The Firefighter and the Virgin Princess

Lieutenant Joe Rossini knows
everything about his city. He's not a hero. He's just a regular guy
who happens to like helping people. And when he meets the
beautiful, mysterious Lily Keene— with her long, long legs— the one
thing he knows for sure about her is that she needs him. If he can
only persuade her to let him into her life and into her secrets,
maybe he can help her. And maybe she's just the woman he's been
looking for.

Lily has only known one way of life
— as a dancer. It's all she's ever wanted and all she's ever been
able to do. But at twenty two she's fallen into a rut and gotten
stuck there. Dancing just isn't fulfilling her needs the way it
once did. Can a white hot, reckless affair with one sexy,
down-to-earth firefighter get her parts oiled again? Or will it get
her tangled up in that messy, dangerous, unpredictable real life
that she's avoided for so long?

Regular Joe is all about honesty and
"whatcha see is whatcha get", but Lily hides from reality in a
world of painted scenery, where cutthroat envy is masked by a smile
and nothing is ever what it seems on the surface. At first glance
they're just two strangers on the city street, but Lily and Joe are
about to collide on one chilly winter's day, after which nothing
will ever be the same for them again.

New York City in winter has never
been hotter.

The Firefighter and the
Virgin Princess

by

Jemma Harte

M/F, ANAL SEX

Twisted E Publishing,
LLC

www.twistedepublishing.com

A TWISTED E- PUBLISHING
BOOK

The Firefighter and the Virgin
Princess

Copyright © 2014 by Jemma Harte

Edited by Marie Medina

First E-book Publication: November 2014,
SMASHWORDS EDITION

Cover design by K Designs

All cover art and logo copyright © 2014,
Twisted Erotica Publishing.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED:
This literary work may not be reproduced or
transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or
photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express
written permission.

All characters and events in this book
are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is
strictly coincidental.

"Every princess loves a good ball, but
a pair of them is even better."

The Firefighter and the
Virgin Princess

Prologue

Joe Rossini had sometimes heard New York
called a romantic city. He couldn't see it. As a firefighter, he
witnessed the hard, rough, ugly side of people's lives. He picked
them up when they were down in their own vomit. Sometimes he found
the pieces when they were dead. He carried charred bodies from
burning buildings, he stepped around bloody flesh on the road after
a car accident, he saw brains blown out onto a wall after someone
gave up, got desperate and put a loaded gun to their head.

Yeah, he didn't see much romance in the
city.

He didn't believe in fucking fairy tales
either.

Despite the dark view he got from where he
stood, Joe was a surprisingly cheerful type of guy, pragmatic,
honest, never down for too long. He had ways to keep his spirits
up. He loved the smell of warm bread straight out of the oven,
wafting through the doors of a bakery as he passed, and there was
nothing that could help him unwind faster than a few cold beers
with friends he'd known since childhood. And he loved sitting on
the Staten Island ferry, watching other people— particularly female
people, with long legs, wearing shorts. Yeah, he was a leg man.

He didn't like being called a hero, he
couldn't stand hypocrisy, and if there was one thing he really
hated, it was a bully.

That was Joe Rossini for you.

"I'm just a regular guy," he would say with
a shrug. "Whatcha see is whatcha get."

And, oddly enough, he loved his city.

But, as he would point out, "There ain't no
romance here. This is New York, not fucking Paris."

* * * *

Chapter One

Lily Keene knew of no better rush— standing
in the wings, waiting for her entrance. Tonight she was a white
swan, one of ten, hovering breathless for this last moment on
dreary earth.

Escape from reality. Better than any drug or
alcohol.

The music built steadily
and the lights shifted to make a beautiful, ethereal world out of a
few painted sets. This was the world in which Lily lived six nights
a week— if she was lucky and wasn't sidelined with an injury. Not
only did she live in it, but she lived
for
it, and she couldn't understand
those who didn't.

There was a rumor going around that one of
the girls in the corps was pregnant. This news had swept the ranks
as if it was a death among them. People's gazes shifted downward in
awkward sympathy, hands went to cheeks. Heads shook.

Not only was the poor girl knocked up, but
she'd decided to keep the baby.

One dancer, exit stage right.

Of course, said some of the kinder folk, she
could always come back again. These days a baby wasn't necessarily
the end of a dancer's career. They recited the names of a few
special dancers who had given birth and returned to the stage. The
very few, famous cases.

