Pointe of Pride

Chapter 14

Nick had only ever passed out once in his life, when he was eighteen years old and had shown up to a dress rehearsal with a raging flu. It had been his first year in the company, and he’d been too scared to call out sick. He’d danced the first run through of Balanchine’s “Rubies” without incident, but as the orchestra began to play at the top of the second run-through, his vision had swayed and all the blood seemed to drain out of his body. His legs swam and he stumbled, and a second later he was falling, and remembered nothing more until he woke up in the theater’s tiny medical room with an icepack on his forehead.

He wondered if he was about to pass out again now, as he stared at Carly’s discarded shorts on the floor. She hadn’t spoken loudly, but he heard her words echo around the bedroom as if she’d screamed them into a megaphone.

I want to show you.

He pressed his hands a little harder against the doorjamb to ensure that if his legs did give out, if all the blood did in fact drain out of him, he wouldn’t collapse again. On the bed, Carly was playing with the strap of her tank top, rubbing it between her fingers and sliding it over her collarbone. Holding his gaze, she grasped the bottom of it and, arching her back, peeled it off and over her head. He didn’t see where it landed after she dropped it off the bed, and he’d never cared about anything less. She lay back on the pillows in a pair of black boyshort panties and a flimsy-looking pale blue lace bra, and all he could think in that moment was how furious he would be if he did, in fact, pass out. If he missed this, or whatever happened next.

What happened next was that she ran her hands up her thighs, her fingers tracing up her body and snagging gently on the legs of her panties before continuing over her muscled stomach. She broke their shared gaze and closed her eyes, and for a moment he regretted it, until he saw the way she flinched and arched into her own touch as her fingers fluttered over her bare ribcage. She gasped and let out a tiny sigh, and the sound made every cell in his body flare with heat and scream for him to get closer to her. As close as it was possible to be.

He stepped into the room, and by the time he was standing at the end of the bed, Carly’s hands had reached her bra and she was gently squeezing her small breasts, sighing louder now and pressing her head back into the pillow. He stared, trying to take in every mouth-watering detail of this picture, trying to catalogue every shift and pull of her stomach muscles under her pale, freckled skin. But when the fingers of one hand slipped under the lace and he saw the fingers of the other hand pinch at her small, hard nipple through the thin fabric, he knew it was pointless to try to remember. He’d never be able to forget. He would go to his grave with the sound of Carly’s breathy moans, and the stretch of her skin over her ribs as she writhed, etched into his memory.

His erection was pressing against the fly of his shorts, hot and heavy and impossible to ignore. It took all his self-control not to pull down the zipper and touch himself, but he had asked for this. He had asked her to tell him what she wanted, what her body could take, and even though she’d agreed, she had done what she always did: unleashed utter chaos. He heard the sound of his own rapid breath mixing with Carly’s moans, heard the jaw-clenched, strangled sound that escaped him as she extricated her fingers from her bra and slid her thumbs under the waistband of her panties. Carly Montgomery was going to kill him, and he was going to enjoy every second of it.

In a matter of seconds, she’d shed her panties, and he watched, almost shaking with need, as she returned one hand to her breast and ran the middle finger of the other up the inside of her thigh and between her wet, glistening folds. Her groan of relief nearly undid him, and all he wanted was to wrap his hand around his cock, or better yet, wrap her hand around it, but he would not interrupt her. He willed himself to watch, to memorize the way her fingertip circled and dipped in wide sweeps and then in tight, rapid rings. He wanted to learn every step in this dance the first time. And if he couldn’t learn it all by watching, he fully intended to learn the rest by doing.

Her breaths were coming in jagged gasps now, her heels making deep, round imprints in the mattress as she rolled her hips against her hand. His pulse was booming in his ears as he watched her, every inch of his skin hot and tight and desperate to be touched.

“Oh God,” she gasped to the ceiling, and oh God, he didn’t have enough eyes to watch all of her at once. Her hand flickering over the lace, teasing her nipple with the pad of her thumb. Her torso arching, her thighs tensing. Her middle finger rubbing and receding, dancing on her clit. Her beautiful face, twisted and perfect and surrounded by her riot of red curls.

