Dance: The Collected Series Page 10

  And damn, this does feel kind of intimate. I feel stripped and vulnerable, even though right now I’m still fully clothed. I’m so hyper-aware of my body right now, I can feel every little movement it makes: the bra straps digging into my shoulders, and the silk of my dress resting against my thighs.

  “I was thirteen,” I say, deciding to tell the truth, even though it would be so easy to make up some kind of lie. “It was spin the bottle. My friend and I set it up so that we could get our first kisses out of the way as soon as possible. We both kissed the same boy. Afterwards we laughed about his sloppy tongue and his limp hands that tickled rather than grabbed us. So no, it’s fair to say I didn’t like it. But my second kiss? That was a different matter altogether ...”

  Shut up, Julia. He only asked about your first kiss. Why are you telling him about your second? In fact, why are you telling him anything at all? There was nothing in the contract about his right to your private memories. Or maybe there was. If only you’d read the damn thing ...

  There’s a pause as he thinks up his second question. I shift a little in my chair, crossing my legs, that bright light still shining directly in my face, dazzling me.

  “And when did you first touch yourself?”

  “I don’t remember,” I say, again for some reason deciding to tell the truth. “But I do remember the first time I made myself come. I remember the pleasure coursing through my body, and I remember thinking what the fuck just happened? I didn’t know that anything could feel that good ... Because touching ourselves? That wasn’t really the kind of thing my friends and I talked about. So I kept quiet, even though I wanted to scream from the rooftops about how good it felt – this amazing new trick I’d learned.”

  What is it about this freaking guy that makes me want to tell him my deepest secrets, the things I’ve never told anyone? It’s like he’s hypnotizing me ...

  His next question comes much more quickly, catching me off guard.

  “How often do you masturbate?” he says bluntly, the word carrying a small charge of illicit excitement with it. And I feel my body respond, his words working some kind of weird magic, as if he’d touched me – cupping me right between my legs.

  “It depends?” I say. “Maybe a couple of times a week?”

  “Where do you do it, Julia?” he persists. “Where do you masturbate?”

  I feel myself blushing. I’ve never talked about this kind of stuff with anyone before, not even Nat! I feel totally out of my comfort zone now, totally exposed ...

  “In the shower,” I say, fighting back the flush of warmth to my face, once again surprising myself that I’m telling him the truth. “Usually after a dance class ... Dancing can get me kinda worked up and I’ll often need to let off some steam afterwards ...”

  “And what exactly do you think about when you masturbate? What gets you off, Julia? What makes you come?”

  This is too much ...

  “That’s kind of a personal question,” I say, my voice shaking a little.

  “As indicated in Clause 20 of the contract ... the contract that I’m beginning to suspect you haven’t read properly, it stated in clear terms that you would answer any and all personal questions truthfully and to the best of your knowledge.”

  God damn it. I really should have read that fucking contract ...

  “And how do you know I won’t just lie?” I counter, my words shivering past my lips, my heart pounding, the blood buzzing through my veins.

  “Obviously I can’t know that. But I’ve studied human psychology and behavioral patterns,” and even though I can’t actually see him, in the pulsating darkness between us I imagine a slow smile spreading across his face as he moistens his bottom lip with his tongue, “and so far I know you’ve been telling the truth.”

  Damn, he’s good.

  “So?” he persists. “What exactly do you think about when you come?”

  I take a deep breath.

  “The last time I masturbated,” I say, “I thought about being picked up by a hot customer at the bar.”

  “Are you teasing me?”

  I know where these questions are leading – next he’s gonna ask me about my non-existent ‘first fuck’. And what am I going to do then? Lie? He’ll be able to figure out immediately that I’m still a virgin. No. I need to turn the tables, and quick ...

  “Of course I’ve been teasing you,” I say, pushing myself to my feet. “This whole damn week has been a tease, hasn’t it? One which you, Dylan Campbell, have been enjoying ...”

