Liam burst into laughter. Rubio gave him an affronted look.
“It wasn’t funny. It left a mark.”
“And you’ve never left a mark on anyone?”
“Not in rehearsal I haven’t.” Rubio rubbed his cheek, feeling the ghostly outline of her hand.
“Well, why did she hit you?” asked Ashleigh.
“Because I felt her up. Three times. Not even bad.”
“Is there a way to do it that’s not bad?”
“You miss my touching, huh?”
She shook her head at him. “You should be in jail by now.”
“I don’t mean to do it. It’s only that women’s bodies feel so good. So smooth and strong, and pretty.” Especially Petra’s, but he shouldn’t think about that right now. He eyed the gentle curve of his former partner’s waist. “How is the baby inside you? All okay?”
She put her hand over the barely visible bump. “Everything’s good, thanks for asking. I’m starting to feel little jétés inside me.”
“Oh yeah? Baby is dancing in there?” Ruby chuckled until he noticed Liam’s sober face. Liam had grown up in the bad part of L.A., kind of how Rubio had grown up in the bad part of Rio, only Ruby had a great mom, while Liam’s mother had killed all his brothers and sisters in a bout of postpartum depression. He knew his friend was worried about Ash having a baby, because he worried about her getting depressed too. “You miss dancing?” he asked Ash, to change the subject.
She shook her head. “I mean, I miss it, and I miss you sometimes, but I’m keeping busy doing other things. I help Liam with work and hang out with my old friends from the theater. That’s where I heard that Petra is not a dog kicker or baby blood drinker. Everyone thinks she’s great. Everyone’s also wondering whether Petr Grigolyuk will drop by at some point. He lives in London, you know.”
No, Rubio didn’t know. He didn’t care, except that Grigolyuk was Petra’s dad, so maybe he should care. “She never talks about him,” he said. “She never talks about anything. Just does classes and rehearsals and goes home.”
“She probably feels lonely, being new to London and everything,” said Ashleigh. “You should invite her over here sometime.”
“For the party?” Ruby allowed himself to imagine, just for a moment, his uptight partner tied to a BDSM rack, at the mercy of his sadistic whims. Naked, aroused, pleading for release...
“No, silly,” said Ashleigh, interrupting his fantasies. “Not for the party. For dinner.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Liam. “That’s a great idea. We’d love to have her. Just don’t tell her I’m paying her salary, because that might make things awkward. You haven’t told her, have you?”
Ruby didn’t think he had. Sometimes he wasn’t sure what he said to Petra. He got distracted looking in her eyes, because the color was so unusual, and they were so pretty, the way they slanted upward. “No,” he said after he’d considered a moment. “I’m sure I haven’t. Is none of her business. Or your business, if you want to finance the salary of a dog kicker.”
Liam rolled his eyes, reaching to pour more wine. “You’re having a blast dancing with the dog kicker. And I bet in her mind, you’re the one who kicks dogs and drinks baby’s blood.”
Ash put a hand over her belly. “Mind if we stop talking about drinking baby’s blood?”
Ruby picked up his wineglass as if to make a toast. “Whatever you say, Ash. But Liam’s right. Petra won’t come to dinner, she hates me. I think she wants to be...you know...at a distance from me. Detached.”
“Give it some time,” she said. “You’re a hard partner to stay detached from. When it comes down to it, you’re a love-him-or-hate-him kind of guy.”
“And you love me, yes?” he asked, batting his eyes at her.
“On occasion,” she answered, almost keeping a straight face. “But don’t push your luck.”
He laughed with her when she finally broke into a smile. Liam laughed along with them, but Rubio could sense his mind was elsewhere. Liam was stressed out, as stressed as Ruby himself. Maybe more. He wished he could comfort his friend, tell him everything would be okay with Ashleigh and her baby, but nothing was ever sure.
Even Petra and their partnership. It wasn’t settled yet. They still circled around each other offstage, outside the studio, unsure of their relationship. What if Ashleigh was right, what if he was a love-him-or-hate-him kind of guy and Petra decided to hate him? With any other dancer, he wouldn’t have cared, but with her...
He didn’t want Petra to hate him, cause he had a lot of feelings toward her that he hadn’t straightened out yet.
*** *** ***
Rubio’s hands felt hot on Petra. She felt hot all over.
They rehearsed alone in a cavernous studio with black walls, black as his eyes and his scruffy, glossy hair. They arched as one entity, then he kissed her on the neck. She shivered at the fleeting contact of his lips. She could feel his hard cock against her ass, pressing and poking through her leotard. The bare skin of his chest burned where they brushed against each other.
