First Position (Dirty Dancing #1) Page 7

  “Maybe some other time,” I blurt awkwardly. “I should really get back.”

  “Oh.” Raphael’s face changes, smoothing into a polite mask. “Of course. I can walk you back,” he adds. “We’re not far from your dorms.” He stands up, and stiffly gestures to the left.

  My heart drops. I’ve screwed it up now, I know I have.

  We walk in silence. My mind is racing, desperately trying to think of a way to explain. How do I tell him that I want this too, but we’re moving way to fast?

  Way to go, Annalise. Now he thinks you never want to see him again.

  “You’re just up ahead here,” Raphael nods.

  “So...” I swallow. “I guess this is goodbye.”

  Raphael looks at me evenly. “That’s up to you. I meant what I said,” he murmurs, moving closer. His hands slide around my waist, and suddenly, there’s nothing in the world but his blue eyes, piercing deep past every one of my defenses.

  “I can teach your body everything,” Raphael’s voice drops, husky with desire. His hands slowly drift to my hips, tugging me closer, until our bodies are pressed together. Intimate.

  “I will teach you to move, and dance, the way you never have before, sweet Annalise.” His words caress me, rolling like molasses down my spine. “The oldest dance of all. But you have to decide. Do you want this?”

  His eyes search mine. I can feel his muscular thighs through our clothing, the heat radiating from his body. Every part of me is screaming a wanton chorus.

  Yes.

  I gulp, and then, before I can even think about what I’m doing, I reach up on my tiptoes, and land a kiss on his lips.

  Raphael’s whole body stiffens under my touch. I lurch back.

  Oh God, what have I done?

  I pull away, but then I feel pressure on my waist. Raphael is still holding me. He yanks me back again his body. “What was that?” he demands

  “I’m sorry,” I babble. “You said… so I… That was yes. I mean, yes. I want this.”

  I pause, collecting my thoughts again, and when I speak, it’s determined.

  “I want you.”

  Raphael’s eyes flash dark with possession, and then he’s pushing me back against the wall and covering my lips with his own.

  I melt into him. If the kiss the other night was blazing, and our moment in the park was teasing, this is dangerously sensual. Raphael’s lips are cool on mine, slow and bold. His tongue slides into my mouth, exploring, probing, and all the while his hands stroke across my back, bringing me closer to the heat of his solid, muscular body.

  I lose track of time, of the world, of my very name. All that matters is the taste of him, the relentless seduction of his mouth, and the slow-burn fire snaking through my veins. I kiss him back, hesitant at first, but then bolder: reaching my hands to run them through his hair, nibbling gently on his lower lip. Raphael lets out a low groan at the pressure, then pulls away, leaving a shock of cool air where his body was pressed against me.

  I blink back to reality, breathless and undone.

  “I...” I blink, my head spinning. “I really have to go.” I turn to check the street, the entrance to the dorms just down the block, and then I freeze.

  Mademoiselle. And half the troupe, gathered out front, about to leave for dinner.

  About to catch me in the act.

  Fourteen.

  I reel back, grabbing Raphael’s hand and dragging him around the corner. My heart pounds with panic. Did anyone see us? What if somebody looked? Oh God ... I picture what I must have looked like on the corner just now, making out with Raphael like the world was about to end.

  “What is it?” Raphael asks. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  I peer around the corner, but the group isn’t moving. “My company,” I explain. “I can’t be seen with you.”

  “You aren’t allowed to date?” Raphael stops. “But you’re an adult, surely they can’t say.”

  “No! I mean, yes,” I admit, still panicking. “But not me, not right now. Look, it’s complicated, I’ll explain later. I just need to get back inside without anyone seeing me.”

  Raphael doesn’t seem reassured, but he thinks for a moment. “Is there a back entrance, any way in from the street?”

  My mind races. “The balcony!” I exclaim. “We’re on the first floor, maybe there’s a fire escape.”