  I wait for him to take control again, to tell me to sit the fuck back down. But instead, just as I suspected, he’s enjoying this new turn of events. He’s enjoying having me take the lead, maybe even more than I’d hoped.

  I strut confidently towards the lamp, grab the chrome casing and spin it around, one hundred and eighty degrees, so that the blinding white spotlight is now blazing squarely back at Dylan. He recoils for a moment, squinting at the intense white light, then settles back in his chair, trying his best to get comfortable, leaning back, spreading his legs, moistening his full bottom lip with his tongue.

  “Very good,” he says with a nod of acknowledgement. “You’ve got me. I have been enjoying it. I’ve been enjoying it very much indeed. I think that you and I, Julia, both know that the build up can be just as delicious as the main event ...”

  “Quiet,” I say, cutting him off, silencing him, again surprised when he does exactly as I say.

  Wow. He’s really enjoying this; and I wonder if perhaps it’s because this is the first time a guy as powerful and controlling as Dylan Campbell has ever had someone else tell him what to do before.

  “Now it’s your turn to answer some questions,” I continue. “How many people have you slept with?”

  He shrugs his shoulders, so casually and confidently.

  “I don’t keep count, Julia,” he says. “It’s crude. I don’t need an ever-increasing number to feel good about my sexual potency.”

  “But it’s a lot, right?”

  “More than most, but less than some. I suppose you could say I’m omnivorous when it comes to sex. I’ve had lots of it, sure. But this?”

  Here he indicates the space between us with his finger.

  “Well, this is something very different indeed. You know, I didn’t even know I got off on this kind of stuff, Julia. But you’re really teaching me to enjoy it ...”

  “Oh, you have no idea how much of a fucking tease I can be,” I reply, the words escaping my mouth as if they’ve sprung from some place deep inside me, as if they were hiding there all along, just waiting to be spoken.

  “Unbutton your pants,” I command, feeling a thrill of excitement when he begins to do exactly as I say.

  He’s still sat there on the chair, illuminated by that bright white spotlight, while I remain completely in the shadows watching him as he begins to unbuckle his belt, then pull open his pants, his hard cock springing free, jutting upwards from between his spread legs. He makes a motion to grab hold of it, but I stop him in his tracks.

  “Uh-uh. Hands by your sides,” I command, watching him follow my orders exactly.

  I take a moment to really savor the scene before me, before I strut towards him, my heels clicking, ringing out into the darkness. I stride confidently towards him, then fall to my knees between his legs, my hands, my mouth so close to his rock-hard cock.

  I lock eyes with him.

  “You really are enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  And in answer, his cock twitches.

  “You’ve always had exactly what you wanted, haven’t you, Dylan Campbell,” I say in a slow, seductive voice, my hand reaching out to his cock, my slender fingers wrapping around his shaft as I trace one long thumbnail up and down it, just as slowly and sensuously as the words I’m speaking. “You’ve never been denied anything in your whole fucking life before,” and at this I let go of his cock completely, “and it’s turning you the hell on, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” he
whispers, his cock twitching again, a clear bead of liquid pulsing from the head, his whole body taut with a heady mixture of frustration and excitement as he waits for me to touch him again.

  This time I place my hands on his spread muscular thighs, then lower my glossy lips towards his cock, pausing when I’m close enough for him to feel the heat of my breath against his most sensitive organ.

  “I bet you’d like nothing more,” I purr, pausing to trace the tip of my tongue upwards, from the root of his cock right up to the patch of skin just below the head, “than for me to take your hard cock in my mouth right now. Isn’t that right?”

  I let my fingers curl around his shaft, easing him towards my parted lips, enveloping him with them for a moment, feeling him shudder, before pulling him from my mouth with a slick wet pop.

  “I bet you’d like nothing better than to fuck my mouth right now, isn’t that right, Dylan Campbell?”

