Dare Collection October 2019. Margot Radcliffe

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       CHAPTER FIVE

      Darcy

      I MADE AN involuntary sound.

      I had made many sounds already—some I couldn’t believe had come out of me—but this was different. I realized it even as it escaped my lips, but I couldn’t take it back. I watched that dark, intent expression on his face as it altered slightly at the evidence of my vulnerability still echoing there between us.

      I’d spent my whole life denying that I was capable of vulnerability. I smiled, instead. I danced until I bled, then I danced some more. Only actual broken bones made me stop, and sometimes not even then. And I certainly never made vulnerable noises. Ballet dancers were tough. We had to be, or we could never look that graceful.

      “Problem?” he asked, his voice gritty.

      Less a question than a demand.

      I felt my breath shudder through my body, as if I’d forgotten how to breathe. I could feel the ache in my thighs, reminding me that I was splayed open as I sat astride him. And I could feel him, deep inside me, hard and hot. Still.

      It made a different sort of shiver curl its way down my spine.

      Every part of my body was sensitized. Overly raw and mad with it. Awake and alive in ways that made my head spin. I couldn’t make sense of it. Of him. Of this fantasy brought to life at last. All the sex I’d had before this seemed dull, dim. Unsatisfying in a thousand ways, and we weren’t even finished yet. It was as if this was my first time, as crazy as that was to imagine.

      I felt words I shouldn’t say swell inside of me—

      But then I remembered myself.

      This was the fantasy I had chosen.

      And no man—or woman—bought an experience like this so they could hear about someone else’s emotions. I understood that full well. The fantasy was in the anonymity. In the taking. This was a place for only certain kinds of intimacy.

      My emotions were my own business. As were his.

      That was what made this so hot.

      “Of course not,” I said, trying to sound serene and in control. I even managed what I thought was a passable smile. “How could there be a problem?”

      His eyes were so bright I was sure they were punching holes right through me. I wondered if when I looked down I would see not only myself impaled upon him, but see those marks, too. Like scars.

      And I wanted those scars. I wore the ones ballet had given me like badges of honor. Audiences had no idea what it took to look that effortless onstage. We covered our scars and danced straight through them.

      I wanted whatever this man would give me. I wanted to wear his marks forward, like brands.

      I expected him to start fucking me again, much harder this time—a notion that made me quiver—now that he called it his turn.

      Instead, he moved one of his big, strong hands to fit against the curve of my cheek. It wasn’t gentle, particularly. It felt like the very brand I’d just been imagining. A mark of ownership, especially when his thumb moved over my lips again.

      As if he’d seen the raw, unbound truth behind my smile and was rubbing it away.

      “You don’t have to worry about anything,” he told me then, and there was something in the way he said it. So dark. So intent and sure. So certain. That, too, made me quiver. “You have one job. Do you know what that is?”

      “I thought I was doing it.”

      His blue eyes sharpened. “All you have to do is what I tell you to do, little dancer. No more. No less. I will tell you what I want. What I like and what I don’t. You don’t have to worry about anticipating my needs. I’ll make sure you know what they are. Do you understand?”

      A thousand responses to that swirled around inside me, each one as raw and powerful and emotional as the next, but in the end I chose the only response that mattered.

      “Yes,” I said. He watched me, something expectant and commanding on his face, and I felt myself flush. “Yes, sir.”

      “Good girl.”

      And then he showed me what he meant.

      His hands smoothed their way down my torso to grip my hips. I thought he would order me to move, but he didn’t. Instead, he lifted me up, an easy slide along the length of his cock because I was so wet and hot and melting. He lifted me up, then slammed me back down.

      Sensation exploded inside me, and he did it again. And again.

      I didn’t have to do a thing. He was using me like his very own fuck toy.

      Something else exploded in me then. Something so bright and sharp and beautiful that I wanted to grand jeté straight into the center of it. I wanted to spin around and around and around until I became it.

      I wanted this to last forever.

      Still he lifted me, then slammed me down against him. Faster and faster. Harder each time.

      I didn’t know if it was aftershocks or a new tremor all its own, but I shook. Each slam of my body against his, with his cock so deep inside me, made my whole body hum in a sort of startled delight that spread everywhere until I was lit up with it.

      And inside, I understood exactly what it was I felt. What all that rawness and wildness was.

      Joy.