My stomach dips unexpectedly. What is he doing?
“I’m sorry but…”
“For the whole set. We’re buying everything you have left in stock.”
“But why?”
“He wanted you to free your afternoon and meet him tonight on Broadway. He’s got tickets for Hairspray.”
“Oh my gosh, really? But that show is sold out.”
He gathers all the remaining T-shirts and says, “He’s good for the check.”
I seem to have lost all power of speech.
Becka is equally speechless as we close shop.
“You’ve got to go,” she says.
“I’m not sure where this will lead. What exactly am I getting into?” I glance at the ticket as we head to the train station.
“It’s just a date—and if you want more, then it’ll be more.”
“But didn’t I tell you last night this guy is married?”
“He’s as good as divorced already. And he’s interested.”
“I’m confused. I never wanted to get it on with a divorced guy. I’m not going to go.” I shake my head, but Becka grabs my hand and squeezes.
“Sara. Do you want to wonder your whole life? Just go. Maybe getting to know him more will help you get over him. Or it’ll make it clearer that you really want this guy and are willing to wait for him.”
“Okay. You’re right.” I nod my head. “You need to help me pick my outfit.”
“Count on it.”
“Also, don’t tell Bryn. She’s got enough on her plate, and I don’t want her to worry about me.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t.”
One hour later, I walk into the theater wearing a killer red dress and look down at my ticket, biting my lip as the usher points out my seat. I scan the line of seats down the front, and I spot the back of his head. He seems to sense my presence and slowly stands, his onyx gaze trained on me, and my knees do a little knocking dance. Damn this man. He’s going to be the end of me.
Exhaling, I start heading down the steps as he comes to meet me halfway, the smile on his face a shade above gorgeous.
“Hey, stranger,” I say.
“Glad you came.” His eyes shine and I’m glad I came, too, if only because I’ve never met a guy I’ve responded to the way I do him. I said that when I found sparks I would light the match, and here I am. Stoking that same fire that began months ago in that ride back from the airport.
Ian stretches out his legs before us after we sit and I feel his knee touch mine.
I gulp and tense, wanting more.
We start to watch the show, and it’s torture to be caught between my two loves, both of which I can’t have. Dancing… and my Suit. It becomes more and more painful as the show progresses and the dancers twirl on the stage in ways that make my legs itch so that I can barely watch without wanting to move to the music. I feel him eyeing my profile and I don’t know what to do, what to say, why I’m here, or why I’m doing this to myself.
My whole body aches. I want to dance so much my arms feel heavy from the urge to move. I want to dance up on that stage. Hell, anywhere.
“They’re looking for dancers,” he tells me.
My eyes widen.
“I wanted you to see it first, in case you wanted to audition.”
He remembered?
I lean over to his ear. “I could suck you off ten times right here,” I whisper by way of gratitude.
He smiles then, his gaze wolfish.
“Let’s go. It may not have been such a good idea to bring you here,” he says, motioning to my moving legs.
I stand and as he leads me out, he asks, in my ear, “Where to?”
“Anywhere I can move,” I beg.
* * *
Ian summons an Uber to drive us to the Upper East Side. I have no idea where we’re going. I don’t care; somehow I trust him to take me somewhere I will like.
Half an hour later, we hop out in front of a burnt-red brownstone. I’m surprised to see Ian has the keys. He opens the gate for me and leads me up the steps to the front door.
“What is this place?” I ask as he opens the door and switches on the lights. The townhome is absolutely gorgeous, with hardwood floors and intricate molded carvings on the ceiling. It is spacious and elegant, and it smells of lavender and tea tree, as if it’s just been cleaned.
“Are you filming here?” I take in the emptiness of the space. I can even hear my echo as I speak. “There’s so much room. Look at the little garden!” I proclaim, twirling happily in the empty living room.
“Move here. For me.”
I realize, after a beat, what Ian means.
I gape at him from across the room for a second. My Dirty Workaholic stands with his hands in his slacks pockets and lips slightly curved.
The idea of dancing here for him is so ludicrous I burst out laughing. But he looks one hundred percent determined. And oh-so-hot right now. A part of me, maybe the part that wants to strip him down to his birthday suit, wants to dance for him, too. Wants to dance, period.