  I’m jacking him slowly, feeling him shift and tighten, his whole body tensed, his cock growing bigger in my fingers with every second, my open mouth as I speak just inches from the swollen purple head of his cock.

  “Answer me,” I command. “I bet you’re thinking about coming in my mouth right about now, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes,” he says with a breathy groan, his voice utterly charged with desire.

  “I bet you’re thinking about covering my whole fucking face with your come, aren’t you?”

  I’m working his cock faster and faster, pumping him in my fist, my mouth open, my tongue tracing slow, tantalizing circles around the head.

  “Aren’t you?” I repeat sternly.

  “Yes,” he groans, right on the brink of orgasm, “oh God, yes ...”

  “Well, too bad,” I say sadly, letting go of his cock and pushing myself back to my feet all in one smooth movement, leaving him sprawled in the chair like that, his chest heaving, his cock twitching madly, his eyes burning, so fucking desperate for release.

  As I turn to leave the room, a part of me suspects I’ve gone too far – that he will tell me to stop where I am, that he will take control once again, commanding me to come back this instant.

  But no. He lets me leave the room and head back to my bedroom.

  It turns out Dylan Campbell really does enjoy being teased, far more than I ever suspected ...

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  As I walk down the staircase to breakfast the next morning, I notice a figure standing by the entrance to the house, furiously texting on her cell phone. It’s Isabella of course. Her hair is scraped up in a severe high ponytail, and most of her face is hidden behind a pair of huge tortoiseshell sunglasses. She’s dressed in skin-tight white jeans and a hot pink silk camisole, perched on a pair of strappy diamante sandals. She looks expensive and she’s trying to look fierce, but she just doesn’t have the ass to fill those jeans. I notice that she’s surrounded by bags and suitcases.

  “Hey,” I say, trying to inject some warmth into my voice, hoping that perhaps after our little run-in at the hot tub, not to mention our girly Keeping Up with the Kardashians session, she might be a little less frosty with me now.

  No such luck.

  “Oh, hi!” she says with a sarcastic sneer, looking up dismissively when she sees me approach before quickly returning to her phone, just as a female member of the house staff begins wheeling her bags out through the front door. She turns to follow, before spinning back to face me. “Well,” she says, “I’m off. It’s all yours. The pool. The studio. The whole house. My brother. Enjoy.”

  I thought I was good at reading people, but right now I have no idea whether she’s being nice or nasty; glorying in victory or admitting defeat. All I know is that right now I’m glad to see the back of her.

  §

  “So, what’s the plan for today?” I ask Dylan a little later, over a leisurely breakfast of coffee, fruit salad and delicate, perfectly-baked pastries, the heady scent of the tropical flowers and the sunlight flowing in through the many glass panels of the breakfast room completely overwhelming my senses.

  “I don’t know about you,” he replies, “but I rarely get an opportunity for a lazy Sunday like this. And I plan to make the most of it. You might well be getting bored of this house, but I don’t get to spend as much time as I’d like here. So I intend to spend the day really making the most of this place.”

  “In that case,” I suggest, “why don’t you show me around? Give me the official guided tour? After all, I’ve only really seen a few rooms, haven’t I?”

  So after we’ve finished eating, Dylan begins to give me the tour of the house, telling me all sorts of interesting details about it. It’s only as we’re walking along the corridor upstairs in the West wing that I feel my nervousness increase, as I begin to recognize the doors, paintings, and side tables from my little exploration the other afternoon.

  Completely oblivious to my nerves, Dylan confidently throws open each door, and along with it comes a story.

  “This,” he says, “is the last bedroom the Beckwith’s stayed in as a couple. Mrs Beckwith walked in to get changed one afternoon and found her husband wasn’t alone ...”

  He opens the door to the room just next to his. “And this used to be Isabella’s room. Believe it or not, she idolized me until she became a teenager. Then idolatry turned into pure hatred, so much so that she had to be moved to the other end of the corridor ... My parents were worried we were going to kill each other. To tell you the truth, I’m relieved she left this morning. Although her college is only an hour away, so don’t get too comfortable. She could be back again at any moment.”

