HER PRIVATE DANCER Page 13

  "Hold me," she gasped and slid her arms around his neck, pulling her breast from his mouth. He returned her hug, his own arms around her back pressing her closer. Her left foot was still on the tub and he cupped her thigh, lifting her into him. He pressed steadily and with another breathtaking undulation of her hips, he sank deeper into her heat. Slowly, he pulled out, then rocked in, back and forth, back and forth, each time pressing in a little more, until, after what seemed like an eternity, he was almost completely buried in her silky core.

  "That's it … that's it. I'm almost done. Just don't move," he was saying.

  She gasped out, "That's not the problem," then wriggled and pulled back her hips only to push him in as deep as he could possibly go.

  Trace closed his eyes and let his head fall back. His arousal pulsed inside her tight sheath, each beat coursing up his entire length to the crown, until the head of his penis throbbed. The pleasure was indescribable and he gritted his teeth, afraid he'd come if she even breathed too hard. "Don't move," he warned. "Not yet. Not yet." She nodded, the movement jerky, but her internal muscles kept tightening, quivering to accommodate him.

  He glanced down at her and sucked in his breath. His hands shook as he slowly dragged them up her sides, over her shoulders till he clasped her neck. He notched his thumbs beneath her chin and tilted her face up to his. Her eyes glistened, damp and shiny.

  The sight made his chest burn. "Am I hurting you?" he asked. His mouth hovered above her lips. She slid her mouth back and forth beneath his as she shook her head no. He knew why she cried, and cupped her face then kissed her. He licked soft and deep, pouring everything into the glide and swirl of his tongue and lips that he was too scared to think let alone say out loud. Pressure squeezed behind his ribs because this just felt so good and right.

  Eventually, though, Phoebe began to have ideas of her own, apparently impatient with the pace he'd set, and she started to run her hands up his back then over his biceps, charting each muscle until he wanted to grin and ask her if she had them memorized yet. And then he no longer felt like grinning, because she'd gotten tired of that game and had started moving south, down over his backside until she'd charted that area to memory as well. Around her third or fourth pass, their kiss turned from emotional to carnal and Trace could swear that even his feet were sweating under the bathwater.

  "Wait," he gasped, her hands back on the move and now between their stomachs until her fingertips wiggled down to where they were joined. She swirled them around and around the base of his penis, searching and feeling where he stretched her flesh taut.

  "Can you feel that?" she whispered. "You fill me … all the way."

  He cursed, unable to say anything more coherent. He took her hands then and brought them to his shoulders. "Give me a chance here, kitten," he finally managed to say. "You'll give me a heart attack before the good part even gets started."

  Frowning, she bit her lip and rolled her hips in tiny circles. "If you don't get started soon, I'm going on to the good part by myself." She looked at him meaningfully.

  "Don't worry," he whispered, smiling against her mouth. "I'll catch up at the end." Then he nipped her bottom lip and sucked it between his teeth. Her nails dug into his shoulder and he caught her gaze and held it as he dragged his length from her wet heat.

  Her eyes darkened and she moaned, trying to follow him with her hips.

  He gave a quiet laugh. "Trust me. I'm definitely coming back," and when only the head of his erection was left inside and she was moaning even harder than before in that deep, breathy way that made his balls clench, he pushed back into her, his pace unhurried and deliberate until their pelvises met and her curls blended with his.

  "Ohmigoshohmigosh," she mumbled breathlessly, her eyes glazed. He thought, yep, that pretty much sums it up, and painstakingly pulled out of her again. He rocked back and forth, his thrusts measured and steady in spite of her not-so-subtle hints to move it along already. He almost laughed out loud but knew his patience would ultimately be rewarded. Not to mention that if he went any faster he'd be gone with his first plunge.

  "More," she begged, a plea that nearly sent him over the edge anyway. "Faster."

  He clenched his jaw, then shook his head. "Slower…" And he forced himself to move in even deeper, longer lunges, but this ended up working against him because with each protracted withdrawal Phoebe had discovered that she could watch his shaft, glistening and wet from her arousal, slide between the lips of her sex. And watching her, watching them, as well as watching the show himself, sent Trace over the edge all the harder.

