Waking Kiss (BDSM Ballet 1)

im in more than a fixing way. I fantasized about him falling in love with me and swearing off his playboy habits. I fantasized about a life with him, about pleasure like this for the rest of my days. If he knew, he’d probably laugh at me. Liam, who slept with four or five women a week, who shared “sluts” with Rubio and participated in orgies at his BDSM parties.

I had to stop daydreaming about impossible things, no matter how much I wanted them. I pressed my nipples against his chest, just to hurt them some more. He drew away from me and propped his head on his hand.

“You know what I think, Ash? I think the BDSM part is the key. I think you’re super kinky. I think you’ll have more success at sex if you stir a little kink into the mix. The bad news is that being kinky narrows your dating pool quite a bit. Especially if you’re looking for relationships and marriage and all that crap.” He stroked my tummy. “What do you think?”

I think you’re kinky. I think we could get married. “I think… Yes. I think the BDSM part of it really turns me on. I like when you dominate me.” I looked down at his hand, then back at him. “I wish I was a better sub. You know, more experienced, like the other girls you’re used to.”

“I like that you aren’t like the other girls. I dreaded having to teach you all the lifestyle stuff but it’s been fun playing with you so far.”

“So, are we still going to try to have sex?”

He looked over at me in surprise. “Of course we are. That’s what we’re working toward, right? You seem a lot more comfortable with me now, and a lot more at ease in your body.”

“I am.”

He thought for a long moment, his fingers trailing over the smattering of hair on his chest. “Why don’t we go away next weekend, after your Sunday performance? Go somewhere peaceful and comfortable and spend a couple days naked together? See what develops?”

He meant, see if we can have sex. I didn’t feel the least bit afraid, not in this moment, with him warm and strong beside me, looking at me with so much affection in his gaze. “I’d like that.”

“No pressure,” he said. “I don’t want you to feel like it has to happen while we’re there. This is all to help you, so it’s whatever you feel comfortable with.”

“What about after?” I asked. “After I’m…better?”

“You mean, will we keep having sex?” He looked away, just for a second, then back at me. He looked so distant I almost flinched. “I guess that’s up to you. It’s your life, you know? But it’s pointless to talk about it now, when we haven’t accomplished it even one time.”

“Yes. I guess so.” I swallowed hard, feeling abandoned even though he was lying right next to me.

“Do you want to stay here tonight?” he asked. “Have some breakfast in the morning before you go?”

I said yes because I could tell he didn’t feel like taking me home, but really, I should have gone back to my bed of branches. That was where I belonged, behind the wooded barrier, sleeping. I wished my prince would kiss me, but after a few more moments, he got up and went to sleep in his own room.

Chapter Fourteen: Now, Please

On Wednesday I was called to Mr. Thibault’s office between rehearsal and the evening performance. As soon as I arrived he handed me an embossed envelope with a Cheyenne postmark.

“This arrived at the City Ballet offices addressed to you.”

I looked down at the return address. “It’s from my old dance teacher.”

“How delightful. When you write her back, you can convey the good news—Mr. Rubio has decided to cast you as the female lead in his new ballet.”

“He just told you that now?”

Mr. Thibault laughed. “Don’t look so nervous. There are merely contracts to sign. A pay raise, although not as much as I’d like to give you.”

He gestured to his desk and slid some papers over for me to read and sign. I tried to concentrate on the small print and legal phrases, but my mind was on the letter. I hadn’t spoken to Miss Melanie in years, even though I owed her everything. Life circumstances had separated us by an ocean. I hoped she was okay. As soon as I finished signing all the papers, Mr. Thibault drew me into a conversation about Rubio and the ballet, and my ambitions within the company.

Ambitions? Me?

But it was ambitious to dance with Rubio. Now I’d be part of the shark-tank crew, the sharp, scrabbling dancers who were always trying to get ahead, usually by stabbing each other in the back over roles and partnerships.

“I’m not sure what my plans are for next year,” I told him honestly. “I wasn’t considering trying out for soloist.”

He gave me the same look Rubio had given me the day I almost turned down the role. Whut? Why you dance then?