  And then finally, he pushes open the door to his own room.

  “And this is my room,” he says, stepping aside to let me in.

  I know, I think guiltily.

  My eyes dart immediately to that photo on the wall – the one of him and his wife and kid. Has he even remembered it’s here? Or is this just his fucked-up way of telling me exactly what the deal is between us?

  I brace myself, as sure enough he actually leads me right towards the photo.

  “That was my graduation from Dartmouth,” he says pointing at the photo to its left.

  “You look happy,” I say through clenched teeth.

  “Honestly?” he replies. “I was stoned out of my mind. Isabella’s not the only one who maybe had too much fun at college. I made sure to graduate though.”

  Next his hand moves to the large family portrait, on the other side. “And that’s my brother, Spencer,” he points out. “He’s doing humanitarian work in Bangladesh right now. He’s always cared about making the world a better place. Mom’s always worried about him, but I’m just really proud.”

  I take a deep breath. I know exactly which picture’s coming next. I start to talk out of sheer nervousness. “She’s a cute kid,” I say, my eyes finally flicking to the image of his daughter, blonde hair shining, bright white teeth displayed in a huge grin, blue eyes sparkling.

  “Oh yeah, Chloe!” he laughs. “She sure is. She’s beautiful. And whip-smart, too. She’s my niece.”

  His niece?!

  “And that’s her mom, my cousin Violet. We’re exactly the same age, so we’re really close. They live out in Colorado now.”

  I am such a freaking idiot ...

  He moves on to the next picture – this time one of his parents – but I can barely take in what he’s saying now. His niece. His cousin. It makes so much sense. And looking again at the photo, it’s obvious that the arm around her is friendly rather than romantic. These aren’t adoring parents – these are simply cousins who enjoy spending time together. Why did I jump to conclusions? But more importantly, when I thought he was married, why did I even care so much? And why was I being so moralistic about our little ‘deal’ here? Or wasthe truth of it that I was really just disappointed that he wasn’t single?

  §

  We spend the rest of the afternoon lounging by the pool, just soaking in the sun, sipping cocktails and relaxing. An
d as the day begins to draw to a close, I find myself actually getting kind of disappointed that tonight will be our last night together.

  I wonder if Dylan feels that way too?

  The thought’s beginning to make me restless, and it’s like he reads my mind, when he says, “Come on. I want to play with you. How about a game of tennis?”

  “I’m game,” I say, although in truth I’ve never played tennis in my life before. It’s just not the kind of thing we did in my high school back in Jersey.

  He takes my hand, helping me up from my lounger. I dry myself with a towel, pull on my sundress, and then we walk over to the tennis courts, grabbing some balls and rackets from the nearby pool house on the way.

  “I suppose I should let you know,” he says as we walk, “that I was on my high school team.”

  “I suppose I should let you know,” I reply, fighting back my grin, “that I’ve never played this game in my life before.”

  He laughs. “In that case, expect to lose. But first, I’ll teach you the basics.”

  We reach the tennis courts, and as promised, Dylan starts to give me a few pointers.

  “First the serve,” he begins. “You need to start with how you’re standing. Come a little closer, to that line ...”

  I do just as he says.

  “Good, now look at how you’re standing. That’s all wrong. Move your right foot here, like this, and your left ... Good. That’s it. Now throw the ball up like this, then bring your racket to it like ... so.”

  He slams the ball right past me, at a million miles an hour. It comes bouncing off the court next to me so fast that I barely have a chance to see it, let alone hit it back.

  “Now your turn.”

  I shrug and shake out my limbs, then take my position, trying to mimic him as much as possible, holding my racket in that same loose way, facing my body sideways, legs apart, throwing the ball casually into the air and then ... thwack.