Her heart thumped at the sound of her name on his lips. He looked up and smiled, beckoned her over. “Sit down.” He nodded to the chair beside him. “I’ll get you some breakfast.” He stood and headed for the kitchen.
“I’m not hungry. I don’t usually eat breakfast—”
The look he gave her as he passed made her voice trail off.
“In this house we eat breakfast. Sit.”
She sat, her heart surging in her chest. “In this house we eat breakfast.” It sounded so domestic. Don’t get excited, it’s just for now, she reminded herself as she sat on the edge of the chair, then sank back into it. She stared at the table and blushed, remembered Jackson spanking her over it with his doubled-over belt. He chuckled as he set a plate of eggs, bacon, and toast in front of her.
“No room here for a dungeon to keep you properly in line. We use what we have. Don’t we?”
She smiled up at him, her face on fire. “Yes, Sir.” She picked at her eggs. “I… Do I… call you Sir? Here in your house? Now that I’m living here full-time?”
He shook his head with a slight frown. “We’re not going to be full-time, Prosper. I don’t have the energy or inclination to do it. But you may call me Sir whenever we’re alone if you like. Just don’t forget and come out with it during rehearsals or something. People will have enough to talk about as it is.”
“You’ll tell them that I’m staying here?”
His frown deepened. “I won’t tell anybody anything. But you know how dance companies operate. The gossip, the whispering. And Blake knows.”
Prosper swallowed. “He does?”
“Not about the specifics, so you can start breathing again. But he knows we’re together. He says he won’t say anything, but…”
Prosper looked down in her lap. “One more reason for them to despise me. Believing I slept myself into the role.” She looked up at Jackson, a horrible thought occurring to her suddenly. “Or maybe I did.”
He shook his head. “You got that role based on your talent, Prosper. Don’t let anyone make you think otherwise.” He waved his fork at her. “If I do anything before I leave here, I’ll get you to understand how talented you are, that you deserve every success you get.” He pointed at the bacon untouched on Prosper’s plate. “Are you going to eat that?”
At her small shake, he took it and stuck it in his mouth, then stood up to take his plate to the kitchen. “I’m off. You stay in bed today and rest. Read a little, or watch some TV. There are DVDs next to the couch, naughty ones too.” He smiled. “Watch them if you want. You might learn something. But Prosper”—his face rearranged itself into stern lines again, just like that. How did he do it?—“do not dream of doing anything else, unpacking, cleaning up. No dancing,” he emphasized, pointing to her feet flexing under her chair. “Seven days of rest. Doctor’s orders.”
“I can’t go seven days without dancing. You know I can’t.”
He cupped her face in his hand. “No dancing. Not full out. But if you like, when I get home and I can keep an eye on you, we’ll have a little class.” There was a glint in his eye she didn’t miss. “Do you understand your directions, girl? I’m not kidding. When I get home, I’ll know.”
“Yes, Sir, I understand. But I really do feel okay.”
His reproving look made her blush again. He lifted her from her chair, pulled her close, and kissed her, his smooth, morning-shaven skin a soft surprise.
“Be good. I expect you to be good.”
Time in rehearsals dragged by. He felt a strange combination of contentment and agitation knowing Prosper was resting back at his home. He would have preferred if she was here, but she couldn’t be, and really, how greedy could he be? She would be in his home until he left in the spring. He would see her at work, in practices, in Firebird performances starting in February. Life was good.
But practicalities dictated that he choose another girl to learn Firebird for now, to mark the steps in rehearsal as the other choreography went on, and he chose Elsa over Kristen only because he knew Kristen led the revolt against his girl. Kristen pouted so hard Jackson had to stifle laughter. He drew her aside to explain that, as the Tsarina, she was too indispensable to understudy the lead. Blake watched all of this with a cool detachment. If his allegiance to Kristen caused him to be irritated, he didn’t show it. Jackson suspected he had more allegiance to Prosper than he let on.
And if Blake decided to cause problems for them, what would result? He wasn’t the first choreographer to romance a company dancer. Balanchine and Farrell were the stuff of every ballerina’s dream. What would they do? Send him away? Hardly.
It bore absolutely no repercussions for him. Only for her.
He stuffed that thought down and concentrated on rehearsals, then left early for home. The streets were decorated for Christmas holidays, but his mind was full of Firebird. The choreography was all falling into place, although without Prosper it had been missing that special something that sent it over the top. Elsa made a miserable replacement. Her willowy limbs were unable to match the precision of Prosper’s shorter, quicker legs. Thinking about her legs had him semihard already as he took the steps to the town house two at a time.
He let himself in and found her sleeping in his bed. He thought he should make her sleep in her own room, a way of preserving the power imbalance they both craved. But a part of him knew that was folly. They were like magnets. The pull had been there from the start, from the first moment he had seen her. Whatever explained it—pheromones, attraction, subconscious signals—the pull made it almost impossible for him to leave her alone.
But he did. She needed to rest, and he was pleased to find her resting as he’d ordered. He went into the kitchen and started to put together a simple dinner. He was already looking forward to watching her from across the small table, her smiles and gestures making the blood rush straight to his cock. No, no, she needs rest. Seven days.
He had other plans for tonight.
When dinner was on the table, he went in and crawled onto the bed next to her. She woke at once, and the sleepy, happy eyes she turned on him almost made him lose his resolve not to molest her. “You’re being my good girl, yes? Resting?”
“Yes, Sir.” She sighed and snuggled her warm body close to him.
“No, not now. Come on, cuddles. Dinnertime. Slowly, in case you’re dizzy.” He helped her up, but she insisted she hadn’t felt dizzy all day. He supposed a dancer’s brain would be least susceptible to dizziness, since a ballerina routinely spun in circles on one toe.
They sat and ate, and she had a decent appetite, ate nearly everything he gave her. He felt reassured that she was indeed up for a little class. He had fantasized about putting her through her paces privately since the first time he’d seen her dance, since the first time he’d seen her legs flex and her toes slide neatly across the floor. After dinner he had her sit and rest next to him on the couch while he wrote some e-mails on his laptop. Then he stood and pushed the furniture against the walls. She watched in silence, the only outward sign of excitement the clasping and unclasping of her hands.
“Here, girl.” He pointed to the center of the floor. “Class time.”
She hesitated.
“Will I need pointe shoes, Sir?”
“Of course you will. You’ll also need to undress completely. I want to see your lines.”
She took a deep breath at those words, then went for the shoes and returned. He watched with his arms crossed over his chest as she took off her pajamas, revealing the body he knew, the body he loved. The body that still struck him every time with its power and perfection.