Way Too Far by Marilyn Cruise - HTML preview

 

Chapter 1

 

I’m sitting sprawled out in the splits in the dance studio at the von Wood Performing Arts Center at the University of Florida when someone enters.

I look up.

My heart is in my throat in one second flat.

Oh. Holy shit.

Wow.

Don’t stare at the newcomer, Anne! But when my eyes are drawn to him like a magnet to metal, that’s so very hard to do.

Holy hell he’s hot. Hotter than hot. The young man is GQ handsome times a thousand. Mid-twenties maybe. And that sun-kissed chestnut, curly, messy hair…? Oh, God.

My fingers ache to run through his locks and tug at them gently.

Or roughly.

God. I haven’t even met him, and I already know he’s nothing but trouble.

The guy takes a few steps into the studio and glances at the baby grand piano in the corner.

Funny.

He doesn’t look or walk like a dancer, so why is he here exactly? Well, he might not be a dancer, but he’s definitely in great physical condition with broad, defined shoulders and back, impeccable posture, and flat abs that hide beneath his loose, light blue, button up shirt. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing veined, muscular arms, and the top button is undone, showing off the pinnacle of a firm chest.

And just like that, my pussy is throbbing.

What. The. Hell?

Without warning, his dark, bottomless eyes find mine. I feel funny all over—a delicious ache that resides in my bones and lower abdomen.

Quick, look away!

Shit! I’ve managed to stay away from guys the past year and a half, and haven’t even found anyone remotely interesting or attractive, but with just one look from this stranger, and my lower belly fills with…lust?

Seriously, Anne. Get a grip!

I remind myself that these feeling aren’t welcome. And they haven’t been for a very long time. And they won’t be for a very long time either.

The end.

I glance at Suzy, my best friend and roommate. She’s a skinny, auburn-haired, chain-smoking, outspoken bitch as Paul, a dancer in our ensemble, says. He adores her, as does everyone. She’s looking at him, too, and her mouth is open.

Ha! I guess I’m not the only one affected.

It’s a very bad idea to look at him, but from the corner of my eye, I see Mr. Sexy just standing over by the mirrored wall, as if waiting for someone.

Who?

Not that I care.

This is ridiculous.

He’s so goddamn distracting.

Can’t he just leave already? I need to focus on my warm-up. And I will.

I mean, I am.

Over the course of the next few minutes, the remaining twenty-one Florida Ballet Ensemble members slowly trickle in. One after another the dancers throw their bags in the corner and sprawl out onto the dance floor to stretch. Thera-bands, tennis balls, and foot-rollers are dragged out, and the smell of tiger balm infuses the air.

Other than a few curious glances, most of them ignore the sexy newcomer.

In a moment of weakness, I look up. The young man glances my way again, and when our gazes connect, a ripple of desire shoots from my heart and down my core.

Shivers.

Everywhere.

Fuck.

His eyes are black—intense—and it’s as if a sea of passion sleeps beyond them—or slept beyond them, because now it would seem the passion is unleashed…toward me.

Shit.

This is not good.

So not good.

“Hey, Anne.” Paul, the dancer who is my Romeo in Romeo and Juliet jogs in a loop and gives me a mischievous smile, the expression he wears, I swear, like 99% of the time.

“Good morning, my Romeo.” I break eye contact with the hottie and offer Paul a smile.

Paul’s a nice enough guy, and extremely easy on the eyes with blond hair, white straight teeth, and bright blue eyes. He’s asked me out a few times, but I told him I’m not dating because I’m serious about my studies. He’s suggested we sleep together for the hell of it. There’s zero chemistry there from my end.

Besides, I’m just not that kind of girl.

Yes, I used to strip for a living, but I won’t have sex with a guy just for physical pleasure. When I give myself to someone for the first time, I want it to be because I love him and he loves me.

Call me old-fashioned, but after what I’ve been through, I want that real first time to be special.