“Fuck, Carly,” he moaned, aching for her release and his own. “I want to see you come.”

She opened her eyes and pulled her head up off the pillow, meeting his eyes with a look of sheer desire. Next time, he decided, through the hot, dense fog of want, he would be the one to put that look on her face.

“Oh God,” she gasped again, and then her mouth opened in a moan of ecstasy, and she shuddered and bucked, writhing and rolling against her hand until the moan became a whimper, and then a sigh.

A ringing silence filled the room, broken only by Carly’s panting and the thunderous sound of Nick’s pulse, which he wouldn’t be surprised if she could hear. He was so hard it hurt, but he didn’t take his eyes off Carly’s. She gave him a sly, flushed smile and removed her hand from between her legs.

“Does that answer your question?” She sat up and pressed her back against the pillows.

All Nick could do was nod. She’d won this round, and he’d never been so happy to lose.

Nick’s nod was restrained and dignified. Well, as dignified as a man could be with his shorts tented by what appeared to be a massive hard-on. Carly gave him another sly smile and raised her eyebrows in invitation.

She’d never touched herself in front of a man before. She wasn’t shy—and if anyone knew that by now, it was the man standing, looking slightly dazed, at the end of her bed—but she’d never imagined doing what she’d just done. Then again, no man had ever asked her how she liked to be touched before touching her. No man had ever understood the truth about her body.

But Nick knew. Nick had Googled it, for Chrissake. And then when Google hadn’t given him all the answers he needed, he’d asked her. And she’d been willing to provide them. For a moment, as she’d been peeling off her shorts and preparing to call his bluff, it had occurred to her that with another man she might have been embarrassed. But Nick Jacobs had already seen the worst of her, so what was there to be embarrassed about?

“Nick? Did that answer your question?”

He nodded vaguely again, and she grinned. “You’re going to have to say it, Nick. With words.”

“You’re impossible,” he breathed, and she let out an evil giggle. Then she scooted to the end of the bed and rose to her knees in front of him.

He pulled her into his arms in an instant, placing one large hand at the back of her neck and the other on her ass, pulling her body against his. She became aware of how almost naked she was, as the fabric of his shorts slid against the damp skin of her bare thighs, and she decided to even things out a little. She seized the bottom of his shirt and tugged it upward, and he leaned back to pull it over his head with one hand, keeping the other hand on her ass and their hips pinned deliciously together.

One he’d tossed the shirt on the floor, he returned his hand to her neck, pulling gently at the roots of her hair. Her clit throbbed in response, but before she could even moan her encouragement, his mouth took hers. His tongue was hot and decisive as it swept between her lips, and it tangled with hers in an urgent dance that only intensified when she ran one hand over his chest and let the other trail up his thigh and over the hot, hard bulge in his shorts.

His body was just as she remembered it from that first day at the beach, all shadows and lines where the muscle shifted under his smooth skin. She let her fingers linger over his stomach, and the lean bunches of muscles over his ribs, and the firm, neatly cut lines of his pecs. All the places ballet had molded and made him, pleasantly softened by retirement. He groaned into her mouth when she ran her fingertips across the deep, muscular channels that disappeared into his shorts, a whisper-light touch that made him grind against her other hand. Taking the crystal-clear hint, she nipped at his lower lip and then set to work undoing his shorts, but a second later, his hand covered hers, stopping her.

“Don’t you want … ?” she asked, punctuating the question with a squeeze of his cock and a quick series of kisses to the place where his neck met his jaw.

“I do,” he groaned, tipping his head back to grant her more access to the tender skin there. “But not yet.”

He moved his hands to her hips and pushed her gently, and she let herself fall backward. In a second, he was on the bed with her, above her, his body bracketing her with heat and muscle as his mouth found hers again. She took the opportunity to run her hands over his back, feeling the sinew shift gloriously under her fingers as he kissed her mouth, her neck, the hollow of her collarbone. She arched under him, hoping and praying his lips would keep moving lower, and he did not disappoint her.

