And as that surge of molten heat left me slippery and achy, I felt the same wild wave that had taken me over on the stage nearly take me from my feet here, too.
He didn’t know who I was. I was a woman he’d bought for the night, that was all. He didn’t know a single thing about me; he didn’t care and wouldn’t pretend to care as long as he was certain I wanted this, too, and that meant... I could be anyone.
I could be as free as I’d felt on that stage, strutting around to steps of my own design, following my body instead of forcing my body to follow rigid protocols to suit someone else’s aesthetic.
I was no longer an indistinguishable member of the corps. I was no longer the perennial understudy, condemned to the back of the stage and judged harshly should I in any way stand out from the crowd. Tonight I would not be judged, for once, on the position of my wrist or the turn of my ankle.
Every lover I’d ever taken had known exactly who I was before we’d touched. And some men loved the idea of a ballerina. A little doll, they thought, who could spin around on command and show off her splits in bed. But what they expected from that little doll was her shyness. A docile willingness to please that tipped over into fragility. Tears, vulnerability and an eating disorder.
I was many things, but meek wasn’t one of them.
And if I was fragile, I never would have made it into the corps in the first place, much less maintained my place for a decade.
But surely no call girl would be expected to be anything like meek.
I smiled at this dark, mouthwatering man who wanted what he’d bought so much that his face looked tight with it. Hungry.
The way he looked at me made me hungry, too.
“I could have had anyone in that room,” I told him, almost unconsciously letting my body move as it liked. And what it liked tonight was the burlesque. The jut of a hip. The exaggerated curve at my waist. The feminine knowledge I could feel in me and all over me, like his hands would be soon, I was sure. “I chose you.”
“And here I thought I was the one who had done the choosing.”
“This isn’t a street corner. Last I checked this was the most exclusive club in the world.”
“You are American,” he said, and it wasn’t a question. If anything, it sounded like an accusation.
“You are British,” I replied. “And apparently very wealthy, to be a member here and to offer me any amount of money I choose. Does that mean you come with a title attached?”
His mouth curved. And here in this quiet, hushed space where he would take me as he liked and I would surrender entirely—a notion that made me feel as if I teetered right there on the edge of an orgasm without his even touching me—I couldn’t help but find myself dazzled by all of his male beauty. He was a hard man, because the fact he was beautiful did not make him pretty. And there was something about the cut of his jaw and that simmering heat in his bright blue gaze that made me want to sink down onto my knees. And show him exactly how much I wanted him.
“I’m not that kind of British, nor that kind of wealthy,” he said, though his accent made him sound like the earl of this or the baron of that. “But you can call me ‘sir,’ all the same.”
That made me even wetter, and I had the strangest sensation that he could tell. That he knew.
That he might think I was some kind of hardened prostitute who did this all the time, but still I was soaking my panties for him.
Maybe that was his fantasy.
“Very well,” I said softly.
I moved toward him, the marble soothing beneath my feet, then hard enough to leave bruises when I sank down on my knees before him. But I was a ballet dancer. I wore my bruises like badges of honor, counted them, and sometimes gave them names. I already knew I would love these wholeheartedly.
I swayed forward, resting my hands on his powerful thighs, and then I tipped my head back so I could meet his gaze up above the impressive length of his toned, muscled body.
Above the thick rod of his cock, which pressed out against the front of his trousers and made me feel something like giddy.
“How’s this?” I asked. Then smiled. “Sir.”
I saw his nostrils flare. His blue eyes glittered like an afternoon sea. And he did nothing but incline his head.
It was an order, not an invitation.
r /> My mouth was watering. My hands felt as if they were shaking, though I could see that they were not. I moved to unzip him, easing the metal teeth carefully over the thick heat of him, so big and so hot to the touch that I felt almost giddy.
I finished with the zipper, then ran my hands over the silk he wore beneath his trousers, getting my first feel of him.
His cock was huge. Heavy. The ridge beneath the silk grew as I rubbed it, and whatever notion I might have had about playing with him a while shivered off into a bright, hot lust.