I fell in love at sixteen. And stayed there. Only one girl for me then, and the same girl for me now even if having her was impossible. But I wasn’t ignorant to seduction. The education my body, my size, my name, brought me, had always been unwelcome, uninvited, but women had still thrown themselves at me.

The woman in front of me didn’t want me. She hid her face with a mask, all dark purple and black feathers winged at the sides, swathed with small rhinestones that caught the dim light as she moved around the stage.

Imelda’s voice sang on, low, brutal—one, two, three knocks on the wall that calls her man, tells him she’s ready—while the dancer gyrated to her music, moving her hips with each word, a pop, a swirl, arms, torso sliding against the red silks above her as she lifted from the stage, became something surreal, fluttering, borne aloft. This was not a dancer but a dark fairy, with long, curled blonde hair and skin the color of a fawn, and my eyes would not move from every swirl of those silks or the way they cradled her in their tresses.

You’ll find me under your spell

Secret safe, I won’t tell.

She was an athlete. Strong, cut arms corded with faint veins, proof of exertion, testimony of muscle that was stretched, firm. Her legs were fit, thighs supple, but underneath there was the work of a thousand hours, of sweat and movement, of twists and bends that showed itself beneath that smooth skin. I could not stop watching her.

On the silks she took us both from the small room and we left the world behind, with her swooping among the fabric, looking weightless in the air as though she belonged there—free, uninhibited, alone. With the chorus came a quick slip of the silk, swinging her so close to the edge of the stage that I felt my pant leg move against my ankle in the whip of air and movement. Another dip, a quick swirl of her legs and the dancer spun above the stage, hair pulled behind her body, hanging onto that red fabric with the strength of her thighs.

When the song lowered, the bassline dipped into another rhythm, a sensual, vulgar song I recognized, and suddenly I realized there was a tapping at the only window that looked out into the private room. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Ironside standing there, gesturing to the dancer to move on with her routine. I caught the shift of the dancer’s eyes, noticing for the first time how she kept glancing towards that window, the worry and anxiety masked behind her movements and the subtle hypnotizing sway of her body.

Her eyes slipped back to Ironside framed in the window, and she slithered off the silks. If I had kept my attention on the slow canter of her movements, then I wouldn’t have noticed the ridged stiffness of her back or the small line threatening to move across her full bottom lip.

She was a professional, giving me a show I enjoyed, but there was no thrill in it for her, unlike her performance with the silks. She advanced as though she was approaching the gallows, and I decided that I wouldn’t let her humiliate herself for the wad of cash that Ironside had probably dangled in front of her.

I followed her glance to the window, worried that Ironside would stay, ready to tell him to piss off, to tell her she didn’t have to dance for me.

Then, she unfastened her corset.

The eye and hooks popped one at a time and I was mesmerized, unable to avert my gaze, feeling my eyes open wider with each expanse of smooth, brown skin that was revealed. My mouth felt dry, like no matter how much I drank I’d never get that cotton taste off my tongue, and it only became worse when her nimble fingers pulled apart her corset to reveal beautiful, round flesh standing firm and proud, decorated by dark pasties over her nipples.

She was just a hand’s grip away from me. I only had to bring my wrist off the armrest to reach out and touch her. One small graze of my fingertips onto her skin and I’d know just how soft that luscious skin would be. But she pressed her lips together, and I realized she was shaking, so much so that she couldn’t hide behind the slow sway of some practiced dance or the sultry whisper of the music that surrounded us.

“Hey.” My one word, spoken not much louder than the heartbeat I heard pumping in my ears and the dancer stopped moving, stopped hesitating and looked right at me. She didn’t back away when I straightened from my slump, when I brought my mouth close to her ear. “If we play along, you think he’ll leave?”

Her shoulders lowered as though the tension in her arms was beginning to lessen. “Maybe.” She exhaled, swallowing so that I caught the thick movement of her throat. “I…I need the money.” There was shame in her voice.

