First Position (Dirty Dancing #1) Read online

  “No,” she gasps. “Oh God, it feels so good.”

  I smile in victory, dipping my head to whisper in her ear. “Mia cara, the pleasure has only just begun.”

  She lets out another breathy moan as I kiss down the pale column of her throat. Her body is shivering in my hands, so perfectly responsive, so ready for more.

  God, it’s intoxicating. Power mingles with lust in my blood, raging like fire. I want her, hard and fast, right here up against the wall. I want to slide my hand into her panties and feet her tight, wet grip; rip the clothes from her body, and show her what real pleasure feels like.

  What a real man feels like, fucking her deep inside.

  My hands slide lower, teasing at her waistband. Annalise tenses in my arms. Fuck. I ease off, force myself to move up again, clenching my jaw to keep control.

  She’s an innocent. I’ll teach her, but slowly.

  One lesson at a time.

  I trail kisses across her collarbone, feather soft, until she melts against me again. Yes. I gently slide my finger underneath the strap of her top, and ease it off her shoulder. The silk slips free, revealing one perfect breast.

  Dear God.

  I bend my head and take her tight nipple in my mouth. Annalise flinches, but then lets out a gasp of pure ecstasy. I lick slowly, circling the stiff bud. She turns liquid in my arms.

  “You see, mia cara,” I murmur, flicking my tongue. “This body of yours, you don’t know what it’s capable of. But I’m going to show you, I’m going to taste every inch.”

  She lets out a mewl as I rasp my tongue across the tender nub. My cock is straining against my jeans, begging for friction and release, but I’m caught up in the moment. All I want to do it touch her. Taste her.

  Worship at the perfection of her sweet flesh and hot, shuddering bone.

  There’s a sudden noise nearby. I lift my head. Some drunk couple stumbles around the corner, already all over each other.

  Annalise yelps, covering herself with her hands. I move to block her from view.

  “Scusi,” the man laughs. He winks at me, and pulls the woman back out of sight, but it’s too late. Annalise is fumbling to pull her slip back up.

  “Oh my God,” she stutters. “What am I doing?”

  “Shhh,” I murmur, gently stroking her cheek. “They didn’t see.”

  “But I did!” Her eyes are wide with desire and a panic I don’t understand. “I shouldn’t even be here. Curfew. Oh God!”

  She pulls away.

  “Wait—” I reach for her, but she shakes her head.

  “I have to go,” she insists. “What time is it?”

  Time? The only time that matters to me is how long it takes to melt that tension from her expression, put my hands and mouth back on her body where they belong. But I see her panic, and it’s like a cold shower on my fevered lust.

  I check my watch. “Around midnight,” I tell her.

  “No!” She gulps, looking around. “I really have to go!”

  She takes off, back to the party. I follow quickly, trying to catch up as she ducks through the crowd. By the time I reach her, she’s at the main gate.

  “Please, slow down.” I catch her hand and press it to my chest. “When will I see you again?”

  “I don’t know.” She gives me a helpless shrug. “I have rehearsals, I don’t know when I can get away ...”

  “Thursday, we’ll be back in Piazza Navona,” I tell her. “Come find me.”

  I see a cab approaching on the street, so I lift my fingers to my lips and sound a piercing whistle. It stops. Annalise hurries over and dives inside, before I can even kiss her goodbye.

  “Goodnight, Annalise,” I call after her. The driver pulls away. Her face is framed in the window, pale and beautiful, an angel sent to tempt me.

  To torment me.

  “Sweet dreams.”

  Ten.

  Annalise

  Even though I expect the entire dorm to be awake and waiting for me when I get back, the building is dark and still. I sneak back up to my room without any sign of danger, but as I slide into bed, sleep is the last thing on my mind.

  Raphael...

  My heart races, even here in the dark. If I close my eyes again, I can almost pretend I’m back at the party, dancing with Raphael. Feeling his body, the movement rolling through me.

  The heat of his wet mouth caressing my tender breast, his tongue driving me crazy with desire…

  I roll over and let out a silent scream of frustration into my pillow.

