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My gaze returns to Emma and I reach for her hand.
Her eyes widen, and her head shakes slightly as she mouths the words ‘what are you doing.’ But after a glance at her eagerly nodding friend, she takes it and I help her up onstage.
“This is Emma,” I announce with my mic. “And it’s her birthday.”
I glance over at Emma, her cheeks are flush, and though her eyes look like she might want to kill me right now, she’s also biting back a smile.
“She is ready to go out and party. But, unfortunately,” I say, my voice turning stern, “Emma has detention.”
Wild cheers escape the audience. Cue “Bad Teacher.”
“Emma didn’t bring an apple for the teacher.” I pause, letting the audience play up the situation with a chorus of boos. “Instead, she brought me a peach.” Taking her elbow in my hand, I gently rotate her one hundred and eighty degrees, until her ass is facing the audience. “A juicy, ripe peach,” I announce, waving a hand near Emma’s gorgeous ass.
High-pitched screams fill the theater.
I turn my mic off, then lead a tipsy Emma over to the desk. She sways one way, but my firm grip on her elbow corrects her path. The music, which had faded to the background while I talked, returns to full volume.
“Is this okay?” I ask, uncertainty starting to edge into my brain.
Emma nods in approval. My hands wrap around her waist and lift her to the edge of the desk. “You can touch me if you want, but you don’t have to.”
It’s the standard statement I’ve told every person I’ve danced for. It’s always up to the woman or man, they can do what they’re comfortable with. With Emma, I’m dying for her to touch me. To feel that same electricity I felt when she touched me on the roof.
“Okay.” I see the word on her lips more than I hear it. The sound of Emma’s voice is lost beneath the music and crowd noise.
Typically, I can do this three minute and thirty-two second routine in my sleep. I do it twice a night, five nights a week. However, I’ve never danced for a woman that I know. And that’s the strange part, I don’tknowEmma, but talking to her on the roof, hearing the excitement in her voice about her fashion show, and then the sadness about her ex-boyfriend getting engaged, on her birthday no less, I know she’s feeling vulnerable right now, and all I want to do is protect her. It’s the way I feel about Sophie, except that’s not exactly right, because the protectiveness I feel toward Emma is in no way brotherly. The entire time she was talking to me on the roof, I couldn’t stop staring at her lips.
That doesn’t matter. I can’t have her myself, I never cross that line, but the least I can do is prevent Dallas from preying on her tonight. After tonight, she’ll be headed back to New York. She’s got a successful career to look forward to and hopefully in time she’ll find a guy worthy of her attention.
This dance is all I can offer her.
I pull my gaze away from Emma’s distracting lips and focus on the routine.
Glasses discarded.
Blazer stripped off.
But when Emma gets playful pulling at my tie, I almost break character and crush my mouth to hers. It would be unprofessional and Rita would disapprove, but maybe it would be worth it since I’ll be leaving soon anyway.
It takes me a moment to remember where I am in the routine. To clear the thoughts of what I imagine doing to Emma if there wasn’t an audience.
I yank my tie off, followed by my shirt; the snap buttons easily release. This is the point where the women I dance for either giggle and seem shy or put their hands on me and flirt, but Emma looks confused. She’s studying me, my face, not my naked torso, like she’s trying to figure something out.
“You okay?” I call near her ear to be heard over the music.
A smile spreads across her face, and she nods. “Yeah.”
A moment later, her hands find my chest, and the feel of her palms against my skin sends a shockwave of electricity through my body. Her fingers brush against my nipples, then lower, her fingernails lightly scraping against my abdominals. Below my waistband, my cock stirs. The jolt of arousal is surprising. I don’t get aroused dancing for random women. This never happens.
The sensation of Emma’s hands on me has somehow caused my brain to shut off. The part of my brain where this routine is stored has suddenly become inaccessible. My brain tells my eyes to look away from her, to look at something else to regain my focus, but my brain isn’t in charge right now.
All my practiced moves are gone, chased out of my head by the brown-eyed beauty in front of me. Unable to look away from Emma, my rhythm falters.
There’s nothing routine about dancing for Emma.
I move through the routine, rolling my hips slowly, leaning in toward Emma’s body. Rita’s choreography is sexy, designed to give women the fantasy of being with the man on stage, without the consequences of getting physical. It’s embarrassing to admit how long it’s been since I had sex.
By the time the track hits the last thirty seconds, I’m so turned on thinking about Emma’s mouth on me, that I’m full on improvising this routine. I think I’m still dancing and I can vaguely hear the crowd screaming. Until the final chorus hits and I finally remember where I’m at.
