He brings a hand down hard on the surface of his desk, the impact vibrating the room. “Damn it, Bethany, I wasn’t the one at the studio today. If it was me—”
“If it was you what?” My voice breaches the last boundary. I try so damn hard not to fly off the handle. I try so hard to look like the woman I have to be in order to claw my way up the ranks in my career. Docile. Agreeable. But this stress feels like it could shatter my bones. “You wouldn’t have seen him drop off the letter, either. You’d be too busy staring at my ass while I danced like I’m a piece of meat. Just admit it.”
“No,” he growls.
“Just admit it,” I hiss between gritted teeth. My backpack falls to the floor. I’m leaning over his desk, a bare inch between us. “You like the way I look in a leotard. You get off on keeping me locked up in your bedroom, where no other man can touch me. You’re just like Caleb. All you ever wanted is to keep everybody else’s greedy fingers off me, like you own me—”
Who reaches first? Him or me? The next words out of my mouth are cut off by Josh’s fist digging into the front of my leotard. Yanking me toward him. My hip bumps the front of the desk. The fabric holds. It’s stronger than it looks. His breath is hot on my lips. Jaw set. The gold ring around his pupils is a tiny flame at the center of cut emeralds. Somehow my own hands are fisted in his shirt. Which of us is pushing? Which of us is pulling?
“You.” He forces the word through the hard set of his jaw.
And then he snaps.
His mouth crashes into mine the moment he hauls me over the desk. One knee knocks an agate paperweight to the floor. I’ll have a bruise there later. Good. Let there be evidence of his need. His lips demand everything from me. He kisses the corner of my mouth and scrapes his teeth over my bottom lip. He has me in an iron grip. Like he might not ever let go. I’m molten beneath kisses so rough and so tender that they steal the air from my lungs. My thighs tremble from the position, from the fear, from the fact that I practiced hard. I’m dying for him to touch me
there. Dying. A deafening heartbeat fills the room—his or mine, I don’t know.
We’re almost matched in height this way, with me kneeling on the desk. I’m tall enough to clutch at his shirt. I can use my weight as a counterbalance. But I’m still the one on my knees.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake premiered in Moscow in 1877. Critics dismissed it as too noisy and too symphonic. Only after a revival and re-choreography in 1895 did the ballet become a widespread success.
Josh, present time
Give in, give in, give in. The only thing I’ve ever wanted is to give in.
What is the purpose of denial?
Bethany claws frantically at the front of my shirt, her fingernails digging in hard beneath the fabric. She tastes so fucking sweet. Her lips are puffy and red almost immediately, and I lick her bottom lip to taste her again. She tips her head back and welcomes my tongue into her mouth. Her entire body is a taut line. It can’t be easy to balance herself on her knees on the slick surface of my desk. Her muscles hold her in place. Her toes dig in. What I wouldn’t fucking give to see those toes curl in a real release. But I’ll take the battle for now. Of course I’ll fucking take it.
Years. Years are pent up in this kiss. Years of wanting and waiting and a twisted desire to make her do the filthiest things. That pure, graceful body in those pure, graceful clothes. I’m hard as a rock. Harder than a rock. I’m hard as rough diamonds hewn from the mines. I never wanted her to come easy. I got my fucking wish. She’s a wildcat.
I slip a hand behind her neck. Her skin mists with sweat. I know better than to think she’s still in a state from her practice. Bethany dances hard. She recovers quickly. This is from me. I’m doing this to her. Her perfect bun fits into the notch at my thumb like it was meant to be there.
Her hips roll forward. The new contact makes my dick leap. I’m going to fucking come in my pants, that’s what’s going to happen. Every muscle is tight with need for her. I want to push inside her and take up all the available space. I want to pin her beneath me so she has nothing left to do but writhe against my sheets. I want to fuck her so hard and for so long that her perfect bun is left in ruins.
A groan escapes me. I’ve been playing mind games for too fucking long now. Longer than the week she’s lived in my house. She’s the game. Think about Bethany Lewis and I lose. I saw her name on that list for North Security and I’ve been losing every second since. Now it’s clear, crystal fucking clear, that behind the closed door of my bedroom she’s been thinking the same thoughts.
We’re the same.
We’re still not the same. But this animal desire isn’t just me. It pours off Bethany in waves. She bites at my lip, exchanging one scrape of teeth for another. Her nails work their way into the back of my neck, up to where I keep my hair in a crisp line. That’s a habit that will last the rest of my life. So will the taste of Bethany on my tongue.
She makes a little noise in the back of her throat. Her knees inch apart on the desk.
Fuck, I want it.
I could pull her off the desk right now. I could bend her soft, pliable body with its lean, hard muscles over the unforgiving wood and pin her there. She would hate it or she would love it, but she would beg for more either way. I allow myself another taste of the seam of her lips. Memorize the way they part for me. The strap of her leotard lies in a perfect fit against her skin. I push one finger beneath it. I trace it down to the neckline, down to the cleft between her breasts. Her small, tight, beautiful breasts. They rise. They fall.
Her dark eyes snap open and meet mine.
Fuck.
I’m the devil on earth. I was the devil’s son, but I’ve become him now. Monstrous as I am, I can’t ignore the fear I see in her eyes. Like two flickering candles. Unmistakable. Regret roils through every inch of me, tidal in its power.
Hands on either side of her face, cupping the line of her neck. She’s delicate as a bird at the juncture where her pulse meets her jawbone. Bethany relaxes. She thinks I’m going to pull her in for more. I know it from her hungry sigh. As if she hasn’t had enough to eat all her life. For once, we’re not prodding at the other’s open wounds. We’re pulling together.
And I have to push her away.