“I’ll think about it,” I said. “Things are kind of crazy now.” Yes, because I was apparently going to the country with Liam for the weekend, to a picturesque little cottage he owned a couple hours north of London. I wanted to have sex with him there, but I was afraid it wouldn’t work and he’d lose patience with his Fix-Ashleigh initiative. Lately it seemed like he’d been distancing himself and I wasn’t sure he wouldn’t drop me altogether if I had another meltdown. I accepted that Liam wasn’t my boyfriend, that he wasn’t anybody’s boyfriend, but that didn’t mean I didn’t fall a little more in love every time we were together.

As soon as I left Mr. Thibault’s office, I went to the dressing rooms and hunched over my carrel, ripping open the envelope with Miss Melanie’s note.

Dear Ashleigh,

I hope this letter finds you well. I think of you often, gracing the stages of London with your dancing, and I’m so proud of all your accomplishments. You were a very special student and a diligent artist. I knew you would go far.

I’m writing to send love but also to ask you to solve a mystery for me. A couple weeks ago I learned from my bank that both my dancing school and my house mortgages had been paid off by an anonymous donor. When I asked for more information I was told the funds came from London, from “a friend of Ashleigh Keaton.” My deepest thanks are due to you for remembering my modest academy, and to your astoundingly generous friend.

I can’t explain to you the difference this gift has made in my life. The school has struggled the last few years but now we’ll be able to stay open. I’m thinking of changing the name to the Ashleigh Keaton Dance Academy in honor of our most famous graduate. What do you think? Thank you, thank you, dearest Ashleigh. Please let me know the name and address of your friend so I can thank him or her for their kindness. You can write to me or email me at the school.

In closing… I only recently learned of your father’s illness. From what I understand he is approaching his final days. Please know you will be in my thoughts and prayers. I hope you are well and happy where you’re living.

Much love,

Melanie

I held the letter against my face. Miss Melanie, with her short salt-and-pepper curls, her sharp gaze and her gentle corrections. I never confided the depth of my problems with my father but she’d sensed my desperation and been kind enough to help. Then there was Liam Wilder, who took helping to a whole new level. I didn’t need any more reasons to adore him. I found the school’s email online and wrote to my old teacher, giving her Liam’s full name and address. I also begged her not to name her school after me. I didn’t want any part of me back in Wyoming, not even on the awning of a rural dance academy.

That night, while I was getting ready for Bayadère, I noticed looks from my fellow dancers, and not many smiles. Of course. The word was out. Me and Rubio were dancing in the spring showcase. If anyone had asked me, I would have talked it down. Just a short piece. I don’t know why he asked me. It doesn’t even have a name. But no one asked me, because no one seemed to want to talk to me. Professional jealousy was a bitch.

So was romantic jealousy. Why didn’t Liam want me? Who else occupied his time? What was I missing that his other sexual partners had?

Well, I knew the answer to that question. Mental health.

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I assured Ashleigh that our weekend in the country wasn’t going to be about pressure.

I didn’t want it to be about pressure, but from the moment I picked her up at the theater, there was an uneasy tension between us that grew by the hour. We drove north out of London, had dinner at a quiet restaurant, and then continued on to my secluded haven, a small, old, extremely English cottage I’d restored a few years ago from a hollowed-out shell. It looked prettier in spring and summer, with the blooming trees and wildflowers, but Ashleigh said she loved it.

There wasn’t much to see inside. No TV, no rooms except a small bathroom with a shower. She fluttered around the cottage as if looking for a place to land, but there wasn’t any place except the bed.

I second-guessed everything as I watched her. Yes, the cottage was rustic and private, but I wondered if I shouldn’t have taken her somewhere with more luxury—and more distractions. This cottage was four walls and a bed, a kitchenette and a few paintings on the walls. It must have seemed that I’d only brought her here to fuck her.

Well, I had, right? We were here to fuck. I couldn’t draw out this mentoring arrangement much longer, not without becoming hopelessly entangled. I wanted to go back to my former life, where women were just pals and sex was easy and fleeting, and I didn’t have to worry about eviscerating someone’s damaged soul. I wanted to spend my nights scening with random partners who were objects, not people. Objects were so much easier. Girls like Ashleigh were hard.