Even before I was close enough to make out the words, I could recognize Clarissa’s sharp, high voice. I’d heard her wield it like a scalpel to shred opponents—male and female—plenty of times. I was hearing it clash against the low rumble of a male voice, as solid and unyielding as a tank.

When I rounded the corner and saw him, I froze. Clearly, this was a home invasion.

The man was almost as big as Darrell, but with long, sandy-blond hair reaching down to his collar and a goatee. He was wearing a black t-shirt with faded, gothic writing on it—it could have been for a metal band or a biker gang, or some combination of both. His arms bulged under the deep tan of someone who lives their life outdoors, and his black jeans hugged his thickly-muscled legs all the way down to his biker boots. A complex tattoo covered one arm from wrist to sleeve.

I couldn’t decide whether to run to Clarissa and pull her to safety or grab Darrell and push him towards the intruder, so I wound up staying where I was. My brain was still trying to catch up to this sudden shift in events—I hadn’t even begun to process the kiss, yet!

Then what they were yelling began to sink in.

“Girl...you got a lot of nerve standin’ there criticizin’ my clothes when that skirt you’re wearin’ meant some woman in a sweatshop in China—”

“This is
Prada!
It’s from
Milan!
”

“Some woman in a sweatshop in France has made a buck eighty-six for a day’s work and a cow has died just so you can waggle your ass at the guys.”

“Milan is in
Italy
and I don’t
waggle
my ass and your boots are made of leather you—”

“My boots have been with me for ten years and they’ll last another five. That’s a good use of a cow. That cow died for a reason. Your skirt’ll be in the trash next season ‘cos it ain’t
en vogue
.” His voice was incredible. It was Californian drawl left over hot coals to bake and smolder.

“Excuse me for wanting to look good.”

“Only place that skirt looks good is on the floor of some rich dude’s apartment—”

Clarissa opened her mouth to speak and I rushed forward. “
What
is going on here?” I demanded. “Who is this?”

Darrell was rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Natasha, Clarissa: this is Neil. My oldest friend.”

“We’ve met,” Clarissa said darkly. She folded her arms and glared at Neil.

I looked between Neil and Darrell. “He’s...You’re his...”

“We were at MIT together,” Darrell told me.

I looked back at Neil. “You were at MIT?” I flushed. “God, sorry! I didn’t mean—You just—”

“Dress like a biker?” asked Clarissa.

“I am a biker,” said Neil. “You got a problem with that, too?”

“What started all this?” From the way Darrell said it, this sort of thing wasn’t unusual for Neil. Now I came to think about it, it wasn’t all that unusual for Clarissa, either. But usually the men she met backed down.

Neil pointed at Clarissa, the muscles in his arm bulging under his t-shirt. “I walk in and she’s readin’ the
Times,
man, and she’s all, like,
let’s just execute anyone who doesn’t drive a BMW.”

“I said a tax cut here and there for the people who keep the economy going—”

Neil took a step towards her, the buckles on his boots jangling. “Yeah, you just keep gouging it out of the bottom ninety percent with your silver spoon—”

“Enough! Neil, please don’t argue with my guests. Clarissa...”

“
What?
”

Even Darrell blanched a little at the venom in her voice. “...nothing.”

“Oh, so it’s all on me?” Neil glared at Clarissa. “She can just sit up here and eat all the pastries—”

“I had
one!
And they were
for me!”
She took a step towards Neil, so that they were within touching distance. She had to look up at his face, now.

“They were for guests who were waiting. I’m a guest who was waiting!” He didn’t move towards her. He just sort of
bristled
, and even I could feel the animal heat coming off him. I wondered what it was like for Clarissa, right up close.

“OK, OK, enough!” Darrell took a deep breath. “Neil, I’m sorry. I forgot you were coming over. Clarissa, I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to introduce you. Next time—”

“Oh, there won’t be a next time,” Clarissa told him. “You think I’m going to sit here next time while some weed-smoking drop-out tells me how I should dress?”

“Hey,
one,
I only smoke for medicinal purposes,
two,
unlike Mr. Millionaire here I
got
my degree and
three,
as for how you should dress...”—he leaned forward and loomed over her—“I got some ideas on how you could dress. You want to hear them?” And he gave her a mocking, wolfish smile.