Chapter 22
Reese
Iwake up with my thighs still trembling, and my panties soaked. Again. Third fucking time since the concert two nights ago. Every time I close my eyes, I feel Ramsey's fingers inside me, his voice in my ear telling me I'm his good girl.
"Fuck," I groan into my pillow, pressing my face into it to muffle the sound.
I roll over, grabbing my phone from the nightstand.
Quarter til eleven. Shit. I was supposed to be at the studio an hour ago to work on my solo piece.
My body feels wound tight, like a rubber band ready to snap.
I need to dance, need to move, need to do anything but lie here thinking about Ramsey's hands on me.
Since that night at the concert, he’s been giving me space. Carried me to my bedroom, put me in bed and kissed my forehead and then told me to process shit.
It feels like he's avoiding me. And it's driving me fucking insane.
I throw back the covers and grab my gym bag, shoving in my dance shoes, a change of clothes, and a towel. My body's on autopilot while my mind replays those moments in the dark corner of the pit, the way his fingers felt stretching me open, his growled promises in my ear.
"Get it together," I mutter to myself, yanking on leggings and one of Ramsey's hoodies I've stolen. It hangs off my shoulder, smelling like him, which doesn't fucking help my situation at all.
I pull out my phone and send a quick text.
Going to the studio. Be back later.
I don't expect an answer. Ramsey has morning practice, and Coach Kingston would literally murder anyone who had their phone on the ice. But my phone buzzes almost instantly.
My Stalker
Take the Tahoe. Truck's making a weird noise.
I roll my eyes. He's not supposed to have his phone during practice. Is he seriously risking getting benched just to tell me which car to take?
Aren't you supposed to be practicing?
Take the fucking Tahoe, Reese. Keys on the hook.
I stare at the phone, heat pooling low in my belly at his commanding tone. Even through text, he manages to sound like he did that night—authoritative, demanding, fucking hot.
I like the truck better.
Tahoe. Now.
The three dots appear again.
Please.
I snort. That must have physically pained him to add.
Fine. But only because you said please.
I grab the Tahoe keys from the hook by the door, still annoyed but also weirdly turned on by Ramsey's bossiness.
The drive to the studio is a blur—my mind keeps replaying those moments in the dark, his fingers inside me, his voice in my ear.
By the time I pull into the parking lot, I'm so wound up I could scream.
The studio is empty when I arrive, exactly what I need.
I flip on the lights and connect my phone to the sound system, scrolling through my playlists until I find one labeled "ANGER MANAGEMENT.
" Heavy bass, screaming vocals, the kind of music that makes you want to throw your body around until something breaks.
I toss Ramsey's hoodie onto the bench, leaving me in just my black crop top and high-waisted leggings. The studio mirrors reflect back a girl I barely recognize.
"Process, my ass," I mutter, hitting play on the first song.
The music crashes through the speakers, and I start to move. No warm-up, no technique, just raw fucking emotion. My body knows what to do even if my brain is short-circuiting. I spin and leap, throwing my weight into each movement like I'm trying to break through the floor.
My reflection glares back at me as I drop into a deep lunge, back arched, sweat already beading on my skin. The music pounds through me, each beat matching the throb between my legs that hasn't gone away since that night.
And now I’m mad at him for another reason because he was right. I did need to process, and he knew it. Again, thinking about me first and himself last and I just was too wound up to see through that.
I execute a series of fouettés, each turn sharper than the last, my right leg whipping around my body like a weapon. One, two, three…I keep going until I lose count, until my thighs burn and my lungs scream for air.
When I finally stop, chest heaving, I catch my reflection again. My hair is plastered to my forehead with sweat, my crop top clinging to my skin. My nipples are hard, visible through the thin fabric, and I know it's not from the cold.
Then it hits me—that feeling. That prickle at the back of my neck like I'm being watched. I freeze, my body going still while my heart hammers against my ribs.
I can feel him. I can feel his eyes on me, watching me.
The sensation is so strong it makes the hair on my arms stand up. My breathing quickens as I scan the empty studio, looking for any sign of him.
"Ramsey?" I call out, my voice echoing in the empty space.
Nothing. Just the sound of my own heavy breathing and the music still pounding through the speakers.