  “Come on.” Raphael takes my hand, and leads me down the back alleyway behind the building. I’ve only ever seen it from above, the view from our room, but now I look up, searching the windows and small ledges until I find our balcony: Rosalie’s delicate nightgowns hanging from the railing to dry.

  “Up there,” I point. “But there’s no way up.”

  “There’s always a way.” Raphael strides forwards and pulls on the trellis that’s fixed to the wall. Vines and flowers twist up the side of the building, threading in and out of the thick wooden frame. “Here, this is solid, it goes right to your room.”

  “I can’t climb that!” I yelp.

  Raphael takes my hand, giving me a cocky, devil-may-care grin. “Sure you can. I’ll give you a leg up.”

  I pause. It’s clear he’s done this a dozen times—scrambling places he’s not supposed to go, on some reckless adventure. But me? There’s nothing reckless about my life.

  Then my phone buzzes with a text. Karla.

  We’re all waiting. Where r u?

  I look up at the trellis again and gulp. “OK.”

  Raphael puts his hands together to make a step. I use his shoulders as leverage and clamber up. He lifts me higher, effortlessly, like I weigh nothing at all, until I’m gripping hold of the trellis. “You got it?” Raphael checks.

  “Uh huh.” I find a foothold, and cautiously climb higher. It’s not so far, I see: only a few feet now between me and safety. I draw level with the balcony, and reach out, stretching with one hand to grasp a hold of the railing. I feel the solid iron under my fingertips and relax. Home free.

  Suddenly, the trellis gives way, slipping several inches under my weight. My body lurches down, my foot still trapped in the frame. A stab of pain shoots up through my ankle, and I let out a cry.

  “Annalise?” Raphael calls. “Hold on!”

  The pain in my ankle throbs, white-hot. I gasp for air, tears stinging in my eyes. But there’s no time to recover; I can feel the trellis already creaking again under my weight. I clench my jaw and slowly lever my foot free, every movement sending fresh pain splintering through my ankle.

  Oh God. My ankle!

  Fear whirls in my mind as I grip tighter to the balcony, using all my strength to lift myself up again and pull myself over the railing. I land heavily on the other side, collapsing to the ground with another sharp burst of pain.

  “Annalise?” Raphael calls again, but I barely register his voice through the panic flooding my system. I carefully ease my sandal off, sending up a silent prayer.

  Don’t let it be serious. Please, don’t let it be serious.

  I slowly take off the shoe and stop, my heart falling. My ankle is already swelling up, red and bruised. It still hurts like hell, but I force myself to stand, trying to put weight on it again.

  It’s too much. I whimper from the pain, leaning heavily on the railing to take the pressure off. Disappointment and fear crash through me. If I can’t even stand, how am I supposed to dance tomorrow? To leap through the air, and land with ease, to go up on the tips of my toes and turn a dozen perfect arabesques?

  Everything I’ve worked for, ripped away in an instant.

  How could you have been so stupid?! And for what—some man?

  “Annalise!” Raphael’s voice comes again. “Talk to me. Are you OK?”

  I finally turn to look down at him, waiting in the alleyway below. He looks gorgeous down there—gorgeous, and tempting, and deadly. Now I know why my mom warned me to stay away from guys, why she said they’d only spell disaster for my career. I let myself be seduced, I thought I could have it
all, and now look where that’s gotten me: twisting my ankle before the biggest audition of my life.

  I’ve ruined everything—and it’s all my fault.

  “No, I’m not OK!” I cry, sobs coming, hot and fierce in the back of my throat. “I twisted my ankle. It could even be broken!”

  “Oh God.” He looks stricken. As a dancer too, he must realize exactly what a tragedy this is. “I’m so sorry. Does it hurt? Are you in much pain?”

  “It doesn’t matter about the pain!” I sob, clutching onto the balcony railing for support. “What matters is I can’t dance on it. The audition for solos is tomorrow. I may as well pack up and go home right now.”

  “Wait there.” Raphael moves forward, testing the trellis for his weight. “I’m coming up.”

  “No!” I cry, reeling back. “You’ve done enough!”