He shifted his body to lie beside her and pulled the lace of her bra aside, and the sound that escaped her when he flicked his tongue over her nipple was one of sheer rapture and relief. He teased the tight, tender skin with his lips and tongue, sending bright, hot sparks of pleasure rocketing through her body and straight to her clit. She gasped for air, eager for more, and once again, he obliged. His other hand ghosted over her rib cage, just as hers had done a few minutes earlier, and then his fingers were on her other breast, the pad of his thumb caressing her nipple through the flimsy fabric. She whimpered and swore in response. Carly had never been the kind of dancer who could pick up choreography simply by watching it. Nick clearly was.

“Don’t stop,” she gasped, and just to make sure he’d understood her, she grasped his wrist and dragged his hand down her stomach. But instead of following her between her legs, his hand stalled at her hip and held tight to the place where her skin stretched over the bone there. He lifted his mouth from her breast, and her eyes flew to his. Before she could ask what was wrong, he spoke.

“I want to stop if it hurts,” he murmured, and her heart flipped over her chest. “I don’t want to hurt you, Carly. If it’s hurting, I want to stop, okay? You have to tell me right away.”

She nodded, struck by the intensity in his gaze. His eyes were dilated and his lips swollen from kissing her, but his mouth was set in a determined line.

“Promise,” he whispered firmly.

“I promise,” she nodded. “Right away.”

He gave her a half smile, and her heart flipped again as he returned his mouth to her nipple. She sighed in relief and took his hand again, guiding it down her body and between her thighs. The sound he made when he touched her for the first time was like nothing she’d ever heard.

“Shit, you’re so wet,” he groaned against her skin, running his middle finger between her folds just the way she’d shown him. The movement sent an electric thrill through her, quickly followed by a hot throb of pleasure as his finger arrived at her clit and began to circle it in an uncanny imitation of what she’d shown him. Pedant, precise, whatever he was, this was perfect. She sighed and arched into his touch, grinding against his hand and chasing the climax that had begun to build the moment he’d started teasing her nipples. His finger sped and slowed, its circles widening and narrowing, and she heard her own breath become ragged and needy.

“Don’t stop,” she moaned again, and this time, he didn’t.

“I won’t stop until you come,” he said, his voice low and husky with need. She could feel his erection pressing against her hip, hard and ready, and her mouth watered at the thought of what she could do to it as soon as she came.

“Fuck, I’m so close,” she gasped, and she snaked her hand in between their bodies to wrap her hand around his cock. The sound of his groan, hot and desperate around her nipple, pushed her over the edge. She bucked frantically against his hand, wishing the glorious, heedless free fall could last forever. But soon it was over, and Nick’s fingers stilled against her, her breath became steady, and normal sensation returned to her limp, exhausted limbs.

She opened her eyes and saw a shaft of golden morning light splayed across the ceiling. Perfect photography light, she thought, but what photograph could ever capture this moment? She gave Nick’s cock another squeeze and was rewarded with that same delicious sound. Grinning, she reached down and took his hand, then gave his shoulder a gentle push. He rolled onto his back and she followed him, straddling him easily and going straight for his fly. He’d waited long enough for this, and so had she.

Carly had laid on her back panting for all of three seconds—just long enough for him to wonder how she’d react if he slipped his slick finger into his mouth to taste her—before she sat up and pushed his shoulder until he was the one on his back. She straddled him and pulled off his already-unbuttoned shorts, pulling them down his legs hastily and laughing when he pointed his toes so she could get them over his feet.

“Thanks, ballet,” she muttered as she tossed his pants onto the floor, and then she turned back and looked down at him, stretched out on the bed in nothing but his underwear. “No, really, thanks, ballet,” she said. She bit her lower lip and squeezed one of his quads appreciatively, and the sight of her hand on his thigh, so close to his hard, aching cock, was torment. As if she’d heard his thought, she slid her fingers up his leg, the movement slow but the pressure firm.

