Waking Kiss (3 page)

And honestly, I didn’t know.

The babble of British-English mixed with Portuguese thickened as the limo crawled downtown streets to the glitzier part of London. Rubio had settled beside me on one of the velvet-upholstered benches, but now he ignored me completely. I couldn’t say at that point if he was still my idol. In a sad, sick way I think he was. I made silent excuses for him as I stared down at my hands. My loud shoes had annoyed him. The theater had broken his contract, making him dance with me. I was heavy to lift. He didn’t like surprises. I made up a lot of excuses for him because I didn’t want to admit my long-time object of adoration was an obnoxious jerk.

Down the opposite bench, the lock-breaker sprawled in his seat, his button-down shirt open at the top, revealing a triangle of bronze, lightly furred chest. He’d been handsome backstage, but here in the muted glow of the limousine he was gorgeous, all long legs and sexy hair. The woman beside him laughed at something he said and pressed her ample cleavage against his arm. I felt a stab of jealousy. Why not me? Where was my ample cleavage, my ability to throw my head back and flirt and bandy words around with a suave, handsome man like Mr. Lock-breaker? I was quiet and awkward, skinny and merely adequate in so many ways.

“Get your bag off me,” Rubio said, pushing it over into my lap. “Why you bring your dance bag? You won’t need it for the party.”

My rose chose that moment to shift inside and poke its petals from the top. I moved my hand to hide it, but not fast enough. He pulled it out. “Ah, bad girl! You stole Mariel’s flower.”

He was kidding, teasing me, but like an idiot I shook my head.

He crowed with laughter. “Why you even care about flowers?” he asked. “You a romantic, girl? Such a beautiful rose…”

He said it with a mock dramatic flourish, waving the bloom in front of him. He brought it to his nose and took a giddy sniff. Then he opened his mouth, closed his straight white teeth on it, and started ripping the petals out like a rabid dog. I watched, traumatized. Everyone howled at his antics as pink petals flew everywhere. He gnashed a few between his teeth and spit them out with exaggerated coughing and choking sounds.

It was silly to feel upset. It was only a rose, but it was a rose from my Princess Aurora performance. It was special. I had planned to take it home and dry it, frame it between two panes of glass and keep it forever so I could tell my grandkids about the time I danced with The Great Rubio. Or the Not-So-Great Rubio.

He handed me back the half-bent stem, bored with it now. I put the broken stalk in my bag because it was all I had left. I stared out the window, feeling hurt and humiliated even though no one seemed to care about my shredded rose past the thirty seconds or so it had been in his hands.

A moment later he nudged me away so a bosomy, big-mouthed woman with purple-streaked hair could sit beside him. I stared past her knees at the carpet of petals on the limo floor. The reek of her perfume triggered nausea again, not that I had anything else to bring up. The ride came to an end a couple minutes later. Rubio and his friends poured out, heading for a gated, towering white house set back from the curb. Wow, Rubio had an amazing place. The perks of stardom. I dawdled and exited last. Mr. Lock-breaker waited by the door to assist me.

“Thanks,” I said, sliding from the car. He pulled me up while I stared at his hands. Big hands. Huge feet. Six-foot-four at least, maybe six-six. I was short so it was hard for me to judge. I looked up at him and his eyes widened in recognition.

“Oh, it’s you! I almost didn’t recognize you without the…” He gestured toward his face.

“Garish makeup?”

“Yes. And the tutu.”

I glanced down at my department store cardigan and faded black leggings. “We aren’t allowed to wear them home.”

“Too bad,” he joked. “They look really comfortable.”

Handsome
and
funny. I shouldered my rumpled dance bag even though no one else in this crowd had dance bags. No one else had a scrubbed-clean face and wet black hair pulled up in a messy twist. Might as well do what I’d come to do so I could bail out of here. “I meant to tell you earlier in the dressing room…thank you. I’m sorry I was so short with you.”

He shrugged. “You seemed pretty frantic. I understood.”

“I don’t know how you unlocked that door but I’m glad you knew how to do it.”

“I work in security. I know some tricks.” He leaned closer to me. “I told you everything would be okay.”

