Right for the song, I mean.
I show it to him. “This one.”
He glances at the picture. “Why that one?”
“It shows what good technique you have. I want people to see that you’re a good dancer.”
Rush nods. “Done. But for the record, I like this one because we look fucking hot together.”
A trace of that possessive expression from earlier returns, and I feel a tingle low in my belly. I watch him as he posts the photo of us. This is new, someone being proud to be seen with me. Someone feeling possessive of me and wanting to keep me for himself.
I take a sip of my beer, studying Rush’s profile. A weird sensation. I don’t hate it.
Rush is scrolling through his feed and smiling. Curiosity overtakes me and I pick up my phone, because I want to know what people are saying about the first little hint of our work together. I navigate to Rush’s profile and open the picture and see that his caption is the dancing man and woman emojis and there are already dozens of excited comments.
What’s this for?
Is this the video for “Not Only?” I’m so excited ahhhhhh!
I didn’t know Rush could dance! He looks amazing!
And over and over, Who is she?
Lucky girl.
I wish that was me.
“What are you smirking about?” he asks, peering over my shoulder.
“I’m not smirking. I’m smiling. Your fans love you.”
“They’re pretty great. They’re intrigued by you. What’s it feel like, being a mystery woman?”
I’m not sure. Not bad, actually, at least at this moment. I just hope they won’t turn on me when they learn I’ve also worked with Palatine, because Palatine fans will definitely be coming for my ass.
Rush is typing, and moments later, his reply appears on my screen as a top comment.
She’s the reason I know what I’m doing.
I turn off my phone and pick up my fork again, the dangerous tingle turning scorching hot. What would it be like if I was more than that? His reason to sing. His reason to be.
My chest is so tight that my ribs ache.
Yes, exactly.
Goddamn terrifying.
16
Rush
We have a day off while the set is finished in the garden. Marlena and I check the weather forecast obsessively, praying that it won’t rain or be overcast. By some miracle, the next three days are set to be as hot and sunny as mid-June days should be. You never can count on that in England.
I pretend to feel normal whenever I’m around Dree. Fair’s fair. She’s pretending, too. She pretended not to hear me when I asked her if she was my good girl. All I wanted was a Yes. I’m yours, Daddy.
Which is not some small thing and I’m well fucking aware of that, but I still want it. I pretend I’m not bothered that I don’t have it.
But I’m bothered.
I’m really fucking bothered.
Every time I’m near her, I watch her jealously as she talks to the guys in the band and the male dancers. I’m hyperaware of every smile they give her. Every time they touch her arm or cross the room to sit down beside her. She’s the prettiest woman in the house and her tight little dancer’s body is always on display. A grown man can’t help but stare at her and wonder what she’d be like pinned beneath him while he’s buried deep inside her. I know because I got smacked in the chest by that exact thought the moment I laid eyes on her. She’s sweet and friendly and has a smile that lights up her face, and an innocence about her that makes me crave to protect her, and stand between her and all other men. Except I can’t because she won’t fucking let me.
But I do it anyway, because not doing that would drive me insane. I find reasons to call away any man who engages her in conversation for too long, making up bullshit things for them to do instead. I can’t do that to my own band, though, because they don’t take orders from me and never have, so all I can do is fume when I notice them with her.
Wes notices me glowering at him talking to Dree and gives me a What the fuck, man? glare in reply. He saunters over a moment later to grab a bottle of water from the table next to me, and I pretend to be interested in the notes I’m reading on a tablet.
“Pull yourself together, mate,” he growls, snapping the bottle open.
“I’m fine,” I say through clenched teeth.
“You sure? Every time someone talks to Dree, you look like you’re about to start throwing fists. She knock you back or something?”
I push my fingers through my hair. Not yet, but I can feel it coming as soon as this video is done. She keeps pulling her heart back from me. I can feel it as unmistakably as I do when her hand slips from mine. I’m falling hard, but Dree doesn’t see me as anything but a dance partner and a…what? Dom? We haven’t even got that part straightened out in any way. Don’t other Doms make contracts and set rules? If I wasn’t so new to this I could have had her sign something by now that would make her mine. God fucking dammit.