Page 8 of Forbidden Dance
Blitz holds the door open for me. I slip through it and move past another mother-daughter pair about to go inside. This woman recognizes Blitz instantly, and despite the oversized diamond on her finger, she sidles up ridiculously close. “Blitz Craven? FromDance Blitz? Oh, my lucky stars!”
Her drawl is never that thick on ordinary days. She’s so close to him that her rather impressive chest brushes against his dance tank.
“We were just heading out,” Blitz says, although he’s grinning as if making every female forget her husband is the stuff his good days are made of.
Despite the fact that I’m just as smitten as the rest of them, I manage to keep my chin high and flounce to the other side of the wide hallway.
Dance Mom doesn’t really want to let Blitz go, and her fingers trail along his muscled arm as he follows me. But her daughter is mortified, five years old and already sick of how her mother acts. She pulls her away and into the dance studio.
There’s a rush of girls and moms as the transition goes into full swing. “Probably not the best time for a tour,” I say. “You might get mobbed.”
“Where does that go?” he asks, pointing to the double doors at the end of the hall.
“Just storage,” I say.
“Sounds perfect,” he says, just as another mother recognizes him and looks ready to pounce. He jerks open the door and grabs my hand to pull me through.
I’m startled to the core when his fingers tug on mine. It feels so forbidden, so daring, like the love I once felt and lost. Like Gabriella.
My chest goes totally tight, making it hard to breathe. As we pass through the door and Blitz closes it behind us, I jerk away from his hand. I can’t let him think he’s affected me, even though he has. Just not for the reasons he might believe.
My breath comes in wheezes. The dust doesn’t help. Soon I’m sneezing and coughing. Blitz hammers my back.
“You okay, Princess?” he asks.
Princess? Where did that come from? I force my breath to slow until I can take in air easily.
The light is dim, just the shafts beaming in from the high windows along the back wall. “The switch is over there,” I tell him.
He looks around. “I sort of like it this way.”
He wanders among the ghostly shadows of the equipment. Small trampolines, stacks of mats, props, and racks of costumes fill the space. He picks up a top hat from a shelf and tilts it rakishly on his head.
“It suits you,” I say.
Of course it does. Everything does.
He rummages through costumes in clear plastic bags, then triumphantly holds up a scarlet corset. “This has you written all over it.”
My face flushes. I’m glad for the low light, as my cheeks probably match the color of the fabric.
“I don’t think so,” I say.
“Oh, but I insist.” He heads toward me, expertly unhooking the ornate fasteners down the front.
Everything about this sets me on fire. His expression. The hat. His bare arms, the shadows of his cut muscles in the half dark. He circles behind me to fit the corset around my middle, and I’m burning up from the heat of his nearness.
The boning fits snugly against my ribs. When he latches the first hook, his knuckles brush the undersides of my breasts.
I’m completely on fire. I want to back away, but my feet refuse to move. My breathing is shallow, and he has to know how I’m feeling. He’s so experienced. There is no telling how many of the women on his show he’s been with.
He grins at me as he works his way down. He’s so close, I can study his face, the shadowed jaw, firm lips, dark brows. His hair has a little curl to it, just enough to make the short cut fall in a wave. He concentrates on the hooks, his eyes down. He’s touching me. Blitz Craven has his hands all over me.
The corset tightens around my middle as he works, sending another rush of heat on a path to my belly. When he’s finally done, he goes around to the back to tighten the strings.
I want to ask him where he learned to fit a corset, but my throat is too tight for words. I’d sound like a strangled mouse. So I just stand there, listening to the whisper of the cords sliding through the metal grommets. It’s sexy, him dressing me, as if we’re a couple and he’s preparing me to go out onstage to perform.
Or maybe to wear something just for him.