I turn left, then right, peering into the shadows of the studio. There's no one here—at least no one I can see. But that feeling doesn't go away. That sensation of being watched, of being seen.
"This isn't fucking funny," I say to the empty room, my voice sharper than I intended.
Still nothing.
I walk to the front window, pressing my face against the glass to look out into the parking lot. The Tahoe sits alone in its spot. No truck or bike. No Ramsey. No one at all.
But I know he's watching. He's always watching; he fucking knows everything. It's like he's got some sixth sense when it comes to me.
My eyes land on the small black dome in the corner of the ceiling. The security camera that Ms. Leighton uses to record our sessions, to go over technique with each dancer.
Of course. That's how he's doing it.
I walk directly beneath the camera, tilting my head up to stare directly into its lens. A slow smile spreads across my face as I realize what this means. He's watching me. Right now. Seeing every bead of sweat, every heaving breath, every curve of my body as I dance.
"You probably hacked it," I say to the camera, my voice full of accusation and amusement. I raise my middle finger to my mouth, rubbing it slowly around my lips like I'm applying lipstick, making sure to make it wet and shiny. Then I blow him a kiss, winking at the lens. "Fucking phantom."
I stand there for a moment, imagining him on the other end of that feed. Is he at home? At the rink? Wherever he is, I picture his eyes darkening as he watches me, that muscle in his jaw jumping the way it does when he's turned on but trying to control himself.
Well, fuck his control.
I walk over to my phone and switch the playlist. The heavy, angry beats fade away, replaced by something slower, more sensual. The kind of music you fuck to, not fight to.
"You want a show?" I ask the camera, running my hands down my sides. "Let me give you one."
I start to move again, but this time it's different.
This time, every movement is deliberate, designed to tease. I roll my hips slowly, letting my hands trace up my body, fingers skimming over my ribs, brushing the underside of my breasts. I arch my back, pushing my chest out, knowing exactly what I'm doing.
I turn around, bending forward at the waist, my ass on full display in these tight leggings.
I straighten up slowly, letting my hands drag up my thighs, over my ass, up my spine.
The music pulses through me, and I surrender to it, letting it guide my body in ways that would get me in trouble with Ms. Leighton if kids were around.
Sweat drips down between my breasts as I dance, my crop top sticking to my skin. I can feel the heat building inside me, that delicious tension coiling tight. The thought of Ramsey watching me, getting hard for me again makes me fucking dizzy.
"You should be here," I tell the camera, running my tongue across my bottom lip.
I hook my fingers under the hem of my crop top, slowly inching it upward, revealing more of my stomach, the underside of my breasts. Just as I'm about to pull it over my head—
The studio door crashes open so hard it bounces against the wall. Ramsey stands in the doorway, his chest heaving, hair dripping wet like he just got out of the shower. His eyes are wild, fixed on me with an intensity that makes my knees weak.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he growls, crossing the room in three long strides.
Before I can answer, he's on me, his arms boxing me in as he tugs my shirt back down while pushing me backwards. His body cages mine, radiating heat and anger and something else that makes my pulse skyrocket.
"There's still a fucking window, star. You aren't about to show anyone fucking anything. Ever." His voice is low, dangerous, but his hands on my skin are gentle, thumbs brushing against my ribs through the fabric he just pulled down.
"I knew you were watching," I breathe, staring up at his face. Water drips from his hair onto my cheek. "How'd you get here so fast?"
"Of course I was fucking watching. I'm always watching." He bites his lip, the muscle in his jaw jumping as his eyes rake over me. "You think I'd let you come here alone? Think I wouldn't know exactly what you were doing? I was already on my way when you started your little show."
He's still got me backed against the wall, one hand at my waist, the other braced beside my head. I reach up, touching his wet hair, twisting a strand around my finger.
"Your hair's soaked," I murmur, playing with it. "Did you even dry off after your shower?"
"Didn't have time," he grunts, leaning into my touch despite himself.
He backs up and goes to my phone, turning off the music and then grabbing my bag before tossing his hoodie at me.
"Put it on and lets go. I’m following your ass all the way back to the house, and then you can do that little fucking dance you were so intent on doing on my fucking face."
Oh.
Shit.