out of the corps. Why?”
I shield my eyes against the spotlight on me and stare out into the vast darkness. I shake my head.
“Tell me!” he demands. “Why are you so distracted?”
I shake my head again.
“Are you still afraid of the police? I've told you I'll handle it.”
“No, Sir.” I am, but that's not why I'm tripping over my feet like some gangly teen. Finally I tell him. The words just spill out of me. “You didn't touch me last week.”
“Of course I touched you. We danced.” There’s a silence, and even though I can't see him, I imagine I can. And in my mind's eye, I see the light bulb go on over his head.
“Oh,” he says. It's the most smug, self-satisfied Oh I've ever heard spoken aloud. A moment later he says, “Put on the blindfold.”
My body responds to this immediately. The words put on the blindfold create a pulsing throb between my legs, and I'm sure this will be my new normal. It's a trigger, a prompt. Those four words slip inside me, make me wet like some kind of arousal drug.
I hope he doesn't expect me to do the new pas de deux with him, because I know I won't be able to focus on it. I put on the blindfold and stand at the barre, one hand braced against it as if I need it for balance just to stand. And I wait.
A few minutes pass, and he is there, standing behind me, his chest pressed against my back, his hand resting on my hand on the barre. He leans in close to my ear.
“You're going to be punished, and you're going to be waxed. And then you will dance the pas de deux with me without a single misstep. Do you understand, Ms. Lane?”
“Y-yes, Sir,” I gasp.
“Thirty-two errors,” he growls. “It's unacceptable. You're better than that.”
I need him to touch me. If he touches me, I can meet his demands for perfection. I can handle the pressure. What I can't handle is the thought that he might grow bored with me before I can prove I'm not a waste of his time.
Suddenly, his hands are in my hair, taking down the bun I so carefully put up. He runs his fingers through the long chestnut strands, letting my hair fall in loose waves around my shoulders. He pulls off my leg warmers and the soft canvas shoes.
I stand completely still as he slides the straps of my leotard down my arms. He takes the tights as well as he rolls the fabric down and off my body. When I'm naked, his hands reach around to cup my breasts. He tweaks my nipples, hard.
“Ow!” I cry out. But even though he just delivered pain, I'm even more aroused than before.
“Shhh,” he says. “You have to be punished.”
I wonder if that counted as punishment for one of my errors. Are there now only thirty-one small agonies left before he moves on to the next thing on his sadistic to-do list? What is wrong with me that I crave any touch from him?
He takes my hand and guides me away from the barre. “Kneel and spread your legs. Forehead on the floor. Arms stretched out in front of you.” He helps and guides me into the position he wants me in.
“Stay,” he says.
I take a deep breath as he walks away. I've spent the last week obsessing about him, fantasizing about him, wanting him to touch me. But now, the reality of my situation crashes into me hard. And I'm suddenly reminded just how fucked-up this is. He's going to hurt me. Conall hurt me. I thought this man was in control, but now I'm not so sure. If he isn't, what does that mean for me? And suddenly I'm crying again.
He returns, and I hear something heavy being set down on the ground near me. Then he sits next to me and strokes my back and that sweet spot on my neck, the same way he touched me in the shower two weeks ago.
“Shhh, you're safe,” he says. Which is so completely ridiculous. I am not safe. The police are asking questions. I'm kneeling naked on the stage of an abandoned opera house waiting to be punished for minor dance mistakes by a man I don't know. This is as far as I can possibly get from safe. But if the words put the blindfold on make me aroused, Shhh you're safe makes my entire body