  What is this? The fierce excitement burning in my veins. I feel consumed, as if my body has been taken over by some foreign force, sending all other thoughts scattered from my brain and leaving me with only pure need.

  Fire raging in my bloodstream. A damp ache between my thighs.

  Is this what people feel all the time? How am I supposed to function, to focus, now that I know that he is out there in the city somewhere? That he might be thinking about me, feeling this raw craving.

  “Let me teach you… I’ll show you a pleasure like you’ve never known…”

  His tempting words echo in my mind, until finally, the first light of dawn creeps through the windows, and exhaustion claims me at last.

  His lessons have already begun.

  I’ve barely slept a couple of hours when the alarm cruelly blasts through the room, jolting me awake. I stretch, groggy, as the wisps of sleep fade from my mind. For a moment it feels like the party was just a dream—flashes of movement and light, Raphael’s face, his eyes burning with passion—and then I see my crumpled, wine-stained blouse on the floor and it all comes flooding back.

  The party was no dream. It was real, I was there.

  He kissed me. And so much more…

  I bolt upright in bed. The shower is already running, and both my roommates’ beds are empty.

  “Hello, Cinderella.” The door opens and Rosalie enters, dressed in workout gear from her morning run. “What time did you get in?”

  “Too late.” I grimace, feeling the ache of tiredness still heavy in my limbs. “Was everything OK? Did anyone come to check on us?”

  “No, all clear.” Rosalie gives me a careful look. “You were lucky though, anything could have happened.”

  I cringe. It wasn’t just my own neck I was risking last night: it was Karla and Rosalie’s too. They would have been in just as much trouble if anyone discovered I was gone. “I’m sorry,” I tell her, “I really didn’t mean to put you guys on the line.”

  “Never mind that!” The bathroom door opens, and Karla comes out, wrapped in a towel. “Tell us everything! Was he there? Was he hot? Did you make sweet, sweet love all night long?”

  “Karla!” I throw a pillow at her, blushing. “I only just met the guy!”

  “Never stopped me,” she winks.

  “We’re going to miss breakfast,” I deflect, leaping out of bed.

  Karla pouts. “Fine, but I want all the details. Leave nothing out.”

  We dress and grab our things, and head down the street to the cafeteria we’re sharing with students at an American college here.

  “Is that bacon?” Karla moans pathetically, as we shuffle down the line. “Oh God, it’s bacon. And eggs. And sausage.”

  She lets out a little whimper, looking like a puppy-dog eyeing a treat as we pass the steaming hot food station. I don’t say a word, taking my usual plate of fruit and fat-free yogurt, but I can’t help but give an envious look to the other students around us, loading their plates without a thought.

  I was twelve when my mom first set a small silver scale on the kitchen counter and showed me how to weigh the portions of food, right down to the handful of almonds she gave me as an afternoon snack. A dancer had to be slender, she told me. I had to leap and soar as if I weighed nothing at all, and I couldn’t very well do that with an extra ring of padding around my waist.

  I remember looking in the mirror that night, anxiously pinching at the baby fat still on my small body, imag
ining my partner straining to lift me up onstage. She was right—a dancer’s instrument is her body, and mine had to be perfect.

  I had to be perfect.

  And for a few years, I was. My baby fat melted away, and with training, and our careful diets, I hit my teens with a perfect dancer’s build: lean, muscular, and lithe. I remember overhearing my mom, talking smugly with some other dance moms after rehearsals. “Of course, we don’t have to worry about Annalise’s figure,” she said proudly. “She has discipline, she doesn’t let herself go.”

  I thought it was simple. Then puberty hit, late for me, and suddenly, all the willpower in the world couldn’t stop the weight creeping on, new curves developing where once I’d been so slim. The scales went back on the kitchen counter, mom designed me a brutal diet plan, I cut out everything except the most necessary fuel, but it made no difference. Now, I feel like I’m always ten pounds away from my former body; ten pounds between me and the effortless grace I used to know.

