It had happened with him and Ashleigh. Almost.
But that was ancient history, and he’d stopped thinking about Ashleigh that way as soon as he realized she loved his friend. Rubio had his quirks but he did have a sense of honor, of goodness. He didn’t want to be like his father, for instance, who abused women, and dealt drugs, and died in a hail of gunfire when he pissed off the wrong man. He was not his father and he was not Petra’s father, and all of this was a huge disappointment.
When he tried to kiss her goodbye, she turned her head so he only brushed her ear. He grabbed her face and made her turn her head back, then held her chin until he caught her gaze. “One kiss, damn you. That’s the price if you want me to forget.”
She stiffened and he thought she would refuse, but then she let him take her in his arms. Her lips opened and they got caught up in the same magic of their earlier kiss. She sighed into his mouth and he pressed her to his front, groping her strong, lithe silhouette beneath the blanket. His fingers stroked over her tight, heart-shaped ass. He’d barely gotten a chance to know that ass. It wasn’t fair to offer up an ass like that and then deny him further access. The kiss lasted a long time, but not nearly long enough to suit him.
It was the most mournful kiss he’d ever shared with anyone. All of this was completely unfair.
Chapter Nine: Disturbing
Petra’s sleep had gone to shit ever since the Rubio incident. Not only that, but her stalker was writing to her five, six, seven times a day. She stared at the number of emails that had accumulated in the “Paulsen” folder. If anything, he was writing her more, not less, no matter how much she ignored him.
Whenever news about her and Rubio hit the papers, the influx of emails doubled or quadrupled. Even if it was just some generic blurb about an upcoming ballet, or a review, or some interview about their partnership on a ballet website, Paulsen saw it and emailed her about it. This Rubio guy is an ass. I don’t know how you don’t see it. Be careful—he’s bad news.
Another reason not to strike up some big relationship with Rubio. Any evidence of interaction between them seemed to incense Gary Paulsen, which was really scary when she thought about it. Her blood rushed faster whenever she saw someone with his coloring and build on the street. She checked the IP addresses of his emails the way Officer McGillivray had showed her, and scanned them for violent overtones, but the notes remained cordial. Cordial and creepy. She was creeped out all the time now, and lonely and sad. The only time she really felt okay was at the theater with Rubio, and then it was in a wistful way, because she still wanted him and he made it all too clear he was still available to her.
He gave her looks, glances, touches she knew were meant to remind her. They plowed through rehearsals for Giselle, a ballet that required a lot of angst and soul-gazing. Rubio danced Albrecht, the handsome, playboy duke who toyed with Giselle’s affections and broke her heart. As Giselle, Petra got to stomp around the stage in a soul-broken fit before dying at Albrecht’s feet. A lot of dancers found the ballet cheesy and melodramatic.
For Petra, it was the perfect time to play a role about losing her shit.
“Giselle is easy for you, no?” Rubio asked one day as they took a break from practice. “Easy for you to play the crazy lady.” He teased, but his voice held a brittle edge.
“And you’ll be good at Albrecht,” she said to get in her own dig. “You’re more or less playing yourself.”
Ruby ignored her comeback, tipping into a neat handstand before he vaulted down and sprawled beside her on the floor. His showy handstands and flips used to impress her, but they’d grown familiar over the past weeks. He gulped some water and then helped her stretch, offering resistance as she pushed with each leg. “Albrecht is not so bad,” he murmured. “He redeems himself in the end.”
“Because she forgives him? He’s still an asshole. It would be a better ballet if she didn’t forgive him.”
He narrowed his eyes as she lowered her legs to the floor. “She has to forgive him. It only has a happy ending if she forgives him. Otherwise, is just depressing and sad.”
“Like real life.” She picked at the edge of her pointe shoe.
He touched her knee, a soft, fleeting touch. “You sad, Petra?”
She shouldn’t have looked at him. If she hadn’t looked at him, he wouldn’t have seen the longing in her gaze. She looked away and busied herself re-tying her ribbons. “I’m not sad. No.”
“You thinking about when we were together?”
She shook her head, taking refuge in stretching even though she was already warmed up.
“I think about it,” he said. “Constantly.” He bent down until he caught her eyes. “You seeing any other guys? You getting sex? You probably need sex.”
She sighed and turned her back on him, but that didn’t dissuade him. He popped his head over her shoulder. “We could be together, you know. I think you’re out of balance. Too much work, not enough play. You have sad, horny eyes.”
She tsked. “I do not have sad, horny eyes. That’s not even a thing. Some crazy shit comes out of your mouth, you know that?”
