Page 12 of Allegiant

“I’m not a celebrity,” I say, sliding effortlessly into the splits. I give a small moan at the blissful stretch along my hamstrings. “Just a dancer in a show.”

“The lead dancer in the most anticipated performance of the year.”

I lift my head to see Samson’s gaze lingering on my ass. I can’t help but grin at him in the mirror. “Shame, isn’t it? You could’ve had more of this, but alas, you left…”

Samson’s gaze snaps up to my face. There’s no embarrassment there, just a hint of regret. “I had to. It was the right thing to do.”

I swing my legs around and ease into another stretch. This one has my back arching off the ground. “Do you have some sort of moral objection to fucking me? Are you closeted?”

“Fuck no,” he says gruffly, scratching at his beard. “I’m out and proud.”

“Then what is it?” I drop to the floor and twist to face him. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re in a relationship.”

“Nope.” Relief floods me at his speedy response. “I’m single.”

“Good. I can’t stand the idea that I might’ve done something wrong.”

He studies me quizzically. “Cheating is where you draw the line?”

That’s an…odd thing to say. “Draw what line?”

“Never mind,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

“Neither do I.” I get to my feet and put my hands on my hips. “Weren’t you meant to be telling me that?”

“Telling you what?”

Is he being deliberately obtuse? “Why you’re here.”

“Oh.” He blinks and rubs his beard again. “I thought maybe you could teach me to dance?”

4

ROWAN

“That might be outside of my skill set,” I say. Samson’s lips turn down, and guilt unfurls in my gut. Shit. It wasn’t meant to be rude, but god, teaching him to dance? I could try, but his rhythm is off, and he moves like he has rocks in his shoes. But worse than that, I’d have to touch him, and touching him would be…

Well, I don’t know how much I could teach him when I’m on my back getting my cock sucked. Not that I’d let him. I have standards and such. Maybe.

Or maybe not.

“I’m not that fucking bad,” he murmurs, his eyes flashing to mine.

Guilt cuts sharp as a knife, so viscerally I can’t speak.

Samson fills the silence. “Do you always crush people’s dreams? It’s quite cruel if you do.”

That feeds the darkness inside of me, making it churn, ugly and vile. He has no idea the dreams I’ve broken. The lives I’ve ruined.

“Yeah, maybe you do.” He turns as if he’s going to leave, but I stop him with a small shout.

“Don’t go. I can teach you…or I can try. Just for a bit.”

He peers over his shoulder, his mouth moving like he’s muttering something to himself, but then he steps toward me, closer and closer until the other night is no longer a vague memory but vivid flashes of remembrance.

Fuck, he’s good with his hands and mouth and tongue.

“Don’t want to do this if you make fun of me,” he murmurs, and my chest clenches at the vulnerability in his voice. Fuck, how I wish I could take back my earlier words. What kind of dance teacher teases someone for asking for help?