I understood that, respected it and desperately hoped she understood that this wasn’t the way I usually spent my weekends. “You don’t need to do this.” It was a promise I meant, but then her gaze went back to that damn window and the stiffness rose in her again. “Listen, don’t worry about him.” I caught the gold flecks in her hazel-green eyes when she looked away from that window, felt the small zip of pleasure against my fingertips as I touched her wrist. “I…um…I can put on a show too.”

Her smile was wide, lips pink and stretched over straight, white teeth and the deep dip of her cupid’s bow. I’d never seen anything like it before. “You want to pretend?” There was real curiosity in her voice, like she didn’t quite believe me.

Women like her usually know how beautiful they are, but the way she looked down, held her arms in front of her naked breasts told me that private dances weren’t something she did often, and managed to make her look like she wasn’t all that comfortable in her own skin. Still, I couldn’t help my smile, or the way I relaxed against the chair, unable to keep my thumb from smoothing over her wrist.

“It won’t take much effort, trust me.” I slid down further ready to give this girl what she needed, ready to play for Ironside, to service her. It was my custom, something that came to me like a second nature.

I didn’t expect to get anything in return.

“Show me how you move when no one’s watching.”

It took her a minute, a few small breaths while she watched me, like she debated if she could trust me. The tips of the black feathers on her mask held a halo against the stage light when she moved, but then she blinked, released another breath and stood in front of me, naked but for the pasties, the simple thong and the dark stockings held by garters. Freed from having to elicit a response, she could again give in to the music, becoming once more aquiline and supple, a perfect hour glass moving around the music like a snake caught rapt by a charmer, lifting her arms into the air and pushing her hips toward me to the slow beat.

“Yeah, like that, baby,” I said loudly, feeling like an idiot, knowing that Ironside could see me. “Keep moving, sweetheart.” There was a quick grin moving the side of her mouth and I tried not to laugh at the stupidity of it all, then she turned away from me so that I could only see the outline of her cheek, her chin against the dim light and the long, tempting curves of her strong back as she let the music seduce her.

So tell me you love me the song demanded as the dancer arched her back, the ends of her hair brushing against my thighs. Only for tonight, it promised and the round, plump curve of her ass dipped low as she continued to bend, as she began to lose her balance and turned to face me. The small gasp from her whispered out of her mouth and her heel dragged against the small rug beneath my chair. She wobbled, swayed and I caught her by the hips.

The dancer blinked, eyes so wide her lashes touched the top of the holes in her mask.

“Sorry. The stilettos…I’m not used to them.” I hated that she immediately looked at that window again, that she was embarrassed, her skin flushed.

“Hey,” I said, pulling on her chin so she’d look at me. “You’re fine. Don’t make excuses.”

“But Ironside said—”

“I’m not worried about what he said.” I’d forgotten that my hands were still on her hips. Those eyes, and this easy conversation had relaxed me, had me feeling, ridiculous as it sounded, like I could talk to this girl and not guard myself.

“He’s still watching.” She didn’t move her face from my touch, but I glanced to her right, seeing Ironside’s frown and the way the asshole moved his chin at her as though he expected her to keep moving.

“Let him watch. I don’t give a shit.” Around us the music continued, the speakers loud and the pulse of the bass weaving into the small room like overwrought perfume. She probably didn’t know she was swaying in time with the music. Her movements seemed unconscious, like her body couldn’t stop the desire to let the music move her. “You like this song?” The briefest nod and then I was treated to that beautiful smile again. “Show me.”

There was something in her eyes then, a small flicker that she tried to hold back. She battled with herself, with how she wanted to move, maybe with the idea that she was sitting across my lap, my hands resting on her hips like it was the most natural thing in the world. Those soft features hid nothing and I could see the hesitation, the worry fracturing across her face.

“You don’t have to worry about me.” I pulled her closer, not understanding why I did it, not thinking about why I shouldn’t. She drew me in, that soft skin, the faint hint of a scent I didn’t recognize coming from her hair and I couldn’t stop myself from wanting her, from desperately wanting to see how the music would affect her. “Show me what the music does to you.”

She adjusted, paused once then slowly started to move against me, working her hips, closing her eyes as though she’d only be able to manage this intimate dance if she didn’t look at me. Her skin was softer than I imagined, felt like something that I would easily make filthy if I kept messing with it.

