When she was ready, Jackson walked her back to her apartment. He was alert for troubled signals, impending hysteria, but she seemed strangely calm. She didn’t talk, and he chose not to press her into conversation. He assumed that, like him, she was still working through what they’d just done.
He pulled her close in the stairwell outside her apartment and brushed a quick kiss against her ear. “Okay, Prosper?”
She nodded. He looked down at her.
“What’s wrong?”
“We didn’t do much negotiating, did we? Much talking?”
“We talked enough,” he said. “I learned some things about you.”
Her blush was delicious. He wanted to lick it right off her face. He settled for another lingering kiss. “Prosper…” His tongue glided across her lips. He took her head in his hands and kissed her more deeply. He felt her grasp at his arms for balance and, without thinking, shifted to compensate. Once a partner, always a partner. Is that why he felt he already knew this girl inside and out? Because he’d danced with her? He pulled away, unbalanced by the sudden rush of possession he felt. No strings…
“Okay,” he said. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow after class.”
She opened her mouth, then shut it. He thought perhaps she was unsure whether to answer yes, Sir or simply call him Jackson again.
“‘Sure, Jackson’ is perfectly fine now.”
“Sure, Jackson,” she said. “See you at rehearsal.”
“Do you have your key?”
She fumbled in her bag for it. Before she could unlock the door, he took her arm and leaned close, his lips at her ear.
“One more thing I forgot to tell you. You may not touch yourself. At all. When I see you, I’ll know.”
Her beautiful mouth gaped. He gave her elbow one last squeeze and left her on her doorstep.
He walked back to his place slowly, basking in the afterglow of a highly satisfying afternoon. He went straight upstairs and collapsed facedown on the bed. Her perfume, the smell of her hair, the primal fragrance of her center was in the bedding. Like a predator, he already knew her by scent. He turned over and stared at the ceiling, daydreaming about black stockings, straining hips, and fiery orange hair.
“Prosper!” Glenna ambushed her as soon as she shut the door behind her. “What are you all dressed up for? You were out with someone? A guy?”
She shrugged. “We just met for coffee.”
“Who is he? Do I know him? Where did you meet him?”
“Um… well…” She wished she had prepared some kind of story in advance.
“Is he a dancer?”
Prosper coughed. “Well, um… no.”
“Cute? Is he cute? What’s his name?”
“His name is J-John. And he was cute, yeah. It was kind of a blind-date thing.”
“What did you do?”
“Um, well, we mostly talked and had coffee. We’ll see where it goes.”
“God, you look so cute. I love those shoes. I’m sure he liked you. Damn, I’m so jealous of your hair! I love it curly like that!”
Glenna went on awhile longer, until Prosper managed to excuse herself. The rest of the day was a complete waste. All she could do was think about him, the things he’d said, the things he’d done to her. That night she tossed and turned, remembering every moment, from the time he’d turned to her in the coffee shop and shocked her senseless to the time he’d kissed her outside her apartment door. “You may not touch yourself.” Her fingers curled into tight fists, trying to resist. He had awakened new sensations, new vistas inside her that she hadn’t even known existed. All her past sexual experiences paled in comparison to her interlude with Jackson, and he hadn’t even fucked her. She placed her hand between her thighs the way he had, hovering just over her hot, slick core. She arched and squirmed, desperate to contact her aching clit but at the same time knowing she didn’t dare.
Why not? Because he’d told her not to? Did she owe him obedience like that? Did she have to allow him to control her?
No, she didn’t have to, but she wanted to. Every moment she lay in bed trying not to fondle herself, her mind fixated on him. He might as well have been lying right beside her, staring a warning at her. She could still feel the tensile fingers, the broad, warm hands. The rough lips against her earlobe. She would see him the next morning after class. He would know. She had to do as she’d been told.
But it was so hard not to touch herself, to try to soothe the ache. She pressed her legs together, turned, and sighed, and when morning dawned, she’d hardly managed any sleep.
He didn’t have to turn to know when she was standing in the door to the rehearsal room. Her soft footsteps alerted him, the bright flash of hair in the mirror. Keep it together, Jack. He could already feel his cock rising, and he hadn’t even turned to her yet.
Dammit.
He sat by the wall, held his dance book in his lap, ignoring her with everything he was worth. He wondered how she’d looked at him when she’d entered. Shyness? A smile?
He heard soft murmurs of greeting between her and Blake, saw her begin to stretch at the barre—again, from under his lashes. He would never survive this. Focus. Work is work, play is play.
For a moment he actually considered sending them home, canceling practice, but that was impossible. He looked up at her finally, and she turned her back on him with a frown. What did she want him to do, acknowledge what had happened between them last night? Here? Now? In front of Blake?
“Let’s begin with the capture,” Jackson said. “From the top.”
The dancers moved through the sequence. They were really improving as partners. Blake was getting used to her smaller, lighter stature, and she was relaxing into his grip. He made them repeat the steps two, three times, added more, tried newer, more intricate combinations they both struggled with but eventually achieved.
He stood and moved nearer to his Firebird and tried very hard not to remember her as she had been the night before. It wasn’t difficult. The silent girl before him in a light pink leotard and tights bore no resemblance to the black-stockinged siren of last night. Her frown was exhausting, though. He finally stopped looking at it. When an hour had passed, he let them go.
She skittered from the room, head down, those tiny tension lines all around her mouth. He could have gone after her, called her back. He could have pulled her close and whispered in her ear, Did you touch yourself last night? Or did you obey me?
But there was no reason to ask if she’d obeyed him, because he knew with absolute certainty that she had. He wasn’t even into orgasm denial, not really. In fact, if he got his wish, he would be making her come up and down and sideways—and soon. No, it was an exercise, a test. A way to gauge if she was going to cooperate, if she was invested. If she would obey him when the things he asked for were hard. He knew she had a strong drive to please, a drive to receive approval. He could use that to suit his own purposes very well.
So Jackson didn’t go after her. Such behavior would draw attention. There were dancers all around, and dancers gossiped hard. He did stay for the show to watch Prosper from the seats. He went backstage for the second half but didn’t see her. He’d intended to talk to her, reassure her that his cool demeanor during rehearsal was only to keep their secret safe. But instead of Prosper, he ran into Lawrence, who grilled him on the new Firebird. Yes, yes, he would start rehearsing with the corps soon. Yes, Prosper Ware was turning out quite well.