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.
“Such a surprise sometimes,” Lawrence said. “What they have inside them.”
Jackson nodded. Tell me about it . “You know what they say, Lawrence. It’s always the quiet ones.”
“Just so,” he agreed. “And how is she doing with Blake? Good partnership?”
“Yes. They’re finally starting to get comfortable.”
Lawrence paused.
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.
“Such a surprise sometimes,” Lawrence said. “What they have inside them.”
Jackson nodded. Tell me about it . “You know what they say, Lawrence. It’s always the quiet ones.”
“Just so,” he agreed. “And how is she doing with Blake? Good partnership?”
“Yes. They’re finally starting to get comfortable.”
Lawrence paused.
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