“That’s it…” I tried, impressed with the way she moved, a little overwhelmed by the soft texture of her skin and the subtle brush of her hair against my face. She let me rest my hands lower on her body, right against the lace of her thong and when she stilled, fingers trembling, I whispered against her ear. “Still pretending. I promise.”

But I wasn’t sure that was true. My senses were fully engaged—the feel of her body against mine, the smooth whisper of her hair on my cheek, the tempting scent of her perfume—those sensory lures all blended, made me hungry and eager, and just then I didn’t care if Ironside was still watching. This had not happened in a long time. My body had not allowed me these sensations but I didn’t question them. I didn’t examine them. I was too caught in the woman and the slow slide of her body against mine.

After over a year, despite my guilt, those self-appointed punishments, my body ignored the thoughts weighing me down. That phantom voice was finally silent, quieted by the image of this beautiful woman gyrating on me, and my body stopped listening to the protests of that scared, lost kid I’d once been. The one I’d let control me for too damn long.

She offered me a quick glance, one that was closed off and guarded before she held her weight on her knees, shaking harder than ever, rubbing herself right against my dick. When she brushed her fingers across my face, over my mouth, I let her, didn’t pull away, forgetting that I wasn’t supposed to enjoy this. That I shouldn’t be touching her at all.

“Beautiful,” I started, closing my eyes when her breath moistened my bottom lip and she rested further back, a low, satisfied moan leaving her throat when I lowered my fingers on her hips. The sensation was potent, made me drunk and I did what I wanted for once, what I needed. Ironside had gone. The window was covered with a dark curtain, but I still kept up the show. Only now, I wasn’t acting. This wasn’t a performance. “God…who…who are you?” No one had managed to make me want like this, make me crave like this in a long time.

But she didn’t answer. She was wrapped up in the music, letting it move through her as though it controlled her. The sounds she made, that sweet, eager groan from her throat when I breathed against her bare stomach was too much. I couldn’t help myself. Not for another damn second.

“Shit…I…” My mind spun and the confusion of feeling guilt and shame and lust and desperation had me stuttering, unable to keep my hands from stretching over her flat stomach. She didn’t stop me, didn’t protest when my fingers touched the top of her thong. “I need to touch you.”

Only for the night.

That’s all it would be. One night. One moment, and fixating on that one small slip of time allowed my mind and my body to agree, for once, to forget that I shouldn’t feel this good, that I didn’t deserve this, that touching something this beautiful, this sweet, had almost destroyed me.

She moved over me, exulting my senses, exposing emotions that I thought I’d buried deep, and for just those few sweet, obliterating minutes, a beautiful stranger made me feel what no one had since Emily.

“Lower, please” she asked and I was too caught up, too turned on to deny her a thing or to stop myself from feeling what that small, breathy word did to my body.

I touched her. Fingers sliding under her slowly, gazing on her face when I pushed past that thong, to the warm, wet, so fucking sweet cleft of her pussy and yes, shit yes she gave back to me what I thought I’d lost, her trembling body weaving some kind of magic over my own that fogged my mind, had my hands gripping skin, my fingers clutching flesh, straining upwards to meet each grind of her beautiful body against me.

“There…yes.” And I let the dancer use me, her body over mine, rubbing against me, making me needy, desperate and all the while I watched her, head thrown back, fingers digging into my shoulders, while I touched her deeper than I had ever touched anyone ever before.

We were senseless, lost to the communion of music, sweat, sensation all coalescing together, writhing friction that took me where I hadn’t let myself go since I was sixteen, and she breathed out into that dark room, hollowing her whispered pants until I couldn’t hear the music any more or the low hum of the overhead lights; until all that mattered were her soft breathy moans, and the deep groan of my voice mixed with the sensation of her searing heat, the smell of sweat and the labored realization that this beautiful woman I didn’t know was making me come.