  "Yes, yes, just like that," she praised and he wanted to tell his little chatterbox that he'd known what she was after the whole time. Instead, he grinned and did what she wanted, how she wanted, whatever she wanted. Trace didn't care as long as he could feel his erection squeezing back into her tight canal with each drive.

  Phoebe pressed hard and moaned, creating a constant strain of tension between where they were joined. He could feel the weight of his testicles swing between his legs. Her nipples stab his chest. Her hot puffs of breath in his ear. Chills broke out across his skin and white lights danced behind his eyelids, and it went on and on, the pleasure stronger than anything he'd ever felt before.

  "Trace. You have to tell me," she said, her voice thready. "I'm so close. It won't happen unless you tell me."

  Once her words finally penetrated the fog in his brain he frowned, almost losing his momentum. And then it dawned on him what she was after and his lips slowly curved upward. He laughed then whispered low in her ear, "You're coming, kitten. Right … now…" And he was right.

  Her inner muscles clamped down on him like a vise, squeezed him with near-painful intensity. His hips jerked forward of their own volition and he plunged deep. He dug his fingers into her hip and thigh. And then he was climaxing with her, until finally, they began to ebb and his heart toyed with the idea of beating again.

  He could barely breathe, his limbs trembling, and if he moved, he'd fall. It was that simple, he decided as tiny after-spasms rippled through her sheath, gripping like a fist and sending chills across his skin.

  And then something clicked in his mind and he thought, I'm never letting her go. I can't lose her, lose this. Not again.

  And then he thought, Aw, hell…

  * * *

  8

  « ^ »

  Phoebe gingerly stepped over the length of coiled rope next to the curtain. She shifted her ridiculously light load of costumes, the hangers dangling from her fingertips as she made her way to the dressing room. Her high heels moved silently on the rubbery surface purposely designed to muffle the sounds backstage, yet still, all was eerily quiet some forty-five minutes after the showgirls' grueling practice had ended.

  A few more strides though, and Phoebe couldn't help but wince, and almost immediately her lips twisted into a smile. Just as she'd predicted, Phoebe ached in places that prior to yesterday hadn't ached in quite some time. She supposed dancing for hours today hadn't helped, but knew exactly where the source of these unfamiliar twinges could be blamed. Phoebe's mouth curved wider. But darn if it hadn't been worth it. And darn if she didn't want to do it again.

  "A woman only smiles like that for one reason."

  Phoebe jumped at the unexpected voice, her heart pounding beneath her ribs. Turning, she searched the shadows but her pulse only leaped faster as Sonny Martorelli stepped into view. Oddly, two words came to mind whenever she saw him. Big and square. His face, his nose, his body, his hands. Even his hair, which she still didn't quite understand though she was staring right at the brown, boxy locks.

  The man didn't have an official title on the Mirage, but was Mr. V.'s bodyguard and right-hand man. He was also built like a Mack truck—big and square—and presumably roughed people up on Mr. V.'s orders on a regular basis. Or took them out. Or whatever the heck it was called in Mafia slang.

  Sonny leered. "I could tell at practice you looked different … now I know why."<
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  Phoebe hugged the skimpy garments to her chest. Then she told herself to calm the heck down. She couldn't afford to appear anything other than enthusiastic at Sonny's interest.

  "Yes, well—" she glanced down at herself then licked her dry lips "—I didn't even recognize myself in this getup," she said, trying to smile. Especially dressed as a sequined bird of paradise, which on the Mirage meant a multicolored, spangled bra and thong with huge tail feathers barely covering her from behind. They'd even made her wear this big-feathered hat that kept slipping into her eyes every time she moved her head.

  Forcing herself to continue, she patted the bundle in her arms and spoke brightly. "The seamstress was very pleased. Nothing will have to be remade, so I'm all ready for my first show." She almost groaned. Like Sonny gave a rip about her costumes other than how much of her body they revealed.

  He grunted. "Good. But it's not the costume. I watched you practice."