Like dripping wax, the black studio melted away into a sex dungeon with candles and cages and a pair of shackles hanging from the ceiling. “Down,” he said, pointing to the floor beneath the shackles. His face was drawn in stern lines. “Kneel down and raise your arms.”
Without thought, she fell to her knees and extended her hands upward. He fixed each of her wrists into the shackles and then he roughly gripped her neck. She gasped, aroused by his force. A rush of warmth flared between her legs. His fingers dug into her hair and then his leggings were gone, disappeared along with her leotard. His cock thrust hot and thick against her face. “Suck it,” he said in his languid Portuguese accent. “Suck me, you uptight little bitch.”
Oh, but... Why did he think she was uptight? In her fantasies she was sexy and adventurous—and oh, so horny for him. She opened her mouth and tried to fellate him but his cock grew with each passing second, until it was threateningly large, until it choked her. Uptight little bitch... She acted like a bitch to him, she supposed. She couldn’t help it. He scared her, he endangered her. He could destroy her if he wanted to.
He doesn’t want to destroy you, you uptight little bitch.
He wrenched her hair so she swayed on her knees, rattling the shackles. He forced her to take him deeper in her throat, but then the dark walls began to waver like a desert mirage.
“That’s a good little slut,” he crooned. “Suck me, yes. Just like that.”
Her mouth ached. He was too big and it was hot in the dungeon, so hot. She felt frustrated that she couldn’t make him come. Then a shrill bell sounded. It was some kind of alarm to signify that she wasn’t really kinky, that she’d never done BDSM before. Rubio scowled down at her, shaking his head in disappointment. He was disappearing, fading into thin air. “No,” she cried. “I’m sorry. Don’t leave me. I need you.”
Again, the shrill alarm bell. No, not an alarm bell, the phone. She came awake and dived to answer her cell on the bedside table.
“Hello?”
“Good morning, Miss Hewitt. Just letting you know there’s a delivery for you at the front desk.”
“Okay, thanks.”
She blinked down at the display and then at the clock. It was almost nine in the morning and she was lying in bed having revolting sex dreams about Rubio. Ugh. She threw off the covers and headed to the bathroom to shower. She was sweaty and aroused, like she was infected with some kind of fever. Rubio fever. The cool water ran through her hair and over her shoulders, relaxing her by slow degrees until she came to full wakefulness.
What in holy fuck was up with that dream? She’d been dreaming about Fernando Rubio for a week now, ever since they’d begun working together, ever since she’d learned he was a kinky pervert, but that was the most depraved one yet. The wavy melting walls and his ever-growing cock, and the way Rubio had talked to her... He wasn’t exactly a gentleman at the theater but he never called her a bitch or slut, at least not to her face, and certainly not with that edge of sexual menace.
She’d been brows
ing too many BDSM sites, that was the problem. She’d been curious. Maybe too curious. She touched her throat, remembering the firm feel of his hands on her neck. He used the same firm touch when he danced with her. Strong, capable, with the threat of great force or great tenderness.
What did she want? Force or tenderness?
Ugh, these stupid thoughts. Damn the front desk for waking her up. She dressed for work, throwing street clothes over her leotard and tights. Her alarm blared to life and she silenced it. Yep, already up. Thanks. She liked her new building, because it had a doorman and good security, and a lobby with marble floors. She looked around her neat and spacious “flat.” It was a great, old, oddly shaped space with high ceilings and textured walls. The only reason it was so neat was because she’d barely unpacked anything yet.
Tonight. Tonight she would unpack, before the season started in earnest and things got crazy busy. The premiere was next week and the London arts scene was buzzing with excitement. She and Rubio had posed for professional photos in their Romeo and Juliet costumes, for the publicity department to use on posters and advertisements all over town. They’d done interviews and profiles for TV news programs, during which Rubio was faultlessly polite. They’d even managed to stay out of the tabloids, aside from a few candids outside the theater. In one of them, Ruby had been holding the door for her, his head thrown back in a laugh. She remembered that day because they’d happened to be leaving at the same time, and joked about who got to take the company-hired car. He’d suggested they share the ride, and she’d said she was afraid to be alone in the back of a car with him.
She kept a copy of the picture in the drawer beside her bed, because she liked the way they looked in the photo. It was something about their body language—it painted a picture of two close friends, even though in reality they mostly avoided each other. He’d put her into the company car and ducked into a taxi, because he got followed by female fans. All the lurkers outside the theater doors queued up to see him, not her, and she definitely preferred it that way.