Paul runs a couple more laps around the room, and then he heads for the barre on the other side—his usual spot—and performs a series of push-ups on the floor. His upper body is strong, and I bet if I tried, I’d be able to bounce a quarter off that ass. Literally.

The room goes completely silent and every dancer stands when Mr. E, our artistic director, walks in. My heart beats faster—nervously.

Mr. E’s white, thick hair looks messier than usual, making him appear slightly more like a mad scientist than on other days. His cane beats against the floor as he walks forward with a limp. I’ve received a whack or two from that cane in my early dance days in the ensemble when I wasn’t fully focused. Obviously, I’m always focused in his classes now.

Mr. E. approaches the stranger and… smiles? Mr. E never smiles.

Something is wrong.

Really wrong.

They even talk in hushed voices so I can’t make out a damn word. I glance around the room and the other dancers are quietly waiting. I think their ears are pinned too.

Mr. E finally looks up, his expression back to normal—stern.

I’m at attention.

“Dancers, please welcome Scott Fischer. He is our accompanist,” he says in that heavy Russian accent of his. He explains no more than that.

Our accompanist? For how long? For today? For a week? For forever?

Where the hell is Zara, an old, Russian lady who has accompanied our ballet classes since I arrived here? She used to play for Mr. E when he first started dancing in Russia and she’s not once missed a day.

Ever.

No one’s as good as her.

This can’t be happening!

This stranger, though he’s much easier on the eyes than the hefty, wrinkled old Russian pianist, he can’t possibly be as competent as Zara the Great, as we’ve nicknamed her. I exhale sharply as I squeeze my lips together. Dammit. My entire dance class will be ruined.

Fine.

Whatever.

I guess if it’s only for today, I think I’ll be able to manage somehow.

Scott sits down behind the black baby grand and looks to Mr. E as if waiting for his cue.

What…no notes? Obviously, the newbie doesn’t know the ins and outs of accompanying a professional ballet class. That much is clear.

“This is going to be a great class,” Suzy whispers as she glares at the hot new intruder.

“Just because he’s sex on legs doesn’t mean he can play.” Wait. Did I actually say that out loud?

Suzy’s eyes widen and she produces one of those deep, guttural chuckles and raises her right eyebrow.

Annoyed at my comment and her reaction to it, I place both hands on the barre and stare into the mirror.

Focus, Anne.

Focus.

Baby blue eyes stare back at me. Every day I’m thankful that I was born with an almost perfect dancer body. I say almost because the only parts of me that don’t fit the norm are my breasts. They’re a C-cup. Most ballerinas have a small A-cup or no cup to speak of—two raisins that stand perky beneath their leotards. I certainly wouldn’t mind it if they were smaller. It would make fitting into the size negative-four tutus and leaping across the floor a hell of a lot easier.

Mr. E proceeds to gives us instructions for our first exercise—pliés—and then sits down at the front of the room. I take first position and wait. Beautiful piano music flows through the room.

Beautiful piano music.

Huh.

Shivers.

All over.

Again.

In less than five seconds, I’m completely blown away by the breathtaking melody.

I’m not gonna look at him. I’m not gonna look at him. I’m not gonna…

My gaze steals toward the dude behind the piano, and a flurry of butterflies swarm in my belly.

Who is this guy?

I work through the exercises one after the other, the next melody even more beautiful than the previous one. Scott is an even better accompanist than Zara, if I dare say so, and that’s saying a lot.

Just then, I feel a sharp pain in my right hip.

Dammit. With the hot new guy here I forgot to take it easy. My hip has really been bothering me lately. I should have seen a doctor by now. But in our contract with the ensemble, it states we must provide Mr. E with any info pertaining to doctor’s visits. If he finds out my hip is injured, he’ll cut me from the role of Juliet pronto.

No way in hell am I gonna let that happen.

I remind myself to take it easy from now.

Scott’s eyes scan the room, stopping briefly at each dancer.