Excitement bubbles in my veins as Ian pulls out a fold-out chair from behind the kitchen counter. He sets it at the far end of the room and takes a seat, facing me.
My heart drums faster and faster.
“I don’t pole dance, so don’t get your hopes up. Ballet is my first love, then I fell for hip-hop, so I guess… I’ll just dance like I know how,” I finish when I realize I’m rambling.
Closing my eyes to get in the groove, I loosen my shoulders. Bend my knees. Relax myself. Then I pop. Lock. Repeat. Slide to the side. Leap, land, and slowly come up as I slowly jerk my hips side to side, thrusting my head back along with my arms.
“You get the gig.” He smiles.
I smile too. “Ian.” I’m giddy.
He shifts forward in his chair, something intimate in his eyes as he watches me move my body in the silent room.
“Is something wrong?” I stop dancing, my stomach clutching from nerves.
He shakes his head side to side, the admiration in his eyes intensifying.
“Not at all.” That smile again. Just a little curve of his lips. That’s all. But enough to make me tingle.
“Music,” I say, grabbing my phone. I hit “Stitches” by Shawn Mendes and start dancing hip-hop. I feel more comfortable dancing to something fun and light. I also need the movement to get rid of the nerves.
I start getting into it, leaping around the room, doing fast turns during the chorus, popping this way and that, and falling to the floor. I drop down three times, roll, then leap back to my feet before I lock and pop again and twist my head to the side.
“Bravo, bravo, bravo.” He claps slowly.
“I get the gig.”
“You get the gig.”
I laugh and head toward him, lowering myself to his lap. “When do I start?”
Automatically my arms go around his neck. Ian slides his hand through the back of my smoking red dress, easing his fingers under the fabric to touch the skin of my abdomen. I giggle. “I’m sweaty; you don’t want—”
Unexpectedly, he presses his forehead down on mine, inhaling my skin as we relax in that position. “Stay still for a second. You’re hot as fuck and I like you breathless.”
His gaze falls to my lips, and my own falls to his lips. My smile fades, and the ache I feel from wanting him intensifies.
“What happened with you and your wife? Can I ask?”
“I’m sorry but…”
“For the whole set. We’re buying everything you have left in stock.”
“But why?”
“He wanted you to free your afternoon and meet him tonight on Broadway. He’s got tickets for Hairspray.”
“Oh my gosh, really? But that show is sold out.”
He gathers all the remaining T-shirts and says, “He’s good for the check.”
I seem to have lost all power of speech.
Becka is equally speechless as we close shop.
“You’ve got to go,” she says.
“I’m not sure where this will lead. What exactly am I getting into?” I glance at the ticket as we head to the train station.
“It’s just a date—and if you want more, then it’ll be more.”
“But didn’t I tell you last night this guy is married?”
“He’s as good as divorced already. And he’s interested.”
“I’m confused. I never wanted to get it on with a divorced guy. I’m not going to go.” I shake my head, but Becka grabs my hand and squeezes.
“Sara. Do you want to wonder your whole life? Just go. Maybe getting to know him more will help you get over him. Or it’ll make it clearer that you really want this guy and are willing to wait for him.”
“Okay. You’re right.” I nod my head. “You need to help me pick my outfit.”
“Count on it.”
“Also, don’t tell Bryn. She’s got enough on her plate, and I don’t want her to worry about me.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t.”
One hour later, I walk into the theater wearing a killer red dress and look down at my ticket, biting my lip as the usher points out my seat. I scan the line of seats down the front, and I spot the back of his head. He seems to sense my presence and slowly stands, his onyx gaze trained on me, and my knees do a little knocking dance. Damn this man. He’s going to be the end of me.
Exhaling, I start heading down the steps as he comes to meet me halfway, the smile on his face a shade above gorgeous.
“Hey, stranger,” I say.
“Glad you came.” His eyes shine and I’m glad I came, too, if only because I’ve never met a guy I’ve responded to the way I do him. I said that when I found sparks I would light the match, and here I am. Stoking that same fire that began months ago in that ride back from the airport.
Ian stretches out his legs before us after we sit and I feel his knee touch mine.
I gulp and tense, wanting more.