The first time she stroked his cock through the fabric, he let out a sound somewhere between a groan and a hiss, and she looked down at him with an evil smile. She repeated the movement, and this time he couldn’t stop himself from thrusting against her hand. The smile widened into a grin, and for a moment he thought she would stay there, straddling him with her bra askew and her pussy bare and wet, until he couldn’t take it any longer. But to his bottomless relief, she reached forward, extricated his cock, and wrapped her hand around the base of him. He growled and pressed his head into the pillow, more desperate to come than he could remember being in his life. Her grip was firm, but her hand was still. After a second, he looked up at her and saw that her eyes were wide and her mouth slightly open in what looked like surprise.

“Are you okay? Do you want to stop?”

“No, no,” she said quickly. “I just … um … I’m really glad I don’t have to try to fit that inside me,” she explained, and he laughed to the ceiling. She squeezed his cock, and pleasure streaked up his spine. “That is some Big Nick Energy.”

He laughed again, but the sound was strangled when she started stroking him in earnest. He wanted to close his eyes and let the sensation drag him under, but just as he was about to, she took her hand off him and put it between her own legs. A second later, her fingers returned, wet and slippery with her arousal, and all he could do was stare as she stroked him, her tempo increasing as his breath quickened.

“Shit, Carly,” he groaned as she ran the pad of her thumb around the head of his cock, smearing a drop of pre-come over the swollen, unbearably tender skin. She kept stroking him, and now he matched her rhythm with his hips, thrusting up into her slick hand and chasing the orgasm that was gathering at the base of his spine. She worked him faster, her eyes fixed on his face and her other hand braced against his flexing thighs as he groaned and gasped beneath her. Then she moved that hand between his legs and gently squeezed his heavy, clenching balls, and he was dragged under.

The release was so intense that he slammed his eyes shut and momentarily saw white. He was drowning in pleasure, hot and fierce, and Carly kept pumping her hand over his cock, wringing every last moment of his orgasm out of his body. When he opened his eyes, every inch of his skin buzzing and burning, he saw her sitting over him, her hand still wrapped around him and a wicked smile on her face. Carly Montgomery was a menace, but she was a menace who’d just handed him the most breathtaking orgasm of his life. He couldn’t remember ever coming so hard, and certainly not from a hand job.

She moved to climb off him, but he shook his head.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said, surprised he was able to get the words out.

“I was going to get you a tissue,” she objected. She glanced down at the thick spray of come on his lower abdomen.

He shook his head, then reached for her wrist and pulled her hand toward him.

“What are you—” She stopped talking and gasped when he ran his tongue lightly over her palm. He swirled it around her middle finger and then his own. He could taste her on his hands, and on her own, and it was intoxicating enough to make his dick twitch against his stomach.

“Big Nick Energy,” she said with a weak laugh, pulling her hand away from his mouth and putting it back on his cock.

It rained all day, and Nick didn’t even mind that it meant missing an afternoon of shooting. They found plenty of ways to pass the time. When they finally stumbled out of Carly’s bedroom shortly before noon, Carly grabbed her wallet and dashed downstairs in search of lunch. After she closed the door loudly behind her—as he’d learned in the last few hours, Carly did just about everything loudly—Nick flopped onto the couch, head slightly foggy.

A holiday fling was, if he was honest with himself, not his best idea. He’d known that as he was buying her an American-style iced coffee, as he was climbing the stairs to her apartment, as he arrived at her door. It seemed like the kind of idea that would only create more mess and more hurt. A few weeks of messing around, and then the wedding, and then what? They’d go their separate ways, he supposed. Her back to New York, and he back to … well, he still didn’t know. Would he stay here? Go back to Paris? Try to make a home and a career somewhere else entirely? He had no idea, and he should have been using this time to figure it out. And yet, he couldn’t stop himself from walking to that café, handing over his card, and rushing up the steps. And then she’d opened the door looking sleepy and rumpled and charmingly annoyed at him, and he wished he’d come over sooner. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so bewitched by a woman, not even Delphine.

With a jolt of surprise, he realised that until Marcus had mentioned her last night, he hadn’t thought about Delphine in days. When he woke up in the morning, the first thing he checked on his phone was Carly’s follower count and then his own. He didn’t hope for missed calls or new texts from Delphine Delacroix, and when he pulled out his phone to check Instagram now, he didn’t find any. What he did find was that Carly’s latest photo, the black-and-white one of her on the sand between the flags, had racked up thousands of likes. Over on his own page, the same image had been liked a few hundred times, and the comments below it were effusive.

