Chapter Four
Austin
Emmélie DeLuca.
She wasn’t all that hard to find with a few keywords entered into Google, but that’s only because I’d recognized her dance ability beyond what she did to Ms. Jackson at Cardinal Sin. A search for “professional female ballet dancers in Chicago” pulled up a mere handful of results, making it rather easy. Even if she hadn’t given me a shortened version of her name, I would’ve recognized those soulful eyes anywhere.
I’ve had a busy week. When I wasn’t at the station for a tour, I was helping my Dad with his DIY (or in his case, Do It with Your Son) kitchen renovation project. Since he retired from the department last year, he fills his time trying to be handier than he knows how. I’ve had to call Chance a couple of times to help him when he got in too far over his stubborn head. Benefits of having a best friend who owns his own construction business. At any rate, between my job and my dad, I haven’t had time to do anything about seeking out Emi.
But that all changes tonight.
I took a chance that I’d find her at the Bissett Ballet Institute, the dance school started by her mother. It’s the least creeper-ish thing I can do. Getting one of my cop buddies to give me her home address would be crossing the line, but she told me to find her, and the fact that she runs the school is public knowledge, so here I am.
The website said they run classes up to nine at night, so I showed up a little after as the last of the students were leaving. My hand was on the long handle of the glass door when Hozier’s “Arsonist’s Lullabye” began to play. Emi started to dance in front of the wall of mirrors and I’ve been frozen in place, watching her move like the sultry music is flowing through her, the heavy beat bending her body to its will like it owns her. She’s not conforming to any one discipline; it looks to be a mix of ballet and modern dance, and it’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen.
She’s wearing a pair of tight dance shorts and a loose long-sleeved shirt that falls off her shoulders and gives me peeks of her bare stomach when she raises her arms. Her long, black hair is pulled into a ponytail, and her face is covered only by a fine sheen of perspiration—very different from the blue wig and dramatic makeup I saw her in a week ago.
Unable to stay away any longer, I pull the door open and step inside, careful not to make my presence known. She’s lost in the music, and I can’t stop watching her.
But I need to do something, because this situation calls to my kinkier side, and this isn’t the time or place for that. Not with her. Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
That might be the case—I have no way of knowing whether Emmélie DeLuca is the kind of girl who shares my darker desires—but so many things about her call to me. I won’t pass up the opportunity to explore things and see where they might go.
My feet move before my head even registers the steps, and then she’s suddenly in my arms as I catch her around the waist in the middle of a series of turns. She gasps, but before her shock can fully register, recognition lights in her eyes.
“Austin,” she says breathily, her chest heaving and hands gripping my shoulders.
Dipping her back, I give her a cocky half grin. “Found you, Emi.”
“You certainly did.”
I bring her back to rights and force myself not to hold on to her when she takes a big step back. Instead, I widen my stance and cross my arms. She mimics me, and it’s just the cutest damn thing I’ve ever seen. My wide smile probably says as much.
“Took you long enough,” she says with a challenging brow. “What’s the matter, not fluent in the internet?”
“Nah, I was just playin’ hard to get. Betting on absence makin’ the heart grow fonder and all that good stuff.”
“Sorry to disappoint, but I’d forgotten about you. Out of sight, out of mind and all that good stuff.”
Emi turns dismissively toward the mirror, lowers the stereo’s volume with a remote, and grabs her water bottle from the floor, squirting a healthy amount into her mouth. Watching her throat move as she swallows is like torture. I’ve never wanted to kiss a woman’s neck more than I do in this moment, to feel her pulse jump under my lips and taste the salty sweetness on her skin.
I can tell she’s trying to appear confident, but she’s not quite pulling it off. I hold her gaze in the mirror as I move to stand behind her, less than an inch between our bodies. Gripping the ballet barre on either side of her, I lower my head and speak into her ear. “I don’t believe that for a second, Emi. I’d bet you’ve been thinking of me just as much as I’ve been thinking of you.”
She releases a shaky breath but lifts her chin the slightest bit. “Unless you thought of me hardly at all, you’d lose that bet.”
“I don’t lose, darlin’. Now, the way I see it, you owe me a prize for finding you.”
Emi rolls her eyes, showing me a hint of feisty that I more than like. She turns to face me, being careful not to let our bodies touch in the process. “There’s a bowl of suckers on the desk over there. Help yourself.”
She pats my chest, then ducks under my arm to escape me, but I catch her wrist and pull her back. “Not so fast there, Emi.”
“Where’s the accent from?”
“Texas.” Not that I have much of it left, but it tends to come out when I’m charming a lady.
“You have a thing about manhandling women, Tex?”
Fucking hell. She has no idea. “Only when the woman likes to be manhandled.”
Emi’s pupils dilate, and I swear I can hear her pulse racing faster, but I manage to dial it back. Bringing her arm up, I place a warm kiss on the inside of her wrist before releasing her. Her brows knit together as she draws her arm to cradle it against her chest. I’m not sure if the move is to protect her skin from further onslaught or to hold the kiss in. My ego likes the latter idea better, so I don’t argue with it.
“Now, about that prize,” I say. “I was thinking a late dinner would do nicely.”
“Tonight? I can’t go anywhere tonight. I’ve been dancing all day, I’m tired and need a shower—”
“Tomorrow night, then.” It’s Sunday, and I know from the website that the school isn’t open.
She pauses to think while she drags the corner of her bottom lip through her teeth, which causes my dick to twitch behind the fly of my jeans. Down, boy. “No dinner, one drink.”
“Come on now, that’s hardly enough time to get to know each other. Appetizer, entree, but no dessert, and unlimited drinks.”
“Charcuterie and cheese platter with one bottle of wine.”
My face screws up like I took a bite of my nana’s lemon pie. “Darlin’, I don’t even know what the hell you just said, much less where to find it.”
This seems to please the hell out of her, and for the first time, I witness Emi’s brilliant smile. It’s like stepping out into the sunshine after a month of nothing but rain. The warmth of it radiates from her beautiful face and penetrates something deep inside me. Damn but I want to hold onto this feeling for as long as I can.
“Don’t worry, I know just the place. Give me your phone.” I don’t even think twice before handing it over, unlocked. After a few seconds she hands it back, and I hear her phone go off across the room. “I’ll text you my address, and you can pick me up, say seven o’clock?”
I arch a brow and try to school the grin fighting to get free. “Like to take charge, do you?”
Dark brown eyes flare wide. “What? No, I—shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to step on your toes, I’m just used to handling things myself.”
“That’s okay, Emi, I’ll let you lead for a bit.” Stepping in closer, I tuck a few runaway strands of hair behind her ear. “Don’t get too used to it, though. ’Cause when a woman’s with me, the last thing she ever has to do…is handle herself.”
The innuendo does the trick and her lips part on a quiet gasp. Slowly, I drop my head as though I’m going to kiss her. Her lids flutter closed, and it takes every bit of resolve I have not to take what I want, what she’s so obviously willing to give. I want to taste her lips more than my next breath, but I manage to hold myself in check. At the last second, I kiss her chastely on her porcelain-smooth cheek. Then I start to walk backward to the door before I say screw it and pounce like the wild animal I truly am.
“Enjoy the rest of your night, Emi-girl. I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow. Don’t keep me waiting.”
She releases a deep breath, letting the spell of our almost-kiss wash away, and I can see her playful side spark back to life. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Tex.”
The ridiculous nickname makes me smile. Hours later, I wonder if my mom’s childhood threat about my face “getting stuck that way” might actually happen, because I’ll be damned if I’m not still smiling as I climb into bed.