  He stops, looking hurt. “Annalise—”

  “Just go!” I cry, trying to hold back the tears, but I can’t. The pain in my ankle sends shards of agony up through me with every slight pressure, and the terrible realization of what I’ve done is even worse. “Please, Raphael, go.”

  He pauses. “It could be all right,” he urges me. “I’ve had sprains before. If you bandage it, keep it on ice for a few days ...”

  “I don’t have a few days,” I swallow. Now that the panic is over, I just feel the crushing weight of disappointment. “The auditions are tomorrow,” I tell him in a dull voice. “This is it for me, it’s over.”

  “Don’t say that.” Raphael’s face is full of sympathy, and it’s too much for me to take. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be in this position; if he hadn’t been so damn sexy, so utterly seductive.

  “Go!” I order him again, my voice harsh.

  “I’ll come see you tomorrow,” he promises, but I shake my head.

  “No. I can’t see you again. Please, don’t come back.” And with a final look at him—at the wounded look in his dark eyes—I turn away, and limp inside the room.

  It’s dark and empty here, no sound but my own ragged sobs. I fall onto the bed and weep.

  Raphael

  I walk away, but I know, I won’t stay gone.

  She’s scared. She’s hurt. Even a small injury would wreck her career. I hate myself for risking so much. She’s the most precious thing in the world to me already, and I’ll do anything to keep her safe.

  Tomorrow, I swear. Tomorrow I will return. And no matter what, I’ll keep coming back, until she admits the fire that blazes between us; the passion that is waiting to be unleashed.

  I’ve only tasted a moment of her pleasure. Felt the exquisite ache of her body, seen the daze of lust and wonder in her eyes.

  I will uncage the wild beast within her. I will free her – and tame her body under my command. Every inch of flesh, every moment of ecstasy. I will show her the world.

  I will possess her. Deep and hard. Slow and steady, until she’s slick and gasping in my arms.

  My sweet Annalise…

  Our dance has only just begun.

  **

  TO BE CONTINUED…

  What happens next? Annalise and Raphael’s dance of seduction continues in SECOND POSITION, out 11/12.

  DIRTY DANCING #2

  SECOND POSITION

  Dancing with the perfect partner is like the most exquisite climax of your life.

  Can you feel it? The way our bodies rock together. My hands pinning you down, my mouth sliding over your hot, damp skin. Each hard thrust driving deep to that place you never dreamed possible. Every breathless cry hurtling you closer to the edge.

  Beyond words. Beyond thought. Beyond reason.

  Free.

  I’d all but given up on perfection like that. Until I met her. Annalise.

  Her body is pure motion; her spirit, a caged bird just waiting to be set free.

  I will claim her. I will possess her. I will teach her the most passionate dance of all.

  *Part two of the sexy, seductive romance serial*

  THE DIRTY DANCING SERIES:

  FIRST POSITION

  SECOND POSITION

  THIRD POSITION -- COMING 12/1

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  Twitter.com/melody_grace_

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  Also by Melody Grace, discover the Beachwood Bay series.

  UNREQUITED

  Alicia isn’t the kind of girl to kiss a total stranger up against the wall -- no matter how devastatingly sexy he is. But reeling from a broken heart, she runs straight into the arms of Dex Callahan: rock star, bad boy, and the most seductive man she’s ever known.

  Dex is looking for distraction, at any price. The innocent redhead is just what he needs to keep his demons at bay -- but one taste of her sweetness isn’t enough. He needs to possess her, body and soul.

  Two searching hearts. One night to discover the passion of a lifetime. Dex is determined to show Alicia the pleasure she’s been denied, but can she let go of her heartache and take a risk on the unknown? Find out in the sizzling new novella from New York Times bestselling author, Melody Grace!

  *This book contains adult situations and explicit content. 17+*

  Available now!

