He was clearly funny and a great online flirt. But would they click in person? A few jokes about hillbilly teeth didn’t mean they were made for each other. And this was such a blatant situation. When she’d met her last dom, it had begun slowly. It had developed as a normal relationship. In this case, it felt like meeting someone for the sole purpose of hooking up for sex. Maybe it only felt that way to her because she was so horny. Maybe this guy wasn’t even after sex. Maybe he just wanted to tie her up and put clothespins all over her or something.
She hadn’t wanted to ask for specifics while they messaged because a part of her was afraid to know. What if what he wanted wasn’t what she wanted? Must be sensual, crave training, accept pain. That could describe a whole world of activities in BDSM. About his other words, Play partner only, no commitment, there could really be no misunderstanding. Well, the last thing she needed right now, with two jobs and a taxing ballet role, was a serious relationship to tend.
Prosper made some mint tea and sipped it slowly, trying to calm her nerves. All she had to do was go to the coffee shop. They would talk. If things didn’t feel right, well, she would leave. There was no reason at all to feel nervous. When it was almost eleven thirty, she started to get dressed. Against her better judgment, she put on sexy underthings. Will you really go home with him? Um… if he was fine enough, yes. It was very likely.
Black thong panties, black push-up bra. Garter belt with stockings. Tight-fitting black knit dress in order to make the most of what little she had. Some chunky patent pumps. Her black cardigan with gray embroidered flowers, and a black peacoat over the top. She left her hair down, frowning at it in the mirror. It wasn’t the rich siren red most redophiles got off on. It was more like toxic orange. Oh well. She reminded herself that she had to prepare for him to reject her. She might be too thin, too short, not sexy enough. She didn’t exactly exude sexuality, she knew. She put on some darkish lipstick and finished with some mascara and only light blush on her pale cheeks, because she knew she’d already blush more than enough.
She walked to the café, fighting down the butterflies in her stomach. It was a chilly November day that smelled of damp leaves and car exhaust. She stood outside the coffee shop just a moment, part of her wanting to dawdle, part of her afraid that he’d arrive and catch her shrinking outside. She took a deep breath and ducked inside, catching the door so the bells didn’t jangle so loudly. The fresh scent of coffee and cinnamon replaced the dirty New York smell from outside. She scanned the deserted café, spotted the messy-blond-haired guy at the back.
Before she would really take him in, he turned in his chair, and she froze. Jackson looked her up and down with a half smile.
“Julie. You look almost exactly like another girl I know.”
Chapter Four
“Prosper, wait.”
He leaped up to go after her. She had her head tucked down, and her beautiful orange curls bobbed as she retreated at full speed. Her skirt swish-swished, and her little emo pumps clomped on the pavement. Even though his stride was longer, he had to run to catch up.
“Prosper, just wait a minute.” He pulled her into the first alcove they came to, which happened to be the stage door to the Townsend. He flicked his keys out of his pocket and unlocked it.
“No… I… No… Jackson… no…” She pulled away from him, shook her head even as he led her inside.
He backed her to the wall beside the door, trapping her there—not forcefully, but enough to make her still. “It’s okay.” He tried to sound calm and soothing. She stared at some point in the center of his chest. “I just want to talk to you. Let’s just talk.”
It was dark backstage. The only light came from the red EXIT sign over their heads and the faint runner lights on the floorboards of the wings. He held her still, waiting for the flight response to subside. When he felt her relax under his fingers, he took her chin in his hand. He lifted her face and gave her a kiss. With an effort, he held his pelvis away from her, as much as he wanted to grind her against the wall. She pressed forward anyway, the flight response renewed, and then startled at the outline of his erection. She shrank back against the wall again. He trailed his fingertips across her cheek to gentle her and then kissed her again. This time she opened her lips a little. He could feel when she began to relax against him. Just as quickly, she pulled away.
“No,” she whispered, shaking her head.
“Prosper.” The pad of his thumb stroked her trembling chin. “It’s okay. Calm down. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not going to do anything to you. Anything at all.”
“You kissed me!”
“I barely kissed you.” He held her still with the slightest pressure, just enough to cause her to submit. He looked at her lips and kissed her again, harder this time. It might be his only chance, so he intended to take advantage. She gasped into his mouth and struggled but again, feeling his erection against her, flattened herself to the wall.
“Okay.” He relented, releasing her. He backed up a foot or so and waited to see what would happen. A knee in the crotch? A frantic retreat out the door? But no, she only looked at him, no doubt shocked to find herself in his arms.
“Breathe,” he said in a low voice. “Take some deep breaths before you pass out.”
She stood rigid and dropped her gaze to the floor. He considered what to do. He had to say and do the right things. He had to play this precisely the right way. An hour from now, things would either be okay or not okay. Not okay would cause a world of problems for both of them.
He knew she was doing the same mental arithmetic. They would have to untangle things. He looked at her, watched her chest rising up and down. He’d never stood so close to her before, embraced her like this, when he wasn’t leading her through some combination or dragging her across the rehearsal hall floor. She smelled like vanilla and brown sugar. He wanted to lick her. He wanted to eat her. All the things he’d never known about her before imprinted themselves on his mind. The smattering of barely visible freckles, the full red lips. The milky pale skin. Her sweet smell. The tentative way she’d responded to his kiss.
Her.
It can’t be.
But it is.
He had been ridiculously specific in his personal ad. Fit, petite, red hair. He had described her exactly, wishing for her. Now she was standing in front of him, larger-than-life. The ad had produced the exact girl he wanted. Well, not exact. This wasn’t exactly the girl he knew from rehearsal and class. She was made-up, dolled up in dark lipstick. Her hair, which he’d previously only seen rolled into severe or unruly buns, fell just past her shoulders in wild spiral curls of shiny orange spectacle. Instead of leotards and sweats, she had on a fitted black peacoat and a dress. But the beautiful face was utterly familiar.
“It’s okay,” he said. “All I’m asking you to do is talk. If you’d like, we can talk somewhere else, a restaurant or something.”
She shook her head and swallowed hard. “No, I couldn’t… No.”
“Tell me why you’re so upset.”
She looked at him in disbelief, as if the answer should be obvious.
“Because… because… this is just…”
“Just what?”
“You knew.” Her gaze accused him. “You knew it was me all along.”
“No I didn’t, not for sure. I suspected when you suggested this place. But I didn’t really know. I could have asked, I suppose.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because if it was you, I didn’t want to scare you off. Would you have come if you knew I was George?”