  Phoebe swallowed. "Watched me?"

  He lowered his lids halfway, giving him an almost lazy appearance. "You were dancing different. The way you moved."

  Phoebe nodded stupidly and glanced around to see if any of the other girls were still here, but everyone had left. If she hadn't had to stay behind for alterations she'd have been long gone herself.

  Still, when she looked back at him, she forced another big smile. "I guess that's because I've learned the numbers and I really enjoy their style and energy. It doesn't take me long, but I always dance better when I'm not worried about stepping on someone's toes," she tried to joke but her effort fell flat.

  Sonny stepped closer. He held a blue rubber ball in his right hand. It looked like a racquet ball and he tossed it lightly in the air, catching it in his grip and squeezing it in his fist before casually sending it back up. The sound of it hitting his palm became almost hypnotic, yet oddly added to her agitation. She shifted her feet and glanced toward the dressing room.

  "That's not what I meant," he said, against the tapping always now in the background.

  Phoebe's gaze followed the bouncing ball, her pulse thudding at near triple its beat. "Oh," she laughed stiltedly. "All right," she said, trying a different tack. "I guess you caught me. I wanted to really knock the audience out at my first show. You know, give them something to remember." Actually, Phoebe was just hoping not to be pelted with rotten vegetables but doubted that would help her case. "So, Barbie and Daisy have been helping me with a few of the moves. I guess nothing gets past you." She silently moaned. She was babbling. Oh Lord, she might as well be wearing a sign around her neck that said Nervous Police Informant.

  His smile almost made her take a step backward. "No," he agreed. "Nothing does." The ball drummed on until she wanted to scream. His gaze ran over her again. "You know, I gotta tell you. I envy the guy whoever he is. He's definitely one lucky son of a bitch."

  Phoebe's mouth went dry. "I beg your pardon?"

  "Now, don't that sound classy?" Sonny laughed, making the little hairs on the back of her neck stand up. "And you can beg me anytime. I bet Tiffany knows how to beg real pretty, too. Did she teach you?" He caught the ball, the sleeve of his shiny, gray coat straining. The suit—with its wide, padded shoulders and tacky material that seemed to reflect every stray beam of light in the room—was so comical he could have come straight from central casting of Goodfellas. If the jerk wasn't so terrifying it would've been ridiculous.

  Phoebe stammered. "I—I don't know what you're talking about." Though after his multitude of thinly veiled innuendos she had a pretty good idea. It was enough to make her blood run cold and she strained to hear some signs of life from in front of the curtain. Surely there must be someone out there setting up for tomorrow.

  "Oh, I think you do, but you like to pretend, don't you?" He stepped closer. "Pretend about lots of things."

  "Pretend?" Her voice came out part squeak while her heart leaped into her throat. The conversation had veered off into a new and even more disturbing direction. But how could Sonny already suspect her of being more than she claimed? It didn't make sense.

  Sonny nodded. "Yeah. At first you come across all cool and prim, dancing stiff and holding back. But that's just an act, isn't it? Because no priss wears a smile like the one I just saw a minute ago." He shook his head. "Not after your first weekend in town." If he paused here for effect, it worked. "And today at practice, you danced like a woman who's had a man between her legs. And wants it again. Which means you're a lot more like your sister than I thought." Sonny narrowed his eyes, and if Phoebe wasn't mistaken, had begun to watch her with a certain amount of grudging respect. As if her supposed promiscuity suddenly made him view her in a different light.

  Heat seared Phoebe's skin from the neck up. If she wasn't already frozen in shock, she was pretty sure her jaw would be resting on the floor. She supposed she should be relieved that he wasn't on to the whole undercover-spying thing, but somehow couldn't work up the right amount of enthusiasm for his rather unsavory deductions, despite that they meant he perceived her as someone capable of pursuing the life of a showgirl. And even though Sonny Martorelli scared the crap out of her and was the absolute last person on earth besides maybe her mother with whom Phoebe wanted to discuss her sex life, a little voice in her head kept warning, don't blow it, don't blow it.