“If you let me come back to your bed—”
She clapped her hands over her ears. “I know. Believe me, I know. Don’t say it.” She stayed like that until he drew back, a ponderous frown on his face. Let him frown. She didn’t need the temptation of hearing how fun and sexy it would be to hook up with him on a regular basis. She didn’t need to hear it. She knew.
He leaned back on his hands, studying her. She wished Gennady, the director, would call the rehearsal back to order.
“Hey, Petra,” he said in a more serious tone. “Is that man still bothering you? The one who sent the dead flowers?”
“No,” she said shortly. “Well, I’m managing it.” She didn’t want to pitch into that conversation, not when she already felt so bleak.
“He send you any other things? Things that are weird and creepy?”
She hesitated a moment. “No.”
That miniscule hesitation was enough. He could read her subconscious signals like other people read print in a book.
“What?” he prompted. “What did he send?”
“Nothing. He hasn’t sent anything else.” She didn’t know why she was lying. Maybe because confiding in him would bring them closer, endanger this necessary distance between them. She wanted to confide in him, especially when he looked so concerned for her, but she was afraid she’d end up throwing herself in his arms and acting like an idiot.
Rubio watched her, seeing far too much with his acute gaze. “If you need help—”
“I don’t need help, okay? Everything’s fine.”
He took a swig from his water bottle and flipped back into a handstand, clearly unconvinced.
*** *** ***
A month went by, and another. They did their final performance of Romeo and Juliet and opened Giselle to rave reviews. Three or four nights a week Ruby watched in awe as Petra danced the “mad scene” in front of a sold-out house, her arms flying, her long black wig streaming wild down her back. That damn wig taunted him. Too many memories. Sharing the stage with her was bittersweet bliss. During performances, she was his to control and to grasp, to hold and manipulate until the final curtain call—then she’d vanish into thin air.
He tried to respect the professional distance she wanted, even though it killed him to hold her so close at work and not be able to have her. He went to Liam’s parties hoping to forget, but soon realized no one measured up to Petra. It was a special kind of hell.
But at least she was right there in hell with him.
Sometimes he went out of his way to make her suffer. He’d give her a smoldering look or touch her a certain way he knew would arouse her. He’d spank her ass—playfully—even though Yves had warned him for years that it wasn’t appropriate company behavior. With Suzanne or Meredith or Hannah, he’d just give a light tap, but with Petra he flicked his wrist so he cracked her a lot harder than it looked. Wheneve
r he did it, she’d give him a look halfway between fury and ecstasy. It was the same look she gave him in his fantasies.
His life had become an endless, burning dream from which he couldn’t awake. If she ever gave him permission to fuck her again, he’d probably kill her from all his pent-up desire. He tried to vent his needs on other women but it wasn’t the same. Petra was the one he couldn’t have.
“Bonita,” he would say in his dreams. “Beautiful girl...” And he’d stroke her soft, white-bright hair, and touch her all over her body. He’d hold her down and spread her pussy lips and make her wet, but he wouldn’t let her come. Instead he’d cuff her hands over her head so her body was stretched in a long, delicate line, and then he’d make marks on her, sometimes with a whip, or sometimes with a belt. Sometimes with a long, elegant cane or a riding crop. She would beg him to stop, his beautiful ballerina, as she hopped on her toes, but he wouldn’t stop until she was sobbing in true distress. And then...
Then he would release her hands and take her face between his fingers and taste her salty tears. He would kiss her and squeeze her thighs, and press his palm into the hot crevice between her legs. He’d make her beg for his cock and then he’d thrust it into her. Sometimes in his dreams he rode her in a wild fervor, and other times he was cool and deliberate, tormenting her with slow, measured thrusts.
Sometimes, rather than dream-fuck her pussy, he’d part her ass cheeks and tease her bottom hole until she begged him to fuck her there. Or begged him not to, which he liked more. He’d push inside her tight asshole anyway as she whined and cried, and then he’d drive in and out while she struggled against him. Every noise, every plea aroused him beyond bearing. He’d pin down her shoulders, snapping his hips against her bucking ass—
“Ruby.”
He spun in the half-dark rehearsal room to find his partner standing near the door. He brushed a hand over the bulge in the front of his sweat pants. “Hey. I thought you went home.”
“Not yet.” She stepped inside, hugging the wall. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing? Some practice. I have energy, you know, when there’s no performance.”
“I know,” she said with a faint smile. A very faint smile. She was so sad, but he didn’t know how to fix her. He hated the way her body drooped.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
She forced a bigger smile. “Nothing. I just don’t feel like going home.”