Everything was not okay, not to me, but I smiled at him like it was. A male voice that sounded a lot like Rubio’s called from the house. “Wilder! Come on, man! What you doing?”

He looked back at me and thrust out his hand. “Liam Wilder. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Ashleigh Keaton.”

His clasp was warm, his handshake firm. His stance was relaxed but his gaze held an intensity that unnerved me. “I’m glad you’re here, Ashleigh. It’s been too long since I’ve talked to an American girl.” His voice was silken, deep with a slight lilt. He nodded back toward the door. “You ready to go in?”

This incredible specimen was asking me to go in.
Puhleeze, Ash. Forget it.
I backed away from the invitation in his gold-amber eyes. “I better head home. I don’t think Mr. Rubio meant for me to come.” I looked around for a cab but this was a residential area. Nothing. That would have been too easy. I dug in my bag for my phone.

“You’re not staying for the party?”

“I’m not really in the mood. It’s been a long, crazy night for me.”

His smile widened. “That’s exactly why you should stay. You look like you could use a few drinks.”

I stopped searching for my phone long enough to grin at him in exasperation. “A few drinks would put me under the table.”

Again Rubio called from the house. “
Liii
-am!”

He sighed. “I’m being paged.” His voice took on a firm, compulsory note. “Come to the party. Otherwise I’ll feel obligated to see you home and we’ll both miss out on a lot of fun.”

Was he flirting with me? I didn’t hang with many guys, and never guys who looked like him. What if I stayed at the party? In fifteen minutes he’d get bored with me and blow me off. The perfect ending to a soul-crushing night. “The thing is, I’m not really a party person.”

“There’s no pressure to do anything,” he said. “It’s fine to just watch, or hang out. There are people who come here and never do anything at all.”

I thought about Rubio’s laughing, chatting posse and found that hard to believe. “I’ll bring everyone down, just sitting around doing nothing.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” He jabbed a finger back at the house. “They’re a bunch of unapologetic attention whores. They love putting on a show. Come in, have a drink. Otherwise, literally, I’ll have to take you home and be all white knight about it.”

I swallowed hard. He was definitely flirting. I could picture him as a knight, actually. I could picture him in a suit of armor, rearing back on a horse with a battle cry.

“Um,” I said, pushing the knight-on-horseback imagery from my mind. “I don’t know.”

Rubio yelled out the window again, but Liam ignored him and smiled at me. “The attention whores are getting restless.”

“You’re not an attention whore?”

He shook his head. “No. I’m more of a watcher type. I observe, I analyze. If I do things, it’s not for attention.”

His answer captured my interest. If what he said was true, he was a lot like me. Maybe… Maybe this was one of those moments in life, one of those karmic incidents you had to embrace. Maybe the universe had put this man in my path for a reason. Maybe it wasn’t coincidence that he’d been there to unlock the dressing room door.

Liam gave a little bow and gestured toward the house.
Take a chance
, said a small voice inside me.
He could be the one.
Even if he wasn’t, he was so sinfully, ridiculously beautiful to look at. If he ditched me inside, I’d call a cab and go home. No harm done.

I squared my shoulders and took a deep breath for courage, and followed him through the gates and up the stairs to the heavy wooden door of Rubio’s house.

*** *** ***

I didn’t know what it was about Ruby’s dancer friend that turned me on so much. I didn’t care. I just wanted to play with her strong, sleek body and fuck her all night. It was partly her cute, bashful thing. I didn’t meet a lot of shy girls, but when I did they were almost always closet freaks.

At the same time, she was a dancer, a performer. That intrigued me. I’d gotten an up-close-and-personal look at her trim ankles and sculpted legs when I helped take off her toe shoes. I thought it was pretty cool that she’d stepped in and danced a lead role at the last minute, even if Ruby ranted about her performance afterward. I thought her dancing was great.

Or maybe I just thought her cute little ass was great. Either way.

I took her past the bouncers and into my house, where the night’s festivities were in full swing. She hugged her bag to her side until I showed her an out-of-the-way place to stow it. I assured her that no one here stole shit, which was true, because none of my friends were suicidal enough to steal shit in my home.