  She ignored the metallic taste in her mouth and pulled upon every ounce of acting ability she possessed. "Wow." Phoebe raised both her eyebrows, going for the sassy sarcasm Tiffany and the other showgirls had down to an art form. "That's an awful lot to get from a smile. But I don't mind admitting I have a lot in common with my little sister." Not a complete lie if you counted stuff like genetics and the address where she and Tiffany grew up. Phoebe shrugged. "I'm sorry if I acted otherwise. I was pretty nervous last week." She laughed and pushed the hair that kept falling from her bun behind her ears. "I was so worried about making a good impression, I must have done just the opposite."

  He narrowed his eyes and rolled the ball between his fingers. After a few moments he finally spoke, but there was a hesitation in his voice. "I think I might have an extra job for you this weekend if you're interested. With Tiffany gone and Remmie hurting her ankle, we're still down a girl. But … there's something about you I can't put my finger on."

  He paused again while her heart pounded out of control. Suddenly, her fear took a back seat to the carrot being dangled in front of her. Apparently, sex with Trace had been the answer to more than one of her problems. And as slimy and disgusting as Phoebe found Sonny, she seemed to have successfully stumbled across a way of getting hired for the party. She couldn't let this opportunity pass.

  "Sonny—" she cleared her throat "—the Mirage is a chance for me to get my career going in a new direction. Anything you can throw my way would be great. In spite of the impression I gave you last week, I'm looking forward to performing for an audience that can appreciate all I have to offer." She stopped there and smiled provocatively. At least she hoped that's how her expression appeared. Nauseated definitely wasn't the look she was going for but far closer to the truth.

  He nodded slowly. "Tomorrow night's your first show, right?" He began to absently toss the ball again. "We'll see exactly what it is you've got to offer and talk then." He shook his head then cocked his eyebrow. "Though, if I were you, I'd call your new boyfriend and tell him he's in for a busy night. He did more for your dancing in one weekend than you could have gotten from a month of practices." The creep chuckled lewdly. Before he left, he said, "And remember, Devereaux. I'll be watching you."

  Phoebe stared after him, the sound of the tapping ball fading as he moved out of sight. Then she heard Trace speak from right next to her, and all but leaped into the air.

  "If the bastard ever tries to do more than watch, I'll kill him."

  Setting her stupid feather headdress back straight, she frowned at Trace. "If he ever tries, I'll let you. Where did you come from?" This was the first time she'd seen him since yesterday when he'd left Tiff's apartment
, and just looking at him made her body tingle. A mental image of her writhing in Trace's arms flashed in her mind and she didn't know whether to grin like the village idiot or duck her head in shame.

  "I'm going to start as a bartender on the nights I'm not dancing. I told management that I wanted to pick up some extra cash, but it gives me an excuse to be around. I'm supposed to help stock the bar today. I figured while I'm down there with all the crates, I'd try to check out the hold again," he said, still looking in the direction Sonny had left. Then he glanced down at her and did a sort of double take. He let out a soft whistle. "That's quite a tail you got there, kitten. Or should I say Polly, and ask if you'd like a cracker?" Grinning, he slid his hand up the back of her thigh and rustled the feathers draping her mostly bare bottom. Then he palmed one of her naked cheeks possessively and she shivered.

  "Careful," she said, as a feather floated by in the air. "I think I'm molting."

  He laughed and tugged her against him. With her arms full of costumes, Phoebe had no defense when he pulled her pelvis into his. Not that she wanted one. He stared down at her and she licked her suddenly dry lips.

  "Here, let me," he said, and gently ran his tongue over her top lip, bathing the peaks along the upper line then slowly lowering to her bottom lip, giving it the same moist attention. His breath was warm and sweet and she wanted more. Unable to bear it, she squirmed one of her hands free from between their bodies and took the back of his neck, pressing him closer and deepening their kiss. He laughed softly but seemed happy to comply. He smelled wonderful and clean and like himself and she could've climbed right up him. He released her lips and she groaned.

  Trace smiled and nuzzled his nose to hers. "Hi," he said softly.