CHAPTER 24
CARTER
Grey followed me as I ran the perimeter of the property. It was small, which made it easy to surveil and protect. The size also meant anyone coming in didn’t have far to go to get to her.
The cat must have found small, dark rooms boring. She left me when I checked the closed circuit. Nothing seemed out of order. There wasn’t visual coverage inside the garage, but the camera followed the movements of the cat as she walked through the open door with her tail straight up. Emily’s form crossed the rectangle of the doorway, dancing to music I couldn’t hear. She stopped, said something, did the move again. Even seeing that little of her on a two-dimensional screen, I loved watching her move. Her body cut the air so naturally I could tell where she was going before she went there. Her movements were perfection, and I watched the screen in awe until she stopped dancing where I could see her.
I’d crossed a line with her. I had no choice.
No. I corrected myself as I walked back to the studio.
I did have a choice. I was a grown man. I’d made a conscious decision to want her, and I’d made a conscious decision to have her.
Partly true.
It was all conscious except for the parts that were complete instinct.
Back in her little studio, she was taking a break. Her legs were spread wide on the floor in a split, and her forehead touched the hardwood. The speakers were silent, but she was not.
Her voice bounced off the white walls, singing. She was on key, and she had real power, but what attracted me was her emotion. As if she were putting more into the song than her voice.
“Amazing grace, how sweet . . .”
She stopped and picked up her head.
“Don’t stop on my account,” I said, reaching my hand out to help her up. She didn’t take it.
“Not your account.” She got up from her knotted position with poise and balance.
“I like the way you sing.”
“No. You don’t. You heard me. The cat sings better.” She indicated a chair next to a little table with a glass of water on it. The cat sat on the chair, wiggling her haunches and purring as if digging in on her position.
“I got you somewhere to sit, but . . .”
“I don’t sit when I work. Tell me about the singing.”
She turned away but wound up facing the mirror, where I could see her anyway.
She had a dot of red on her forehead from touching the floor, and the rest of her face was red from being upside down. Her blonde hair was coming out of the pins as if she’d just had an electrical shock.
I walked toward her. I couldn’t help it. She was beauty and movement. I came behind her, and our eyes met in the mirror.
“I need your help,” she said.
“Yes?”
She swung her legs around until they were both pressed together in front of her. She pointed the toes for a second, then got her feet under her. I held my hand out to help her stand. She took it and kept it there.
“Do you know how to dance?”
I laughed. “No.”
“Do you know how to pretend you know how to dance?”
She pulled away, keeping our hands clasped.
“I’m not a fake-it-till-you-make-it kind of guy.”
She raised her arm and twirled under our hands. Pulled away again.
“You can fake it, or I can call Monty to come partner with me.”
She rolled on the length of our arms until her back was to my chest. She fit like a gun in a holster, sliding into me as if we were cut to fit.
“He’s a better dancer.”
Against my body, my arms around her, she took a step left and I took it with her.
“I don’t need a better dancer,” she said. “I need someone to follow along.”
“I don’t follow along.”
She stuck her left foot out and leaned. I leaned with her. She turned to face me.
“You’ve been following along this whole conversation.”
She squeezed my hand and spun away. I pulled her back into my arms. Her lips were parted, her cheeks had a sheen of sweat, and her hair stuck to her skin. This was what she’d look like under me, when I was fucking her raw. Sweaty. Messy. A little dazed. Just like this. I’d move her hair off her lips. Kiss the sweat off her skin and lick away the tears I’d make her shed.
My dick pressed against my pants.
“What do I have to do?”
“Pick me up when I tell you to.” She raised her arms and twirled to face the mirror. I was behind her, waiting. “Can you take off your shoes?”
I pulled them off and put them against the wall.
“And your socks.”
I leaned on the wall and peeled off a sock.
“Anything else?” I asked.
“Um, yeah.” She put her hand on her chest. “Probably hard to move in the shirt and tie. Do you have an undershirt on?”
“Yes.”
“Wear just that.”
I got down to my undershirt and walked toward her. Her eyes lingered over my torso and waist, settling on my feet.
“What?” I asked. “You want me to put the socks back?”
“You have really nice feet.”
I looked at hers. She’d put one foot over the other as if to hide something, but I’d seen them already. They were gnarled and calloused, intermittently taped. Pure muscle and fight. A dancer’s feet were a boxer’s fists. I instinctively flexed my bruised right hand.
“You ready?” I asked.
“Yeah.” She got in position in front of the mirror. “Stand right behind me. When I tell you, grab me under the rib cage, right here.” She put her thumbs where she wanted me to grab. “Lift straight up and follow along. We’ll go without music for now.”
“Okay. Got it.”
I was sure I didn’t have it. We’d need to call Monty so she could get her work done. But at least she couldn’t say I didn’t try.
She snapped her arms up, then down. The only sound in the room was her feet on the floor and her sharp breaths with each move.
She backed into me, spread her arms, and said, “Now.”
I picked her up. She leaned left, and I moved with her as she bent one leg and went on her side as if she were flying.
“Left-one-two,” she ordered, and I took two steps left. “Down.”
I set her down.
“You really are terrible,” she said. “But I can work with it.”
I laughed. She’d defined who I knew I was and improved the meaning of the definition at the same time.