She looked around at the marble floors and ornate molding. The main floor of the house was one large open space in neutral tones, ivory and white and taupe, with a kitchen set into the corner. I entertained a lot so I had a bunch of leather chairs and couches and fancy end tables and four-foot-high urns my interior designer had picked out. Why did anyone need four-foot-high urns in their home? Fuck if I knew, but I had five or six of the things. There was a tall fireplace at the far end of the room, gleaming staircases in either corner, and an eclectic collection of art decorating the walls. I was proud of my place but I hated the way it echoed when it was empty. So I had parties, probably too many. One every Saturday, at least.

“What are you drinking?” I asked her.

“I better not have anything.”

“No?” I got a beer so I wouldn’t end up too buzzed. I didn’t drink much in general, but with a new prospective play partner, sobriety was a good thing. Ashleigh asked for a Coke. Cute.

I introduced her to a few people, but the majority of my guests were already heading downstairs to the play room. Ashleigh needed more time to get comfortable, judging by the way her gaze darted around the room. I led her over by the fireplace to avoid Trina. Trina was as aggressive as Ashleigh was shy, and she’d been wanting to bottom to me for a while. Trina didn’t do it for me, though. I was ridiculously picky about my submissives, for good reason. When I played, I liked to play hard.

Not that I was going to go balls-to-the-wall with my dancer this evening. The best partners were the ones who made me slow down in the beginning, who revealed desires and vulnerabilities like the petals of an opening flower. Trina would be more like the rose Ruby had ripped up in the limo, a quick shower of petals with a mess left behind. I hated messes.

I turned my back to Trina and focused on Ashleigh.

“So, first things first. Where are you from?” Before she could answer I held up a hand. “Wait. Let me guess. The Midwest.”

She gawked. “How did you know?”

“I didn’t know. It was a guess, like I said. The city is harder.” I pulled at my lower lip, pretending to concentrate. “St. Louis?”

She shook her head.

“Chicago? Milwaukee? No. Cleveland?”

She shook her head again. “You’ve never heard of the place I’m from.”

“Small town?”

“Extremely small.”

“What brings a small-town Midwestern girl to London to dance?”

Her eyes drifted over my shoulder to where Trina was doubtless giving her the
get lost
glare. She looked back at me. “Rubio brought me here.”

Damn, she was Rubio’s? I hadn’t gotten that message at all.

“I mean,” she said at my confused look, “I came here because he was dancing here, even though it was a step back professionally. I had more options in New York, but I wanted… I decided I needed to be here.”

Her hair was so pretty and dark, the color of blackberries. “Do you regret it?” I asked.

“What?”

“Taking a step back?”

She thought about that for a moment. “I don’t think so. Being part of City Ballet is more important to me than advancing through the ranks of some lesser company.”

“What about tonight?”

If she held her glass any tighter she was going to break it. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, tonight you had a chance in the spotlight. Did it make you question whether you made the right choice?”

She took a deep sip of her drink as Trina moved into my line of sight, standing so her breasts were displayed to maximum effect. I ignored her, concentrating on my thoughtful ballerina. “No, I never question,” she said. “Honestly, I didn’t start dancing out of some desire to become a star. I just enjoy doing it. My body enjoys doing it. I came here to work with Fernando Rubio and Yves Thibault, no matter the cost and sacrifice. It seemed worth it to me.”

My body enjoys doing it.
That’s all I heard. I thought very intently about how my body would enjoy dragging her down to my play room, cuffing her to a spanking bench, and going to town on her marvelous ass. I wondered if she would be loud or quiet, if she’d want lots of sex with her play or if she’d prefer to concentrate on impact and pain. I wondered if she had any naughty piercings or tattoos hidden under her non-descript black clothes.

Oh shit, she’d asked me a question. “I’m sorry,” I said, pretending I couldn’t hear her over the music.

“Where are you from?” she asked a little louder. “And how did you end up over here?”

“Business brought me here. I’m from California, by way of Cuba and Ireland.”

She blinked, looking up from her drink. “How does that happen?”

I moved a little closer, out of Trina’s line of sight. “My mother was from Cuba and my father was a Dublin lad.” She laughed when I said
Dublin
with an Irish accent. “I grew up just outside L.A. so, obviously, I’ve got a lot going on.”