For the love of God, just don’t look at me. Gah! The instant his gaze meets mine across the vast room, it’s as if time has stopped.

Oh, fuck. His eyes. Intense. Demanding. So passionate I find it difficult—no, impossible to look away.

I’m still staring.

This. Is. Disturbing.

The longer we hold each other’s gazes, the deeper I’m drawn into his nearly penetrating stare. Shit, it’s almost as if he commands some unforeseen power over me that won’t let me go until he says it’s time to. God, I want to stop moving because my limbs feel like jelly. But Mr. E will kick my ass and then some. I force myself to continue.

The music stops, and somewhere in my consciousness it registers that the exercise has ended. I finally manage to avert my gaze when I recognize it’s time to do the exercise to the left.

I perform the combination on the other side, my eyes trained to Suzy’s auburn bun as I try not to wonder if he’s still staring at me, which would be completely and utterly inappropriate.

Thankfully, I manage to get through barre without looking at the newcomer again, although I can’t get the image of his eyes out of my head. I change into my pointe shoes along with the rest of the female dancers and head to the centre.

Combination after combination, I do the best I can, but for two reasons, I can’t give one hundred percent. First, the pain in my right hip is becoming too severe to ignore. Second, Scott’s eyes follow me, his dark irises causing me to lose concentration. His stare literally makes me feel as if I’m dancing naked.

Naked.

No! Naked thoughts lead to naked actions, and those types of actions will not be taken no matter how much my body craves it. I’m focused on my dance career now. And men are the number one hindrances to said career.

After I complete a diagonal combination, I end up right in front of the baby grand piano. And there’s the eye contact again. And the breathlessness. The look in his eyes is intense, possessive, raw.

Sexual. Too sexual.

I grit my teeth and frown at him, hoping he’ll take the hint and stop staring.

Halfway through one of the pirouette combinations, Mr. E tells Scott to cease playing.

Finally! Mr. E must have noticed Scott’s unsuitable ogling, and will ask the charlatan to stop gawking.

But when Mr. E glares at me through his heavy-rimmed rectangular spectacles as if I’ve ruined his entire year, I immediately know that Scott’s ogling addiction was not why he stopped the music.

No.

That look is the one he gives someone before reaming them out.

 

* * *

 

“Anna, is everything ok?” Mr. E asks me.

Even though I’ve reminded Mr. E at lease a dozen times that my name is Anne, not Anna, he still calls me Anna. I try to ignore the other dancers who have turned toward me, their faces filled with sympathy.

They know what’s coming.

As do I.

What do I say? I’m off because my hip hurts and I’m off because I can’t focus with the new piano dude staring at me as if he’s undressing me with his eyes? No way.

“I just think I’m coming down with something,” I mutter. Remain calm, Anne!

“You pulling everyone, everyone down with such lazy dancing. Legs not high enough, falling out of pirouette, frown in the face…” Mr. E throws his hands into the air. “Do you need go home?” He leans on his cane while gripping it with both hands. White knuckles.

Ugh. “I would prefer to just work through it,” I say.

“No half-ass dancing are allow in here. Especially dancer who have receive principle role of Juliet.” He huffs, leans back with the grace of a dancer, and crosses his ankles. He beats his cane into the floor and shoots me a glare again. “Understand?”

Dancing Juliet has been my dream role for forever. His message is clear. If I don’t shape up this instant, he’ll cut me. I glance at the unwelcome visitor who has his eyes glued to my chest. Stop staring, you asshole! “I’ll do better.”

“Good.” Mr. E glances at Scott and gestures with his arm. “Again!”

Swallowing my pride, I walk back to the corner—the beginning point of this combination—and start over. I work through every combination as best as I can and avoid looking at Mr. sex-eyes behind the piano. Cause he doesn’t deserve my attention.

When we perform the final bow, Mr. E waves for me to approach him. Shit. I’m in big trouble now. It’s never a good thing when he wants to talk to one of the dancers after class.