Finally. Oh, god, finally… and I let go. I fucking let go against her and away from everything that had held me back…

My gasp—shocked, overwhelmed—became a growling shout, louder than hers, deeper and I only came back to myself when she shuddered, when the bite of her fingernails left me blinking, understanding what had happened right as she came down from her own peak.

“Oh…oh God…” it was all I could manage, that level cry of surprise, confusion. “I just…God.”

She didn’t say anything.

Seconds passed with our breaths mingling, gazes focused, coming together just as reality broke apart the lost moments we had given ourselves instinctively, like it was usual, like it wasn’t some naked desperation that blinds reason, blankets thought.

I saw the question in her eyes, that desperate curiosity that choked down my own. What do you say? What do you feel when this happens with a complete stranger? There was a rush, a booming zip that began to fade just then. It had started the moment she came to me, the second I grazed my fingertips on her wrist. Now it was dimming, numbed by the awkward silence around us.

Seconds lengthened with her damp skin, her heavy breasts resting in my hands and the wet, uncomfortable mess in my jeans making me feel as if I’d pissed myself.

“Um…” it was her voice that broke the trance and the discomfort came in a like soaking splash into that dim, quiet room. Behind that mask, her eyes were shut and the tremble in her hands then wasn’t from arousal. The stiff bearing in her shoulders returned and she sat up, eyes blinking and one small line crowded on her forehead.

“I’ll just…I can’t.” Then she exhaled, cleared her throat. “I’ll…go…” My hand fell away from her and that awkwardness felt thick, full as she stumbled off my lap before I could speak, before I thought I should stop her. She ran from the room leaving nothing behind but the echo of her heels against the hardwood floor and the heavy sensation of surprise and guilt thick in my mind.

I’d been warned.

Warnings weren’t enough, I thought, stumbling through the backstage, fastening my corset, shoving thick curtains out of my way.

What did I just do?

I couldn’t get my arms tight enough around my body, couldn’t make the hard tremor in my hands to stop.

What the hell did I just do?

If I were weak, if I had been some innocent idiot who’d never felt that sensation, who’d been clueless about men and clubs and nakedness, then I probably would have cried. But that wasn’t who I was. That wasn’t who I’d ever be.

Ransom. Why did it have to be him?

Ransom, who’d never noticed the girl behind the shadow, watching, wishing I wasn’t so invisible to him. Ransom, who didn’t even remember rescuing me from my father. Me zanmi, I let him touch me.

Even my hand scrubbing over my face, my knuckles in the corner of my eyes wouldn’t take the image of his fingers, the sound of his deep, heavy pants from my mind. A year and a half I’d watched him. A year and a half I’d wanted him and then this…

Somewhere in my head there was the voice I always heard when I’d done something particularly stupid. It sounded a lot like my grann. I crossed myself at the thought of her, tried not to think about how much I missed her. I tried harder not to acknowledge that two minutes ago Ransom Riley-Hale had his fingers inside me.

You wanted him to touch you. Grann had always been a dirty pervert.

No, Leann’s warnings that hadn’t been near enough. “Be careful of the people who run Summerland’s,” she’d told me. “Be wary of certain elements.”

She hadn’t defined who those certain elements were. Some of them loitered around the stage, mostly dancers, a few of their boyfriends. I ignored them, weaved through the crowded backstage with my head down.

“Hey, sexy.” I didn’t bother replying to the drunk bata making a grab for my arm. But he blocked my path, moving his huge body in front of me as I tried to skirt around the small line of dancers in position for their march onto the stage.

The drunk had cropped blonde hair that was ridiculous, bangs covering his eyes and he reeked of bourbon and cheap cigars. “I’m talking to you!” he tried again, gripping at my leg when I moved out of his reach.

“Hey! Get off me, asshole!” A quick shove against his huge chest and the guy went down, but his fingers had threaded through the fishnet of my stockings, and they tore when I jerked away. Half of the back of my leg was exposed and I jerked away again, tried to kick him when he stared too long at my legs and thighs.

“Come on, baby. I just want a kiss.” His words were slurred, his movements sloppy but before I had to resort to kicking again, two of the bouncers from the floor jogged toward us, taking the jerk down with ease.