  Ten pounds from perfection.

  “Tell me how it tastes,” Karla is ordering Rosalie, watching her bite self-consciously into a sugar-dusted pastry as I take a seat beside them. “I want you to describe it, every piece.”

  “I thought you wanted to know about last night,” I interject, changing the subject the only way I can.

  “Ooh, yes,” Karla whirls around to me. “Spill!”

  I take a breath, trying to find a way to describe the night. “It was... magical.”

  “So you did do it!” Karla announces triumphantly.

  “Keep it down!” I hush her, panicked. “And no, as I said, I only just met the guy. We talked,” I add. “And we danced. And... we kissed.”

  I blush, certain she can see through me. But maybe Karla doesn’t think I’m the kind of girl to stumble back against the wall and surrender to pleasure, because she doesn’t press me.

  “So what now?” Karla asks, biting into her apple. “Are you going to see him again?”

  I deflate. “I don’t know.”

  In the bright light of day, reality comes crashing in. I’m here in Rome for a reason, to dance. To be the best. Sneaking off to meet Raphael again would risk everything, and besides, where could it possibly lead? I’m only here for six weeks, then it’s back to New York and my life filled with classes and rehearsals. There’s no future for us—even if he wanted there to be one. Which I don’t know. Because I barely know anything about him at all.

  I realize with a shock that we barely even had a conversation. What kind of girl does that make me?

  Wanton. Wild. Adventurous.

  Or slutty?

  “Don’t look so glum.” Rosalie sends me a comforting smile. “It sounds like you had a wonderful night. That’s something, right?”

  “Right,” I echo, but it already feels too far away. Just a dream, a glimpse of something I might never taste again.

  The girls take up the conversation, chatting idly about backstage gossip and dinner plans while I pick at my food, downcast. I try to remind myself that Raphael would only be a distraction, anyway, but I can still picture the look in his eyes as we danced together last night; the expression on his face as he lowered his mouth and claimed me. I’ve never seen anyone look at me the way he did, with such intensity and sensual passion.

  My phone buzzes loudly, and I look down to see it’s Mom calling. I feel a prick of guilt, as if she could sense me thinking about something other than ballet from all the way across the globe.

  “I’ll see you at the studio,” I tell Karla, rising to my feet.

  “Don’t be late, we’ve got partnering, and you know the last one in will get stuck with Andre,” she says, naming one of the male dancers.

  “You’re too mean,” I protest. “He’s a great dancer.”

  “Yeah, well he could use a great mouthwash.” Karla wrinkles her face in disgust.

  I answer my phone, weaving my way out of the cafeteria. “Hey, Mom.”

  “Hi, sweetheart, I haven’t heard from you. You were supposed to call last night.”

  “I was?” I flush. The thought of the party and Raphael sent everything spinning from my mind. “Sorry, I was... rehearsing late,” I lie. “I forgot.”

  I exit the building onto a side street. Rome is awake, traffic noise sounding along with the distant ring of church bells.

  “Good.” Her voice is steely. “You need all the practice you can get. I talked to Deirdre in the office at the company, and she says they’ll be casting soon.”

  “Next week,” I admit. “But Mom, the competition is pretty fierce,” I add, scared. “There are a lot of good dancers here.”

  “There will always be good dancers.” Mom’s voice is scathing. “Better dancers, more disciplined. That’s why you can’t relax, even for a second. I’m counting on you, Annalise. Don’t let me down.”

  I stay silent, guilty. If mom ever found out where I’d really been last night, I don’t know what she’d do.

  “Have you been working on your solos?” Mom demands. “Your footwork is always sloppy in your Odette routine,” she says, naming one of the trickiest pieces of all, a dance from Swan Lake that’s been getting the better of me all year.

  “I was thinking,” I start, in a quiet voice, “maybe I shouldn’t use that for the audition. Maybe I should do something I know better, the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy, perhaps, or—”

  “Don’t be a baby,” Mom cuts me off. “If you’re going to win the solo, you have to dazzle them. Have you been slacking off?” she demands. “I told you, some of the girls will be running around, sight-seeing and staying out late. You can’t let them pull your focus away from what matters. This is your last chance, remember?”

