Prosper flushed hot at his words, but Blake shook his head.
“Desire? Attraction? But she’s a bird.”
“She’s not just a bird. It’s not that simple. She’s a wild, exotic, mysterious creature you’re drawn to. Forget that she’s a bird—think of her as an impulse. A fantasy. Plenty of years to settle down with your prim Tsarina. You have this one chance in the dark garden with the Firebird. It has to be good enough to convince her to return later and save your life. Yes?”
Prosper stood with her hands behind her back, staring off. Wild, exotic? Mysterious? She had been miscast. She read it in Blake’s eyes as they swept over her, in the derisive tilt of his lip.
“Again,” Jackson snapped.
Four times. Four times he ended up having to partner her to show that clod Blake what he had in mind. She picked up everything instantly, reproduced it easily, but Blake acted as if Jackson was asking him for the moon. Blake didn’t like her, fine. That much was obvious. It was fucking churlish, though, to let it show. He figured one of the other two principal males could dance it better, but he really needed Blake’s height.
Hopefully in time Blake and Prosper would gel together. As soon as he thought it, a part of him rebelled. He wanted her to remain the elusive, mysterious Firebird. It was Blake who would need to open up to her, figure out how to desire her, at least onstage.
He considered sticking around the theater to watch Prosper in the show that evening. But watching would be an empty thrill for him now that he’d partnered her. He remembered the feel of her small hand in his, the feel of her waist under his fingers, slim and sinuous, the thin leotard the only thing between his fingertips and her warm, smooth skin. And her gaze when he’d propped her in the arabesque. Ah, she’d felt it too.
He sighed and headed home instead, paced around his apartment, and finally booted up his computer. A little cyberporn would take the edge off. But instead he Googled Prosper Ware, uncovering a few ballet-related pages. A small bio on the Townsend Web site outlined her dance schools and a few short stints in companies in Cincinnati and Dayton. He learned her birthday and that she was twenty-five years old. She looked younger. She was far too young for him at any rate. Why was he still thinking about it?
He clicked off-line and rubbed his eyes. Ten o’clock. Maybe he would go out. He leafed through the nightlife magazine he’d picked up at the diner, looking for a band to see or a likely nightclub to find the type of girl he sought, only to be sidetracked by the personals section.
Fetish. Seven pages full.
“One mocha cappuccino!”
Prosper closed the magazine as Derick swept to the table with her drink. It had been a week since she’d had time to pick up another mag, another week gone by that she hadn’t found an after-hours job, and now she was wasting time looking at fetish ads.
“Whatcha reading?”
“Oh nothing. Just—”
“Personals, huh? Looking for love?”
Prosper laughed at his teasing. “I’m too busy, Derick.”
“You’re never too busy for love.” He craned his head to look at the paper. “Any likely candidates?”
She shrugged. “I’ll let you know if I find someone. But actually I was looking through these ads to find a job.”
“A job? I thought you were a dancer.”
“I am. But it’s expensive to live in New York.”
“Tell me about it, honey.” Prosper knew Derick’s real job was working at an art gallery, another job that didn’t pay quite enough. To her relief a group of customers entered, drawing Derick back to the counter. Again she turned to the fetish ads.
Lots of male submissives, lots of professional dommes, a smattering of couples looking for a third. Not really what she wanted, even if she was looking. Which she wasn’t. Some single men looking for a girl on the side, some swingers seeking couples or play partners, a few older doms looking for nubile young flesh to mark. She was about to close the paper when an ad at the bottom of the last page caught her eye.
SWM, mid 30s, dom, safe, sane, seeks fit, petite sub F 20-30ish
Must be sensual, crave training, accept pain.
Play partner only, no commitment. Pleasure guaranteed.
Red hair a plus. Let’s meet & talk. George (A405)
She stared at the ad a long time. Fit, petite. Red hair a plus.
Pleasure guaranteed.
No way was she answering a personal ad. She wasn’t that desperate, was she? She wasn’t ready for the complexity of a relationship with a new dom.
But George (A405), this dom, wanted no commitment. Play partner only. And he apparently had a thing for red hair.
She bit her lip between sips of coffee, trying to talk herself out of doing something she really shouldn’t do. He could be a predator or some married guy sneaking around getting his kink on. But what harm would there be in meeting and talking? With a sigh, she closed the mag and stuffed it in her bag. This was ridiculous. Truly the idea was ridiculous. She needed to focus. She was dancing the lead in a ballet. She had to find a new place to live and a source of supplemental income. These were things she needed to do.
She did not need to enter into a new D/s relationship right now. No.
After class she drifted to the rehearsal room and found Jackson as agitated as she was. It was just the two of them. Solo work again. They exchanged brief greetings and got right to business. They’d been working daily together for almost two weeks now and still hadn’t exchanged more than a few words, most on the first day.
But it didn’t matter; they communicated perfectly. He explained what he wanted, and Prosper tried to deliver it. If she didn’t get it, she tried again. If she still didn’t produce what he wanted, he would put his hands on her, show her what to do. It both thrilled and devastated her when that happened. She hated doing things wrong. She hated frustrating him. She hated the tense impatience she sometimes felt in his hands when he put them on her.
Today she saw it in his face. He explained a difficult combination and asked her to do it. She got it on the second try, and then he wanted it faster. She tried to concentrate on his barrage of instructions.
“Faster, faster! Toe, toe, toe… quickly!”
“I’m trying.”
She did it again and again. He still wasn’t satisfied.
“Not fast enough! And look at your arms. Sloppy.” He clapped his hands at her. “Concentrate. Again!” He beat out the tempo he wanted on the floor with the ball of his foot, then clapped it, louder and louder. Then, just as she almost had it, he slapped her ass.
No, he didn’t slap her. It wasn’t a slap. It was a blow. She fell off pointe and spun on him. God, had he just spanked her? She backed away, rubbing at the sting.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was trying to speed you up.” He frowned, the offending hand now idle at his side. “I didn’t mean to do that. Did it hurt?”
She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. “The speed you want for that combination hurts.”
“I know. I know I ask a lot of you. Maybe we should just call it a day.”
Prosper nodded and turned away, crossed to pick up her bag. She could still feel the stinging outline of his hand on her ass, a sting that was familiar and yet, coming from him, unexpected and strange. She looked back at him jotting notes in his notebook. “Is everything okay?”
He looked up. “Uh, yeah, Prosper. Everything’s fine, I’m just distracted today. We’ll pick up tomorrow.”
He dismissed her by turning back to focus on his notes.
Chapter Three