Or like ever.

I drag my feet over to him as I wipe the sweat off my brow and paste on as pleasant a look on my face as I can muster.

“What the hell you think you doing?” he asks.

I stand frozen for a moment. I swallow hard. “Sorry, Mr. E, I…”

“Perhaps there’s something wrong with your hip?” Scott asks, approaching us. His voice is deep and washes through me like a warm flood of pleasure. “Your right hip?”

I scowl at him with as much intensity as I can muster. However, when our gazes connect, I’m not in the least prepared for how my body detonates into a million little butterflies.

Damn.

This close, he’s even more handsome. Handsome doesn’t even cover it.

No words cover it.

“No!” I snap. Fuck, he noticed, which might mean others have noticed, too. “My hip is just fine.”

“You come back Monday and dance same way, I give you role to understudy,” Mr. E says, tapping my leg with his cane.

Suzy is my understudy and Cristoff, the tall, quiet redhead from our dance ensemble, is Paul’s. It’s not that I don’t want Suzy to have the opportunity to perform Juliet, it’s just I’d be devastated if I lost a role I had worked so hard to get.

“I understand.” I glance at Scott again, and when he lifts an eyebrow, heat flushes from my cheeks to straight between my legs.

Shit.

He has to be gone by Monday. I have sacrificed too much to have some random punk ruin everything.

“Now go eat lunch before rehearsal begin.” Mr. E waves me away as if I’m some pesky mosquito spoiling his day.

I curtsy to him, completely ignore Scott, and head over to Suzy who’s sitting on the floor by our bags next to the exit door.

“What was that all about?” she whispers once I sit down next to her.

“Mr. E is upset I couldn’t give it my all today,” I reply. “He threatened to give my role away if I didn’t improve by Monday.”

“Oh, God. I’m so sorry, sweetie. He’s so mean. Russian mean.” She undoes the ribbons around her pointe shoes. “Are you feeling ok? You did look to be a little off today.”

Swell. Just swell. She noticed, too. “Maybe I’m coming down with something.” I pull off my pointe shoes and toss them into my bag.

“And it doesn’t help to have Mr. sexy pianist over there either. I could barely focus during class,” she says.

Ha! Good. It wasn’t just me then.

“So, are you coming out dancing with us tonight at The Bay?” Suzy asks.

I press a smile as if the thought entices me even just a little, which it absolutely doesn’t, and she knows it. Besides the whole staying-away-from-guys-because-of-my-dance-career thing, God knows I don’t need any more trouble, and it seems whenever men come into my life, that’s when the trouble starts.

“No thanks,” I say. “I need to catch up on some homework. And get some rest.”

“Please, Anne.” She hangs on my arm for a second, her eyebrows rising. “There will be lots of cute guys there.”

“Which is exactly why I won’t be going,” I say. “And I’m truly not feeling well.”

She raises an eyebrow as if she doesn’t believe me. “Seriously, you really need to have some fun.”

“Dancing is my fun,” I say.

She huffs and rolls her eyes. “Or your obsession.”

She’s knows me too well. She also knows almost everything about my past—the good and the bad… although not the unspeakable—and still loves me to pieces. In fact, we’re like peas in a pod, always arriving at and leaving ballet classes, rehearsals, and school together. Ever since what happened last year, I feel uncomfortable being alone in public.

“You’re obsessed, too. Admit it,” I say with a smirk, pointing and flexing my feet.

She chuckles. “I know. But at least on weekends I let myself loose.”

I slip on my hot pink velour warm-ups and head for the door with Suzy so we can grab a bite to eat before rehearsal.

“Excuse me. Anna, is it?” says a deep voice behind me.

I swivel around and Scott is standing there. I turn breathless in an instant, but force myself to keep my expression impassive. After about five seconds, I realize I haven’t said anything. A few more seconds pass. And a few more.

And all I can manage to do is stare at the god of a man before me.