We start to watch the show, and it’s torture to be caught between my two loves, both of which I can’t have. Dancing… and my Suit. It becomes more and more painful as the show progresses and the dancers twirl on the stage in ways that make my legs itch so that I can barely watch without wanting to move to the music. I feel him eyeing my profile and I don’t know what to do, what to say, why I’m here, or why I’m doing this to myself.
My whole body aches. I want to dance so much my arms feel heavy from the urge to move. I want to dance up on that stage. Hell, anywhere.
“They’re looking for dancers,” he tells me.
My eyes widen.
“I wanted you to see it first, in case you wanted to audition.”
He remembered?
I lean over to his ear. “I could suck you off ten times right here,” I whisper by way of gratitude.
He smiles then, his gaze wolfish.
“Let’s go. It may not have been such a good idea to bring you here,” he says, motioning to my moving legs.
I stand and as he leads me out, he asks, in my ear, “Where to?”
“Anywhere I can move,” I beg.
* * *
Ian summons an Uber to drive us to the Upper East Side. I have no idea where we’re going. I don’t care; somehow I trust him to take me somewhere I will like.
Half an hour later, we hop out in front of a burnt-red brownstone. I’m surprised to see Ian has the keys. He opens the gate for me and leads me up the steps to the front door.
“What is this place?” I ask as he opens the door and switches on the lights. The townhome is absolutely gorgeous, with hardwood floors and intricate molded carvings on the ceiling. It is spacious and elegant, and it smells of lavender and tea tree, as if it’s just been cleaned.
“Are you filming here?” I take in the emptiness of the space. I can even hear my echo as I speak. “There’s so much room. Look at the little garden!” I proclaim, twirling happily in the empty living room.
“Move here. For me.”
I realize, after a beat, what Ian means.
I gape at him from across the room for a second. My Dirty Workaholic stands with his hands in his slacks pockets and lips slightly curved.
The idea of dancing here for him is so ludicrous I burst out laughing. But he looks one hundred percent determined. And oh-so-hot right now. A part of me, maybe the part that wants to strip him down to his birthday suit, wants to dance for him, too. Wants to dance, period.
Excitement bubbles in my veins as Ian pulls out a fold-out chair from behind the kitchen counter. He sets it at the far end of the room and takes a seat, facing me.
My heart drums faster and faster.
“I don’t pole dance, so don’t get your hopes up. Ballet is my first love, then I fell for hip-hop, so I guess… I’ll just dance like I know how,” I finish when I realize I’m rambling.
Closing my eyes to get in the groove, I loosen my shoulders. Bend my knees. Relax myself. Then I pop. Lock. Repeat. Slide to the side. Leap, land, and slowly come up as I slowly jerk my hips side to side, thrusting my head back along with my arms.
“You get the gig.” He smiles.
I smile too. “Ian.” I’m giddy.
He shifts forward in his chair, something intimate in his eyes as he watches me move my body in the silent room.
“Is something wrong?” I stop dancing, my stomach clutching from nerves.
He shakes his head side to side, the admiration in his eyes intensifying.
“Not at all.” That smile again. Just a little curve of his lips. That’s all. But enough to make me tingle.
“Music,” I say, grabbing my phone. I hit “Stitches” by Shawn Mendes and start dancing hip-hop. I feel more comfortable dancing to something fun and light. I also need the movement to get rid of the nerves.
I start getting into it, leaping around the room, doing fast turns during the chorus, popping this way and that, and falling to the floor. I drop down three times, roll, then leap back to my feet before I lock and pop again and twist my head to the side.
“Bravo, bravo, bravo.” He claps slowly.
“I get the gig.”
“You get the gig.”
I laugh and head toward him, lowering myself to his lap. “When do I start?”
Automatically my arms go around his neck. Ian slides his hand through the back of my smoking red dress, easing his fingers under the fabric to touch the skin of my abdomen. I giggle. “I’m sweaty; you don’t want—”
Unexpectedly, he presses his forehead down on mine, inhaling my skin as we relax in that position. “Stay still for a second. You’re hot as fuck and I like you breathless.”
His gaze falls to my lips, and my own falls to his lips. My smile fades, and the ache I feel from wanting him intensifies.
“What happened with you and your wife? Can I ask?”
