His Dancer by Darcy Rose
Ace
The girl eats shyly as if she's afraid to meet my eyes. I'm a fucking idiot. Or rather, my men are. They should've checked to make sure they'd taken the right woman, but no—they'd made the mistake of taking this one, and now it's my responsibility to figure out what to do with her.
I watch as her full lips close around one of her fingers as she sucks some of the crumbs off the tip. Fuck. I should send her away right now. Cara is a distraction. A mistake. A complication I do not need.
She shifts forward in her seat as she takes another bite of the sandwich I had one of my men bring for her. As she does, the white shirt I'd thrust her way after figuring out that she wasn't who I was expecting gapes slightly open. I told her I didn't want her greasy-smelling work clothes on my furniture, but that was a lie.
I could've let her put her clothes back on, but I'd wanted this—to see this strange creature in something I owned, almost as if forcing her to dress in my things marks her as mine as well. I like that—I like it a fucking lot.
If she realizes that she's flashing me a hefty dose of her skin, she doesn't seem to care. Her slight breasts are bare under the fabric. Her pointed nipples rubbing against the front of the shirt. She's a paradox, that's for sure. Timid and scared, yet there's no denying her body's reactions to me.
I tilt my head to the side, continuing to examine my new prisoner.
"Are you going to keep watching me?" she asks suddenly.
My eyebrows rise. "Does it bother you?"
Without looking at me, she lifts her shoulders in a shrug. "It's just … a little weird."
I fight a smirk. When I don't answer her, she sets her sandwich down and tips her head up, her eyes finally meeting mine. "Why do I have to stay here? Now that you know I'm not Leanna, why can’t you just let me go home?"
No.It's my immediate reaction. I cannot let this girl go. I don't want to let her go. The logical reason escapes me. Perhaps there is no logic behind my desire. I clear my throat and shift my gaze away from hers as I speak.
"Tell me about yourself," I say instead.
"W-What?" She sounds shocked. "Why do you want to know about me?"
My attention falls back on her face. With slow movements, I sit forward and reach for the remainder of her sandwich. I lift it, and her eyes follow its path as I turn it and take a bite, my teeth sinking past the bread, meat, and cheese. Then I hold it out toward her. "Bite," I order.
As if entranced, Cara's body lists forward. Her eyes remain locked on mine as her lips part and skim against my fingers as she follows my command. Electricity races through my skin where her lips brushed against me. I set the sandwich down and then lift my thumb—performing the same act I'd watched her do not but a few minutes before. I close my mouth over my thumb and suck off the remainder of the crumbs as well as the taste of her lips.
I sit back again and flick my fingers at her. "Speak."
Something flashes in her eyes, an irritation, but it disappears a moment later, and she rips the sandwich up from her plate and bites into it again harshly. I chuckle darkly. If I had to guess, she only did it to delay giving me what I want. Her words. Her answers. Her story. I want it all.
After she finishes chewing and swallowing her latest bite, Cara tips her head down and stares at her plate. "I'm no one important," she says. "Like I told you before, I don't have a brother. I'm an only child."
"And your parents?" I ask.
She stiffens as if the subject is a sore matter and just shakes her head.
I hum in the back of my throat. "What do you like to do for fun?" I press.
Cara's eyes flash back to mine, and she gives me an incredulous look.
"What?" I ask.
"What is this?" she asks. "Are we playing twenty questions or something? Like a date?"
A date?I think. Interesting. It's not such a bad idea.
"And if it is?"
Her face goes slack, and I can’t help but laugh. "Just answer the question ... Cara." The sound of her name rolling off my tongue has an interesting effect. I haven't said it since she told me she wasn't Leanna. It's a nice name. It's a sweet name, very much like I'm thinking of the woman in front of me. I wonder just how sweet she'll be when I get her under me. Will her pussy taste like strawberries or something even sweeter?
"I used to... I mean, it wasn't for fun—well, it was fun for me. I mean—" I watch as Cara cuts herself off and closes her eyes as she sets her sandwich down and scrubs a hand down her face, inhaling and exhaling sharply. When she opens them back up, she doesn't look at me. She focuses on her lap. "I used to dance."
"You're a dancer?"
"I said I used to be," she clarifies.
A dancer,I think. I could see that. She has the body of a dancer. Lithe and slender, a beautiful figure. Then there was the scar on her leg. "Did you stop because of the car accident?" I inquire.
She nods. "I had to do some physical therapy after..." she starts, drifting off and turning her face away. I don't like that. In a split second, I'm halfway across the table, my fingers locking onto her chin and bringing her face back around so I can see it clearly. Unshed tears fill her eyes with pain and shame. That, too, is a beautiful expression on her face, though it does make my chest tighten.
"Tell me more," I command.
She blinks, and the tears fade. "More?" she repeats. I nod, releasing her chin now that she's staring back at me. I like it when she meets my gaze. I can feel my cock jump in my pants. I want her—underneath me, on top of me, all around me. But more than that, I'm curious about the rest of her, which is important to her. Perhaps I can use it to keep her here.
"I wanted to be a dancer," she continues. "Like the kind you see in music videos and on stages. They're in the background, for the most part, so they don't get the fame, but they get to do what they love, and they always look so amazing. I trained for a long time." Her hand drifts down to her lap or, more specifically, to her leg—the one with the scar. "It ended up being just a dream, though. After the accident kind of ruined any chance I had at becoming a professional dancer, I decided to work my way through school."
"Do you like school?" I ask curiously.
She shrugs. "It's not bad," she admits. "But it's expensive. I don't make enough at the restaurant to pay the tuition fees, and scholarships are kind of scarce right now."
An idea forms in my mind. Dancing. School. How I can keep her close. "Do you still like to dance?" I ask.
She frowns at me. "Of course," she says. "I never stopped liking it, and I can still do some. I made it part of my physical therapy, but I can't do what the professionals do. Not the harder stuff. Not with my injury."
I shake my head. "That's fine."
She blinks and raises a brow. "It is?"
Setting my elbows on the edge of the table between us, I steeple my fingers together and stare at her over them. "I'd like to offer you an opportunity, Cara," I say, choosing my words carefully.
Cara's head tilts to the side as she eyes me warily. "An opportunity?" she repeats my words with a caution that I can't help but smile at.
"Yes." I consider her. "I would like to pay for your college and in exchange..." I wait for a beat as her eyes widen before I finish. "I'd like to see you dance, Cara. Dance for me.”