  I stop, my blood running cold.

  She’s never said that before. Deep down, I’ve known it was true ever since she produced my ticket and told me I was coming here, but it’s different to hear her say it out loud.

  My last chance.

  If I mess this up, if I don’t win one of those solos, then my ballet career is as good as over. Sure, they’ll keep me around another year, in the back of the corps de ballet, just another face in the crowd. But we all know a ballerina has a limited shelf life, and if you’re not moving up the company ladder, sooner or later, you’ll be moving out. From there, it’s a slow slide, to minor companies, touring smaller cities, until finally, you admit defeat and wind up teaching, or quit ballet entirely, just another dancer who couldn’t make the cut.

  As if she can hear my fears, Mom speaks up again. “For God’s sake, Annalise, I’ve practically handed this to you on a platter. Do you realize how lucky you are? I had to fight my way to the top, and you’re just sitting back and letting it all slide by.”

  I stop listening, feeling a sick knot in my chest. I hate it when she does this, makes me feel so guilty. I know that if she could, she would trade places with me in a heartbeat. Jump on the next flight, and come out here, relive her whole career all over again. But she can’t, all she can do is give me everything she’s learned, coach me to be the very best I can be.

  But what if I don’t want this anymore?

  Eleven.

  It’s hard to describe what it feels like when I dance.

  Last year, a documentary crew came to film the company. Mom pulled her usual strings and got me time in front of the camera. I remember sitting there, carefully posed in my leotard and pointe shoes, the bright lights beaming at my face, everyone waiting for me to speak.

  But what could I say?

  That’s the thing about dance, it’s beyond words. The movement, the feeling of getting the steps just right: when the painstaking choreography fits together so perfectly, I can’t even feel the individual tiny actions, just the gorgeous flow as I lose myself completely in the story and the music, falling into another world until I live and breathe and exist only as a rush of motion; powerful, focused.

  Free.

  But the truth is, it’s getting harder for me to dance like that. I can perfor
m a dozen times, and lose myself like that only once or twice. I try to fall, to surrender, but that only makes it worse. It’s like I’m trapped in my own mind, too aware of each and every muscle in my body, and the perfection I need to hit to make it right. A ballet is like a winding stack of dominos: from the very first step, everything should unfold as natural and easy as breathing. But if you miss just one step, a split second, a heartbeat in time, the whole sequence falls apart.

  But those moments it all comes together ... That’s when I feel it, a power like no other, beating through my body, like I could take flight, right there on the stage. It’s a drug, a shot of pure joy, and the longer I go between hits, the more I crave it, need it, desperately fight to get back there, in that perfect zone, where the movements roll off my body and my feet are made of stardust, golden and bright. All the work and the criticism, the pain and insecurities, they melt away, and I finally feel whole again, like I’m the person I’m meant to be.

  Like I’m worthy.

  Twelve.

  “Well, you sure ate your Wheaties today.” Karla gives me a sidelong look as we drag our tired asses down the stairs after rehearsals. “Where did that come from? I’ve never seen you leap so high.”

  “Do you think Gilbert saw?” I ask eagerly. I could drop dead from exhaustion, but my whole body is bathed in a warm glow of achievement, from one of the best rehearsal sessions I’ve had in weeks.

  “Hell yes,” she replies.

  “Even I saw you,” Rosalie laughs on my other side. “And I don’t even know what it was you were doing. I just know it looked amazing.”

  The other dancers shoot me envious looks as we file out, and Lucia looks like she wishes I’d drop dead.

  “I’m surprised you have the energy,” Lucia says as she passes me. “You look so… tired. But then, with the curfew, you would have slept the whole night through.”

  I look up, panicked. What does she know?

  “Of course, if you did go out, that would be a major infraction,” Lucia continues. She gives me a pointed look. “Why, it could even mean they threw you off the residency entirely.”