“You okay?” one of them asked me, but I waved him off, sick of the smell of liquor and sweat, ready to be done with this entire night.

I didn’t bother with a backward glance and skirted through the throng of people until I slipped into the dressing room.

Summerland’s wasn’t the danger itself. Not when the bouncers kept drunks out of the backstage. The club was beautiful and elegant; burlesque at its finest, true artists at work. They needed warm bodies, choreographers, dancers. I needed some extra cash.

Leann hadn’t liked it, as a boss or as a motherly friend, but she didn’t let my little moonlighting gig threaten my job as one of her dance instructors.

Four months and not a problem. The Summerland dancers liked my choreography. The owner, Misty, was a ball buster, but nice enough to me. Ironside’s presence had never really made a lot of sense. I just didn’t get why Misty let someone like him move around this place like he owned it, but it wasn’t my problem, was it?

Looking in the mirror in the empty dressing room, seeing myself hidden behind the costume mask with my lips and eyes painted to perfection, my dark hair hidden behind that tight, high-dollar wig and my corset only half-way fastened, I finally got the warning. Ironside had become my problem. He was dangerous and, worst of all, he was slick, playing on my need for some extra bank.

“Three hundred bucks for a half an hour of your time. I hear you could use the extra bills.”

“Who’d you hear that from?” I’d asked, trying to not sound as desperate as the man probably thought I was.

He hadn’t bothered answering. A brush of his finger along the broken zipper of my hoodie and a quick glance at my worn and frayed shoes was answer enough.

“You’re a beautiful girl, Aly, and we have a special guest tonight. Half an hour and maybe you won’t have to bust ass so hard this week.”

It had been my aching feet and the looming college tuition I was saving for that had made the decision for me. Still, Ironside had asked me with a smirk, moving the toothpick around in the corner of his mouth. He’d sounded like a snake hissing his way through convincing me to nibble on the forbidden apple. But three hundred bucks? For thirty minutes? That kind of money meant I didn’t eat ramen every day. It meant I didn’t have to take so many shifts at the diner.

I heard another voice then. This one wasn’t as sweet as my grann and there was no humor in the voice.

Tu es un putain, it said. I was a whore.

That was my father’s voice.

Slut? Is that what I’d let Ironside turn me into? Is that what Ransom had done to me?

When I stared back in the mirror I didn’t see the flash and pseudo beauty any more. I saw a desperate young woman. The mask caught on my hair when I pulled it off and the dark make-up smeared against the damp cloth I pulled off the table. This mask, this makeup, this costume, this… assumption—it wasn’t me. I knew who I was before Ironside had convinced me that I should use my body, just for a few minutes.

No. That wasn’t me. That would never be me.

I wasn’t the shamed daughter of Andre Rillieux who left her home, took her mother’s maiden name and tried to forget who her father expected her to be. That scared girl was gone. I’d left her behind. I’d remade myself in my own image.

Nights at the diner, days teaching classes at the dance studio and the occasional odd job here and there kept my head above water. I rented the loft above the studio for very little. I took the bus because a car and insurance were impossible for me. I rarely went out. No big screen TV, no cable; no fancy computer, nothing but a Trac phone for me. Somehow, I managed. Plans, goals, intentions—my list was long and lengthy. I knew what I wanted and how I’d get there. Hiding away in shame and embarrassment wouldn’t do anything but slow me down.

Finally, my face was clean, free from the stage make-up required for tonight’s performance, my brown hair once again loosened from that confining wig. Three faint freckles right on my cheek were visible and I stared at them, tried to focus on those spots to clear Ransom from my head.

Damn. Of anyone in the world, why him?

Earlier, Ironside had pulled me aside backstage, leered over my outfit, the expensive, blonde wig, the mask, the corset, and his approving smirk had done nothing but make me feel desperate for a hot shower.

“This is good,” he’d said. “I think he’ll be into it.”

“Who is this guy?”

But when the toothpick-gnawing jackass pushed back the curtain and I saw Ransom standing near the chair, looking for all the world like he wanted to run out of the room, my mouth went dry. I must have made a noise, because Ironside let the curtain drop and looked hard at me.

