His Love - Cassandra Dee Page 0,5

I completely lost my mind, dancing for the eyes of Luke Lyons? Had I thrown myself into the music, imbuing each movement with my heart and soul while wearing my emotions on my sleeve? Oh god, I’d probably humiliated myself in some unknown way.

Because after the applause died, I snapped out of my dream state, and the world was oddly normal. People stood in small groups chatting and laughing, while a couple dancers warmed up at the barre.

And as for Mr. Lyons, it was like he didn’t even know me. When I raised my head to steal a glance, he was turned in profile, chatting with one of the prima ballerinas, smiling at something she said. Had it been my imagination? Had the electric shocks running between us been pure illusion, nothing but a teen girl’s dreams?

Unfortunately, probably so because Luke didn’t bother to come over and talk. In fact, he didn’t acknowledge any of the junior troupe who’d just put on a show. He merely chatted with the senior dancers, touching base with Miss Lane before moving to the door, that big body massive and imposing. Oh god. My heart dropped to the floor. I really was a nobody. I thought there was a connection, but clearly that was nonsense.

Why would there be something? the voice in my head scolded. You’re an eighteen year-old newbie. You think he’s never seen one of you before? Get real. Girls come to NYC every year with hopes of making it big. You’re nothing special, Kitty.

I swallowed heavily, hanging my head. That was true - it wasn’t like I was a superstar or anything. I just happened to be the star of the day. Forget that. I was one of the stars of the day because there were four of us dancing in sync, and I’d been part of the group. So yeah, it had all been my imagination.

Swallowing heavily, slowly I changed my shoes, putting on a different pair of slippers as Miss Lane called us to order once more.

“One, two, three, one, two, three,” she chanted, leading the dancers through warm-ups as the piano plunked away. My muscles did all the motions, blood circulating normally, but my head was in the clouds. Because despite my best efforts, I couldn’t focus. Luke Lyons’s face kept reappearing in front of my eyes, distracting me from what I loved most in the world.

Kitty, came the voice in my head. You have to stop this. You can’t let a man hold you back from your dreams. You have to focus, focus, focus. You have a scholarship and it’s not going to last forever.

Right. So I pushed the distractions out of the way and danced, putting my all into the practice session.

But when we finally stopped for a break, I was never so grateful. Retreating into a corner, I grabbed my water bottle, taking a sip as Miss Lane walked over. Oh god, what was she going to say? That I’d acted really weird during this morning’s performance? That my warm-up moves were off, my body disconnected from my head? Ballet teachers don’t hesitate to chew you out, even if it’s in front of the crowd. Cowering inside, I waited for the hail of words to descend.

But instead, Miss Lane’s expression was curiously neutral, her voice detached.

“Kitty,” she murmured. “Mr. Lyons has asked to see you in his office this afternoon.”

I stared at her blankly.

“I’m sorry?”

“You heard me. Mr. Lyons has specifically requested a meeting with you. Three p.m.,” she said blandly. “I trust you know where his office is? Don’t be late.”

And with that, the woman glided away, leaving me dumbfounded. Why would the billionaire want to see me? Why would he want to talk with a girl who’d just joined his troupe not three months ago? I was nothing. I was less than a dust mite, just a shadow in the wings.

But then again, maybe he had felt it. Maybe it hadn’t been my imagination. Those blue eyes had seared my body, touching everywhere while caressing my belly, my nipples, and that sweet space between my thighs. Maybe, just maybe, Mr. Lyons had felt the magic … and suddenly, I couldn’t wait to find out.

2

Luke

Who had that girl been? The curvy one, the one with the ripe tits and soft, plush ass? Because most of the girls in the troupe are undersize. They’re gristly and sinewy, like a chicken soaking wet. Don’t get me wrong because these chicks can kick holes in fences. They’re