The Last Dance (7 page)

She should be afraid. She was as vulnerable as any person could be, naked and handcuffed, but she knew there was precious little he could do to her in this moment that she would not welcome, encourage even.

It was unhealthy, and wrong, and undeniably stupid to want him, but she did. Roman dripped several drops of chilled vodka over her breasts. Her nipples tightened, anticipating what would come next. Her body tingled in expectation.
Please.
She said a silent prayer that his tongue would continue along the same carnal trajectory.

His gaze locked on hers, icy blue, studying her, taking in every small movement. She took in a deep breath, her breasts rising as she filled her lungs. For an eternity he did not move, but finally his head lowered to her breast, capturing the taut peak. His teeth grazed the sensitive flesh before he licked her. This time she could not swallow the moan. It was too much; the overload of sensation forced it from her. He was sucking her breasts, but she felt him everywhere, in her swollen clit, her curled toes, and her lips, desperate to kiss him and suck him the way he sucked her.

Georgina’s back arched, pressing her breasts farther into his open mouth. He sucked harder. Desire shot through her.

Roman pulled back. He held the bottle above the apex of her thighs. He tilted the bottle and then shook his head and smiled. “Not there. I only want to taste you.” Instantly he was between her thighs. He lifted her knees so they bent, creating a cradle for him.

She opened her mouth to object. It was too intimate…too soon…too much…but the words did not come. Pleasure robbed her of the ability to speak. Roman licked the intimate seam of her body, opening her to him. His tongue stroked her clit, exquisitely slow strokes, small circles focusing on the epicenter of pleasure. He latched on to her and sucked, his teeth grazing the sensitive nub. Sensation overwhelmed her body, hot frantic need. She moaned as she wantonly rubbed her pussy on his face. She was about to come.

God, it had been so long. When was the last time she had come? She couldn’t even remember. She didn’t even have the energy anymore to masturbate. It was never worth the effort because no pleasure could ever match the pain her career inflicted on her body. But now there was no pain, only sweet pleasure coursing through her, pulling her under, pushing her over. Oh God, it felt good. It felt so good. She had forgotten. “Oh God,” she moaned as the crescendo built in her, pushing her higher.
Oh, my fucking God.
The pleasure, had it ever been like this? And she had forgotten.

Roman sat up. A crooked smile tugged on half his face. “Beg, angel. I will make you come. But only if you beg.”

Georgina pulled frantically against her handcuffs. Her hips bucked in protest. “No, never. “

Roman stood, a pained look in his light blue eyes. “I want to make you come. If only you would let me.” He stood beside the bed, towering over her. Slowly he leaned over and took a nipple into his mouth. He sucked until she whimpered with need.

No. No! her mind screamed. She would not ask him. Never.

Roman sucked again. Tendrils of molten desire shot down her, wrapping around her swollen clit. Each suck was sweet torture, pushing her higher and still holding her back. Her hips thrust up, searching. But there was nothing to relieve the exquisite ache.

He sucked harder, pushing her further, and her resolve evaporated.

“Please. Please make me come,” she begged.

Without hesitating he returned to her pussy. His massive hands held her down against the mattress as he licked her over and over until bright colors exploded behind her eyes. Her body shook as she came hard against his face. Wave after wave of pleasure overtook her. Roman kept licking until the last tremor had faded and then he stood.

“I think we both can agree you would remember if I fucked you last night.”

His words penetrated the haze of pleasure. They had not had sex. Relief and confusion collided in her. Why? Why had they not? He was not noble. Roman took what he wanted. Didn’t he want her? And why did she care?

Roman was beside her, fully clothed. For the first time her nakedness made her feel vulnerable. Like Eve after the fall, Georgina had sampled the forbidden fruit, and shame was her new companion.

Roman reached into his pocket and produced a key. Wordlessly he unshackled her and then handed her her dress. Georgina rubbed her tender wrists; she had pulled hard against her bindings as she orgasmed, and now that the pleasure had evaporated all she was left with was the biting pain throughout her body.