“What? You know him?” he’d asked.

Did I know him? What a damn joke. Of course I knew him.

Over a year of watching him disappear in shame and guilt. Pretending I didn’t see him when Tristian brought Ransom to the studio. Wondering how something that beautiful, that real, could be so lost.

“Yeah, but trust me, he has no clue who I am.”

I didn’t explain further to Ironside. He didn’t need to know anything about me, and I’d handled the dance for Ransom the same way I handled every difficult thing in my life—I deflected. I tried hard not to think about how different he looked, how those dark, haunted eyes seemed lighter, a bit freer tonight. I ignored the sensation of that gaze on my body as he watched me dance. He’d stared at me like I was something unreal—an impossible dream, some erotic nightmare come to life.

After a year of making myself seem small and invisible, Ransom had finally seen me. At least, some burlesque version of me.

He knew me, he just didn’t remember. Any memory of me, any recall that he’d scared my papa away with a shove into his old Chevy was lost somewhere in that haze Ransom lived in. When I passed him in the studio hallway or ran across him in the parking lot, he barely managed a momentary glance.

Tonight, though, his eyes were wide open. It was the mask, the wig, the corset, I knew. He’d have never believed the girl in the tight bun, no makeup, wearing baggy t-shirts and worn dance pants was the same one who danced for him tonight.

But then, Ransom had never seen me really dance. Tonight’s performance wasn’t me performing. Not like I did at the studio. Not like I did when it was just me and the music and the rare beauty of being lost and found all at once.

The lights, the crowd, the illusion of the dance all called for a different Aly King. Up there on the stage I transformed, swung into a world where no one could touch me, where my body was just another part of the show, no more important than the beat of the music or the light fracturing the darkness.

In front of him, hidden behind that mask, the music, the sensation conjured by the dance, the rhythm of that melody ripped away my reason. It was an echo of who I was, one that I’d never let anyone see but who nevertheless lurked below my carefully controlled exterior.

That dance with Ransom, the way he touched me, the way he felt against me…it was an accident, like drinking too much wine at a wedding reception and going home with your cousin’s groomsman. Not anything you want to repeat, not anything you want anyone to ever know about.

My skin was still flushed, leftover from my orgasm and the quick whip of pleasure Ransom had lit in my body. The vanity top in the dressing room felt cool on my skin as I rested my forehead against it and tried to rid my senses of the smell of him—the faint hint of his cologne that set my nose on fire, the memory of his large fingers over my arms, across my stomach.

Me zanmi! Don’t start, King.

In the locker Misty let me use, Ironside had left an envelope with what I guessed he thought was generous tip. Three-hundred and fifty dollars and the black business card with only a number. On the back, looped in thin, messy script was a note:

Call if you need another job. Plenty of cash to be made.

The borrowed corset landed on the dressing table, a casualty to my quick change, and I was back to myself, in my jeans and hoodie before the dancers on the stage had begun kicking their legs in a synchronized line.

Ironside’s envelope was in my back pocket, his card I left in the trashcan behind me. I’d take his money, once, for a few minutes alone with Ransom, but once was enough. I wouldn’t keep my head above water turning him down like that, but I damn sure wasn’t going to beat myself up for a one-time escapade while Timber Ironside watched through a darkened window.

It wouldn’t happen again. Watching Ransom disappear, the sadness consuming him had been enough for me. Tonight had been a mistake. I didn’t want more of him; I didn’t even want what I’d just taken tonight. After all, with Ransom in school and playing ball, I’d probably never see him again. That made things easier.

But things are never that easy, are they? You internally reconcile about how things must be, you make plans to accept reality and then boom! Something derails you. Or someone. When I thumbed through my text messages, I realized that avoiding Ransom was not going to be that easy. Typical. I could make grand plans, but seeing them through wasn’t how my life generally works.

Instructors: Be at the studio tomorrow morning at 8. There are only a few months of preparation left until the Christmas recital.

Volunteers: We have a planning meeting at two tomorrow. Do not be late! (This means you, Ransom)

See you all soon,

-Leann