  THE BEACHWOOD BAY SERIES:

  BOOK 1: UNTOUCHED (Emerson & Juliet’s story begins - novella)

  BOOK 2: UNBROKEN (Emerson & Juliet’s story continues)

  BOOK 3: UNTAMED HEARTS (Brit & Hunter’s story begins - novella)

  BOOK 4: UNAFRAID (Brit & Hunter’s story continues)

  BOOK 5: UNWRAPPED (Lacey & Daniel’s holiday novella)

  BOOK 6: UNCONDITIONAL (Garret & Carina)

  BEACHWOOD BAY: THE CALLAHANS

  BOOK 7: UNREQUITED (Dex & Alicia begin – novella)

  BOOK 8: UNINHIBITED (Dex & Alicia)

  BOOK 9: UNSTOPPABLE (Ryland & Tegan)

  BOOK 10: UNEXPECTEDLY YOURS (holiday story)

  -- DECEMBER 2014

  BOOK 11: UNWRITTEN

  –- JANUARY 2015

  BOOK 12: UNFORGETTABLE

  –- MARCH 2015

  Author’s note: each book can be read as a stand-alone story, but you'll enjoy reading the other Beachwood Bay books, too.

  HANSEL 1

  A Sensual Fairy Tale

  ELLA JAMES

  PROLOGUE

  Leah

  I’m trying not to cry. I really am.

  I stop mid-stride, in the middle of my room, and wrap my arms around myself. I’ve been pacing for several hours, following a trajectory that has me crossing the room horizontally both ways. If drawn out on a map, my path would look like an hour glass. This is fitting, I think.

  I tuck my chin against my chest and try to think of something else. Of someplace else.

  I’m luckier than most of the other people in the rooms that line this hall, because I have an almost-photographic memory. When I want to, and sometimes even when I don’t, I can see moments from my past as clear as if they were real photographs.

  I’m wearing a brown t-shirt and sweat pants and swaying on the fuzzy, green rug that covers most of my floor, but behind my shut eyes I see sunlight glittering on the tiny stream that runs through the backyard of my childhood home. The three of us splash through it, holding hands as we laugh and spin, our rainbow-sequined swim suits almost blinding in the light. Our grins are wide and carefree, our blonde hair spinning behind us as we dance under a smooth, blue sky.

  My shoulders rock with a sob I swallow down, and another image appears; this one almost meaningless in comparison to the last. I see the hallway of the mall where I used to hang out in seventh grade with my “just Leah” friends, Maura and Kaye. Low, popcorn ceiling, beige-brown carpet with dark brown, triangular flecks; kiosks in the middle hawking sparkly cell phone covers I was always wanting; sunlight pouring through the glass ceiling, reflecting off Maura’s oily forehead, making Kaye’s hair look just like fire.


  I open my eyes as I whirl to face the wall to my right. It, like the three other, is painted to depict a forest in autumn, but this wall also sports a realistic painting of a cottage in a clearing. Its roof reaches to where the wall runs into ceiling. Brush-painted grass stretches out along the baseboard, underneath a porch painted so well it looks like real wood boards. This is the witch’s house. If you look closely, you can see it’s made of food, not brick and stone and wood. If you look closely at the walls that sport just forest, you can see a trail of pebbles, and the occasional breadcrumb.

  Mother painted it. She painted all our rooms, or so she says.

  The witch’s house goes away when I close my eyes, replaced by a still shot centered on a sloppy, pink and white birthday cake. Three pink “5”s sit crookedly atop it—one for Laura, one for Lana, one for me. Settled around our polished oak dining table, my family is grinning as they sing the birthday song. My mom and dad look over the three of us with pride, Mom holding a camcorder, Dad waiting with a knife to cut the cake. Laura’s mouth is open wide, and I know she’s singing a little too loud; Lana’s hand is raised up to her ear, probably because she’s tucking a strand of hair behind it. That’s her thing. Or was.

  The memory of her dainty fingers closing around a strand of silky white-blonde hair hurts more than you might think. Those little things that make someone who they are…I find that’s what I miss the most.

  I lunge across the shaggy rug and throw myself onto the cot pushed against my room’s windowless back wall. With my body spread over the filthy green sheet and my face buried in between my arms, I give in to my need to cry.