Roman turned away from her. “Vlad is waiting downstairs to take you home. Don’t do anything stupid. It would be a shame to have to kill you.”

Georgina needed to start getting ready for the night’s performance, but first she had to speak to her director. She did not bother to knock on Maxim’s office door. She needed to speak to him to tell him she would be dancing tonight. If she knocked, he would tell her to go away, and she wasn’t going anywhere.

“I have already told Katia she is not needed for tonight’s performance,” Georgina announced as soon as she opened the door. The conversation had been unpleasant, with Katia flaring her nostrils, swearing at her in Russian, and then loudly telling everyone in earshot that Georgina was a fat elk, an interesting choice of animal. She had certainly been called worse.
Fat
was a dancer’s go-to insult. It lacked creativity. If Georgina had been prone to insulting people, she would have thought up something better, but Georgina never insulted other dancers. It wasn’t because she was especially kind or benevolent; she just preferred to let her dancing speak for her. She could humble other dancers far more with her abilities than her words.

Maxim looked up from his desk. He was wearing the pinstripe vest that made him look like a Victorian train conductor. “You missed rehearsal. You are not performing tonight. I have not decided about tomorrow.”

He rose from his chair to show her the door, but Georgina wasn’t going anywhere until she had secured her role. It was ridiculous; it was her role. She was Ondine. If there ever was a role she was destined to play, it was the heartbroken water nymph that loses her lover through tragic though preventable circumstances. There was no acting required from Georgina for the pain of the final act. No one was taking her role from her. “I’m sorry, Maxim. I am seeing a new nutritionist and it ran late.”

Maxim stopped short, his eyes narrowed. Georgina had picked the only lie that would placate him. He studied her intently with his small, dark eyes. He looked like a rodent, with his close-set eyes, a long nose, and razor-thin lips that never lifted into a smile. He was shorter than Georgina by a good three inches. Her height worked against her in ballet. Five eight was too tall, especially when so many of the male dancers came in at Maxim’s height.

Maxim ran his hands over her knee and up her thigh, stopping just short of her crotch. “Can she work on these? Too bulky; you are like a mule.”

Mule, was that better or worse than an elk? Which was thinner? Because that one would be better. Georgina bit back her indignation. There was no such thing as spot reduction; her thighs would only get smaller if the rest of her did and that was not going to happen. She weighed as little as she could to still be able to do her job. Directors seemed to forget that their dancers were human and required occasional feeding. “Yes, she is switching me from salmon to cod. Too much oil in the salmon. It accumulates in the thighs.” She was talking utter shit, but it was exactly what Maxim wanted to hear. He was always looking for new ways to pare down his ballerinas. He would try anything. He would give the girls in the chorus arsenic if he thought it would lengthen their lines.

Maxim nodded. “Good. Good. I must tell Natasha. She is like a whale but with worse skin. At least onstage the audience can’t see her face too clearly.”

Georgina let out a stream of air. Poor Natasha. At least Georgina wasn’t being compared to a whale with acne. “I am going to go put on my makeup and get ready,” she said, refusing to be drawn into a conversation about another dancer. Natasha had just been hired, and the barrage of insults from Maxim had already started. It was a trial by fire; he would either break her or make her stronger. She was probably already regretting her move to Russia.

Georgina felt strangely protective of her. Natasha was the only other American in the company, so Georgina understood the culture shock she was experiencing right now. When Georgina first saw Natasha’s name on the roster she assumed she was another Russian dancer because
Natasha
was a common Russian name, but it turned out the name was thanks to her Russian parents. Natasha was first-generation American, but for some reason she had returned to the motherland. There was something about her that called out to Georgina: she seemed genuinely nice, kind even, and a bit too naive. There was hurt in her eyes every time Maxim or one of the other dancers told her she was ugly. Once she’d even cried in rehearsal. Georgina had wanted to wrap her arms around her and tell her it was going to be okay, but that would not have helped. Georgina could not make it better with a hug and a few placating words. If Natasha was going to survive in this business, she needed to find her inner strength.

Maxim waved her away to dismiss her. “Go. Go get ready. And no salmon.”