@BonAperture: Amazing shot, @NickJClicks! This light is to die for.

@dancersinthewild: Hard to take a bad photo when you’ve got this kind of backdrop … and this gorgeous dancer!

@DSLDiva: Damn, Sydney looks stunning, I gotta get down there

He closed the app and smiled sleepily to himself. The plan was working.

Every objection Carly raised this morning had been correct. They had work to do, and not a lot of time to do it. Well, almost every objection. She had seemed determined, hopeful almost, that he would lose interest as soon as she told him about her condition. But he’d known about it for days, had pieced together the words that she’d shouted at him that first morning in the hotel lobby and had let the internet help him figure out the rest. It hadn’t stopped him from kissing her last night. It hadn’t stopped him from lying awake last night wondering what she sounded like when she came. What she looked like when she stopped moving and talking and fighting him, and just slept. What it would be like to fight alongside her, rather than against her.

He lay back on the couch and closed his eyes against the bright late morning light, letting his head sink into one of the many beach-themed throw pillows. Between the lack of sleep last night and their exertions this morning, he was in need of a nap or an espresso or both. He must have dozed off, because next thing he knew, Carly was prodding his shoulder impatiently and saying his name.

“Nick. Nick. Come on. There’s lunch, and we need to finish the playlist.”

“Tired,” he mumbled. He opened his eyes to see her crouching next to him in a pair of shorts and a striped T-shirt, looking down into his face. He was reminded of the very first time he’d seen her, when their bodies had been arranged in a similar position, except that time he’d been on the floor, and she’d had a look of sheer horror on her face. He liked this better.

“Come on,” she said again. “If we can’t take photos, we need to get wedding stuff done.” She seized one of his limp hands and gave it a fruitless tug. She sighed and went to drop his hand, but he held tight to her fingers and gave a tug of his own. She gasped and lost her balance, and he caught her hips as she fell towards the couch, guiding her down slowly until she was on top of him.

“This is the opposite of what I asked for,” she said, but again, he could see a smile curving the edges of her mouth. He ran a hand up the side of her body, the back of his knuckles brushing over her ribs, and she closed her eyes with a sigh. He repeated the movement, and she squirmed against him.

“You’re right,” he murmured, his lips so close to hers he could feel each little puff of peppermint breath that passed between her soft pink lips. “We should stop right now. We definitely shouldn’t stay on this couch all day.”

“Definitely not,” she agreed, but as she spoke she opened her legs a little wider so that her knees dug into the couch on either side of his body. She had him.

“So let’s go,” he whispered, not meaning a word of it, and then she kissed him. Not hard and fierce this time, but slowly, almost cautiously. As though she was testing a theory, gathering data.

Her tongue slipped between his lips as the scent of her wrapped itself around him, and he knew he’d never smell roses or taste peppermint without thinking of her. His tongue answered hers just as delicately, letting her set the pace, letting her explore his mouth and move her body against his. But within moments, the kiss turned hot and urgent, and her hands were everywhere—on his chest, in his hair, gripping the arm of the couch—and she twisted and ground her hips against his inevitable erection. He groaned against her mouth as she moved up and down his hard length, and he lifted his hands to her breasts, eager to put this morning’s learning to good use again.

She broke the kiss and looked down into his face, and the sight of her kiss-swollen lips and her flushed cheeks under her freckles made him want to stay on this couch with her on top of him all morning, all day, all week.

“I can’t come again,” she smiled ruefully.

“Wanna bet?” he asked, and she laughed.

“You like a challenge, don’t you, Nick Jacobs?”

“Why else would I be spending time with you, Carly Montgomery?”

She opened her mouth to retort, then closed it again, as if conceding the point. Then she nipped at his lower lip the way he loved, and placed a hand on each of his shoulders.

“In that case,” she said, as she ground against him, sending pleasure and need spiralling through him, “I’ll take that bet.”