Page 19 of Vicious Impulses (The Capo and Ballerina)
Only now it’ll be without the light my dancing has always brought me.
From the time I was a small girl, I dreaded what was in my contract. Aware I’d be bought and married to a man of means, I wasn’t one of the girls looking forward to the arrangement. It seemed like an extension of the control the dance company—and the Vorones—had already exerted over me and every other aspect of my life.
Love was never in my future; not the kind that was told in the fictional stories on the screen and in books.
The kind of love I was destined for was a contractual marriage where a wealthy man bought me as his wife, like he’d buy any other possession. The idea of love has only ever meant more control.
Little did I know, the reality would be so much worse. I’d be bought out of my contract and then given to another crime lord that seems even more vicious and violent…
Caelian finishes his drink and sets down the empty glass. He pins me with his first full-on look since answering the door. The primordial hunger returns. His gray, wolfish gaze eats me up even with the distance between us. He’s already devouring me without even having to touch me.
“You are very beautiful,” he says, approaching me. I’m his captive, unable to run or hide or do anything but stand still as he eclipses me. He lifts his large hand to caress my cheek, spending a moment studying my face. “It won’t be as bad as you’re thinking. Your life here with me. I don’t seek to hurt you, angel. I only seek to make you mine… and you are already. But tonight will put it in stone. Take off your dress.”
I glance down at the slinky white slip dress Ms. Poitier put me in, then up at him. The shock spreads across my face, my eyelashes fluttering in quick blinks and my lips parting. It takes a hard swallow to keep me from protesting his request.
He arches an impatient brow.
There’s no turning back. No escaping what’s about to happen.
I can do so willingly, with some pride and dignity, or I can let the barbarian he so clearly is take over. He’d be more than willing to rip it off me himself.
My fingers are stiff as they reach for the hem of my little lingerie dress and tug to pull it up over my head.
I let the expensive fabric spill into a small satin mound at my feet. I’m naked before him except for the matching pair of panties Ms. Poitier put me in.
Caelian openly leers. His wolfish gaze tracks over every inch of my naked body.
My arms yearn to come up and cover myself. I’ve never been naked in front of a man before. Even my physicians have always been female.
A lifetime of insecurity rolls through me. Ballerinas aren’t sexy. We’re not seductive like many women with ample curves. We’re dancers, meant to be light enough to toss around and grace the stage to tell stories with our bodies. No more, no less.
Though I’ve had many of Dresden’s Dance Company’s fans call me beautiful and express interest, I’ve never felt the sexual desire that seems to consume others.
My body’s small and petite. My breasts not even a true handful. I have hips and a backside that’s fuller than your average ballerina—something that’s always frustrated Ignazio and caused him to subtly insult me and insinuate I need a diet—but I’m not a curvy woman.
I’mnotsexy and never will be.
An eternity feels like it passes between the time I shed the lingerie and Caelian traps me under his appraisal. Even my battered dancer’s feet and beaten up toes are studied. Another flaw of mine I’m well aware of.
But, the next time his eyes meet mine, there’s a fiery spark in them.
He likes what he sees.
Caeliangrunts. “As exquisite as I knew you’d be. Take off your panties and then get on the bed.”
My breaths quake from my lungs as I do what he says. The pair of panties I’m wearing join the lingerie on the floor and I pad over toward the giant bed in the nude. I crawl on, feeling more awkward than I’ve ever felt in my life.
What do women do in this moment? Am I supposed to start seducing him? Do I wait for him to touch me first? Will a man of his size injure me? Should I say something about my inexperience?Would he even care?
I must look a frightened mess on the bed.
He’s disrobing when he calls me out on it. His button-up shirt falls away and his heavy hands work on the buckle of his belt. His attention’s on me as he sheds these layers, as if he expects eye contact at all times.
My heart feels like it’ll beat out of my chest at any moment.
“You’re nervous,” he predicts. “Understandable,bella. Make no mistake. Iama huge man. Taking me won’t be easy. But you can handle it… or you will learn to.”
I shudder at the ominous sound of the words and lose any nerve I have to tell him. He wouldn’t care anyway—he’d claim I’ll have to simply bear it.