Georgina forced herself to smile as she nodded. She would be eating salmon after the performance because suddenly it was her favorite food.

Georgina backed out of Maxim’s office, closing the door. He delighted in telling people not to bother him, but he had strategically chosen the office at the top of the corridor that led to the dressing rooms. You could not go anywhere in the theater without passing him. The new Mariinsky was massive; it was the biggest and most well-equipped theater of its kind in the world. There were plenty of rooms to choose from. If Maxim truly wanted privacy he could find it.

The design of the building meant the hall glowed. The floors were cream marble, and the ceiling was polished red oak planks. The walls were made of golden onyx panels that were lit from behind. The effect was the feeling of being encased in amber.

The building was a work of art. She paused at the open door to the communal dressing room. It was empty now; the other ballerinas had not started filtering in.

Georgina made her way to her own dressing room, which was a smaller windowless version of the communal room. Instead of the green walls, hers were painted cream to match the marble floors. One wall was entirely mirrored with a row of vertical bulbs running the length of both sides.

Georgina stared at her reflection. There were dark circles under her pale eyes, but she would soon sort that out. She could look like death warmed over when she entered her dressing room, but when she hit the stage she was every inch the star. The audience deserved that.

No longer sharing a dressing room was a “perk” of being a star, but she missed the camaraderie of the chorus, the frantic energy before a show with everyone rushing around searching for lost costumes and sewing broken ribbons. She could see now that it had been fun, her limited time in the chorus. Sadly she had not let herself enjoy it. She had been too focused on her destination, and she had missed a lot of the journey.

Her career was drawing to an end. She could only deny it for so long. Eventually her knee would let her down. She could dance through any pain, but soon enough the muscles and tendons would stop working, and she would need surgery. If she were twenty she might be able to return after an operation, but she was a decade too late for that. She needed to focus on these moments, enjoying every single performance and committing them to memory so she could relive them later.

Last night with Roman had taught her that. She had absolutely no idea why he let her go. He could have killed her, but he hadn’t, so she was going to enjoy this, consider it her second chance, or more to the point, her last chance. This was it for her. She might get another season out of her body, two at the most, so she was going to dance every performance like it was her last.

She rubbed her knee in anticipation of the night’s performance. With her thumbs she pressed with small circles, the way Roman had done. Her skin instantly heated at the memory. His hands felt different than hers, bigger, rougher, stronger. The way he touched her…first with his hands and then with his mouth. Her cheeks burned as her body remembered the feel: the comfort and terror as the pain bled into exquisite pleasure. If she closed her eyes now, she would even smell him, his clean, masculine scent filling her.

Georgina gave her head a terse shake to dislodge the thought. Why? Why did her body remember the pleasure more than the fact that he could have killed her last night? That was what she needed to remember: Roman was a murderer.

Georgina put on her second set of false lashes and stood back to take in her reflection. She looked every inch the prima ballerina. Georgina had disappeared, and Ondine had taken her place. Even Georgina’s red hair had been transformed. The gel that held every lock of hair in place darkened her bright curls.

Pins dug into her scalp as she anchored the tiara into her bun. For Ondine there was no trademark tutu. Over her tights and white leotard, she wore a sheer, princess-cut gown. The material was thin, almost transparent. Under the bright lights of the stage she looked almost naked.

“Showtime,” she whispered to the empty room. For the next three acts there was no Georgina, no Roman. Later she would deal with the fallout of last night; right now she was going to dance.

* * * *

The performance was electrifying, exactly how she membered feeling as a little girl. God, she loved dancing. It was why she was created.

The energy was palpable. Everything was bigger and more pronounced onstage. The colors were brighter and the sounds more crisp. It wasn’t just the acoustics of the New Mariinsky, which were world-renowned; there was something about performing that led to a heightened sense of awareness. She could pick out each individual instrument in the orchestra from the high clear notes of the flutes to the sensual earthy sound of the oboes. And then like a dream, everything faded away, no sounds, no audience, no thoughts. There was just her body, the characters, the dance.