Deep inside they all knew it wouldn't happen
in this particular incidence.

Lily couldn't figure out how the girl even
had time to date and have sex, let alone why she would quit to have
a baby.

She heard one of the younger girls say,
"Well, there is more to life than ballet and this doesn't last
forever, does it? She says she's in love, and she seems really
happy."

Someone else agreed, "We can't all be prima
ballerinas. There isn't room at the top for everyone."

It was pretty obvious what
the gossips were thinking:
They
deserved one of those coveted places at the top.
Pregnant Carrie— a mediocre dancer— had bowed out gracefully. One
less to compete against.

As she listened to the other girls gossip
and speculate, it hit home to Lily more than ever how little she
knew of the other world. How unprepared for it she was. How afraid
of one day being forced out into it.

Ballet had been her driving force, her whip
and her reward, since she was five and her grandmother first bought
her lessons. It was all consuming. It was everything she knew— this
strange, distorted, dream-like world lit by tungsten halogen
lamps

Sometimes she imagined herself to be an
Oompa Loompa. Only existing in a brightly colored fantasy world
like Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory. Take an Oompa Loompa out into
harsh daylight to get a real job and he'd look awful. Wouldn't know
where to start. Wouldn't know how to survive. He'd probably turn to
the bottle and hang out in the subway.

She shook that wandering thought off.
Wouldn't do to get distracted thinking about Oompa Loompas. Not
when she was supposed to be a graceful, elegant swan.

But she needed something to take her mind
off the pain in her foot. Aspirin cream wasn't working anymore.
She'd had plastic wrap, a bandage and a heating pad on it all
night, but it still hurt. Also she had a stomach cramp that felt
like someone stapling her guts together. It couldn't be her period.
She hadn't had one of those in months, maybe even years. If a
dancer had regular periods, the other girls looked at them with
suspicion, searching for that additional inch of body fat that made
them function like a normal woman.

It may not be politically correct to say it,
but everyone knew it was true— a real woman's curves were not
coveted in ballet. Boyish hips and a flat chest were the yearned
for standard. But the "powers that be" didn't have to turn down a
dancer because she actually had flesh that dimpled over her bones,
for there were plenty of other excuses they could use to hide that
one. It was a tough business, eternally critical. And dancers were
the hardest on themselves.

Lily's heartbeat thumped hard through her
body, so that she felt it in her toes, in her fingertips, even in
her fake eyelashes. She was hungry, but then she was always hungry.
It was good to be hungry.

The "swan" in front of her was wiry, had
shoulder blades that could slice cake. The one behind her was flat
as a pancake and had wrists like licorice sticks.

Oh, god! Why did everything have to remind
her of food?

One day she'd eat three meals, get drunk and
read a book. One day. Maybe she'd even go on a date with someone
who had nothing at all to do with ballet.

But not today. Not tomorrow. As long as her
body held out she had to dance. It was all she knew, and there was
no room for anything else.

Here came their cue.

Twelve pairs of arms arched high, reaching
for the painted clouds, while the same number of long, false lashes
swept down. And these magical swans were off, taking flight on
their toes, in perfect unison.

The little girls— and boys— in the audience
were transported to that fantasy world with them, having no idea
that beneath the white feathers and make-up, these were merely
insecure, imperfect women, eaten up by ambition and with the
ugliest, most tortured and misshapen feet even a goblin wouldn't
want to touch.

* * * *

"Alana was eight beats early. What the hell
was she thinking? I'm surprised Renaldo caught her."

"But her thirty-two fouettes are a dream.
Breathtaking!"

"Sure we're all holding our breath, taking
bets on how many times she'll wobble."

"Speaking of wobble—she's put on weight. At
least three pounds. Did you see her thighs? O.M.G!"

"She's getting old to dance Odette. What is
she, thirty?"

"But she's still
so
beautiful. That woman
is all about the face."

"If you ask me, she's all about the thighs.
For fuck's sake, the stage was shaking every time she landed a
grand jete."

"Pas de chat? More like Pas de Chunk."

Snide giggles and titters swept the
cluttered dressing room, but one of the new girls refused to join
in, insisting the subject of their discussion was incredibly pretty
"for her age" and had been the inspiration for so many young girls—
herself included. This adamant defense of her idol caused a few to
roll their eyes, but they had to agree that even "old and fat"
Alana was still stunning, still selling tickets and putting butts
on seats.