Page 18 of Wicked Dance
The pop of the door.
“And this is where many of the props are kept,” says a loud female voice.
“Shit,” Blitz says. He yanks the satin bedspread off the mattress and scoops me up.
I can’t even say anything in my panic. He dashes to the back side of the volcano and shoves his knee against a latch.
A back section pops open.
“Will we reuse any of these?” another female voice asks.
We duck inside the tall cavity of the volcano. Blitz turns and closes the door. It’s pitch black in here.
“Who is that?” I whisper.
“Taya, one of the producers,” Blitz says. “I don’t recognize the other.”
Blitz spreads the bedding on the cold floor and pulls me against him. “They might turn on all the overheads.”
And sure enough, white light suddenly appears above us through a hole in the top of the volcano. It’s still dim inside the prop, but I can see the shadowy figure of Blitz.
Naked Blitz.
Naked me.
In a volcano.
“It’s fine,” Blitz says. “They aren’t going to come in here.”
“But our clothes are out there.”
He lets out a quiet laugh. “True. Maybe they won’t notice.”
God, the things I end up doing with Blitz Craven.
He runs his hands along my back and shoulders, massaging my anxiety away. We hear the muffled sounds of the women talking, but from inside the prop, we can’t make out the words.
I can feel Blitz behind me, still hard as a rock. After a minute or two of waiting, his hands stray from my back to my belly, and up to my breasts. “God, you are one hot thing,” he says into my hair. “Please don’t ask me to stop.”
I couldn’t if I wanted to. His hand reaches around for me, and I fall forward, propped on my hands. My fingers clutch the satin as he works me again.
“Can’t resist this,” he says, his voice strangled. He bumps against me from behind, then he slips inside and I gasp, my hair falling forward, my body on fire.
He works me carefully, his fingers tight around front, his body giving me long easy strokes.
I’m going to lose it again, I can tell. The air is warm and my breasts are tingling. Blitz is trying to stay silent, and so am I. But he picks up speed and I’m with him, pushing back, leaning down, wanting it hard and fast, and just like that I’m gone again, biting my own forearm, trying to be quiet.
Blitz’s face is buried against my neck, his own groans muffled. We breathe in tandem, still locked together, as the voices outside get a little louder. Now we can actually hear words.
“Some of these pieces are almost iconic for the show, like this volcano,” one says.
“Agreed. We’ll definitely hang on to this.”
Then silence, and the voices are muffled again.
Blitz pulls away from me. We sit together on the satin.
“How long do you think we’ll have to sit here?” I ask.
