(c) Kelly Stock writing as Bea Paige

I shouldn’t step into the studio. I should walk the fuck away.
I don’t because I’m not a fucking coward.
Besides, Pen doesn’t feature in our plans. She’s just a distraction, a pretty one, admittedly, but still a distraction. If I’m going to work here, if I’m going to do what I have to do then I need to know I can be in the same space with her and not fucking crack.
Stepping into the studio, I’m drawn to her like a motherfucking moth to the flame.
Tiny.
I shake my head. No, not Tiny, not to me. Not anymore.
That’s over between us. It was over a long time ago.
With gritted teeth and fisted hands, I watch her dance blindfolded. Her skill is superior in every way. Gone is the girl who was uncertain of her talent and in her place is a warrior, a woman who dances with intent and purpose. I can appreciate that, even if I don’t fucking like it. Whilst the four of us have turned our back on dance, Pen has embraced it. She’s used it to make her stronger both physically and mentally. Every step she makes is fluid, every extension is focused. She plays on the music beautifully and it’s as though the music is being formed because of her and not the other way around.
Madame Tuillard was right to offer her a place at the Academy because this woman can dance like no one else I’ve ever seen. She’s a force to be reckoned with and that makes her dangerous to me.
Because I feel her passion and her fire.
And I don’t feel anything.
It sinks beneath my skin and seeps its way into muscle and bone. It sets alight that part of me I buried three fucking years ago. My dick might be hardening just watching her move, but it’s not that part of my anatomy I’m worried about. It’s the way my bastard heart slams inside my chest and has started beating as though I’m human again and not some monster who does bad things so the ones he loves the most don’t have to.
Fuck.
Kissing her at Rocks the other night ignited a tiny spark inside of me and now, now she’s fanning the flame without even realising it. Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not talking about fucking love. I can’t love. Not anymore.
I’m talking about feeling something, feeling anything other than cold, empty darkness.
When a person does what I do, there’s no escaping it. Yet here I am, and for the first time in a very long time, I want to dance. I want to dance with her.
She’s alive in a way that I’m dead.
And it fucking does something to me.
When Jeb challenged me to kiss her I did it without blinking. It was easy, but this. This is the real fucking test. I can kiss her, I could fuck her and walk away, but dance with her? That’s a different story all together.
I need to know I can do this, so I force my feet towards her.
Before I can even acknowledge what I’m doing, I’m behind her and grabbing hold of her upper arms, reveling in her shock as she stiffens in my hold. I can feel the heat from her body blanketing me and her scent rising between us. She smells just like I remember, like winter rain and heartbreak.
I almost let her go. I should let her go.
This is dangerous, but I can’t afford to back down. I have to see this through.
“Fuck, sorry,” she mumbles, attempting to lift her hand to remove her blindfold. Right now, she thinks I’m just another dancer who’s walked in on her, just a stranger with no knowledge of who she is or what she did to us.
Stepping closer, I slide my hands down her arms and grip her wrists against her sides. I can feel her pulse thumping beneath my fingers. She feels fragile even when I know she isn’t.
“You should let me go!” she growls, the Pen from old resurfacing. That scrappy little girl— who despite her size was as fierce as the rest of us—pulls against my hold. Something about that makes my dark heart fucking leap with joy.
She’s still fighting. Good.
I release my hold on her wrist and cup her left hand using my thumb to write the word no across her palm. She snatches her hand away and reaches for her bandana, but I grab her wrist and spin her around to face me. Her mouth pops open in shock but she doesn’t utter a word as I grasp both her wrists in one hand whilst placing the other on her lower back then pull her flush against me.
Her cheeks flush red, her lips part and my fucking cock stirs as her hips press against mine.
“You think I won’t fight back?” she growls, shaking with anger.
I smile because despite her words, I can see that a small part of her is enjoying this. That somewhere inside she’s trying to figure out who the fuck has hold of her and that fills her with adrenaline, giving her a rush like no other. Maybe I’ll give her a clue.
“Dance,” I growl, being careful to disguise my voice and keep her guessing.
The fact she doesn’t knee me in the balls tells me one thing and one thing only. She knows it’s one of us, one of the Breakers.
But which one?
“I’m not a puppet. I don’t dance on command!” she snaps back, righteous in her anger. It pisses me the fuck off.
“Dance with me!” I growl, gripping her tighter and relishing the way her skin rises in goosebumps. For a moment she wars with herself. Given her history, Pen hates to be manhandled. I should feel guilt about what I’m doing. I don’t.
“Okay,” she replies and my dark heart fucking sings.
Work Song by Hozier still plays on a loop and his haunting voice settles over us both as I lower her backwards, still holding her wrists in mine. With my own pulse rushing loudly in my ears, I wait to see what she’ll do. Will she fight every move, or will she relax and trust me? Right now I could drop her arse. I could do it. I could drop her like she dropped us, but I don’t because right at the moment I’m considering it, she lets out a breath and relaxes in my arms. She trusts me, and I reward her for it.
Letting her wrists go, I free her from my grasp and fold over her body, supporting her. My face hovers over her chest, my mouth just and inch away from her skin. I have a sudden, overwhelming urge to press my lips against her collarbone and taste the slickness of her sweat there. Of course, I don’t.
I’m playing with fire here, and I sure as fuck don’t want to get burnt. With her supple body in my arms I slowly draw her upright against me, surprised when she doesn’t reach for her blindfold, but grasps my shoulders instead.
“Why?” she asks, her voice no more than a whisper.
Why?
It’s a question with many answers, none of which I will provide the answer to. I’ve learnt many things over the past three years, but the most valuable lesson is to always keep the enemy guessing because when all is said and done, Pen is not my friend and that, that makes her my enemy. There’s no in between. Not for us. There can’t be.
Stepping into her, I place my right leg between her thighs, my left caging her. My half mast cock, jumps at the contact, at the fact it’s pressed up against her hip. I tell it to calm the fuck down. Then I tell myself this is just a basic, animal need, that this is my body’s reaction to a pretty woman with a killer body and nerves of steel.
Slowly I bend my knees and lock her thigh between mine then sway my hips from side to side. Like a true dancer, she instinctively knows to follow my movements, and her glorious body moves sensually as I slide my hands firmly up her torso, arranging her arms in a bachata hold. Her cheeks flush pink, her mouth once again parts and I can see her expression change from confusion, to suspicion, then to recognition as I slide my hand around her back and press my thumb into her spine.
“Xeno?” she whispers.
And right there, right when she breathes my name do I realise the error of my ways.
I should never have touched her.
I should never have danced with her like this.
There was a reason I didn’t choose her to partner me in bachata, because I knew if I did, I’d never be able to let her go. That no one would ever come close to the way she feels in my arms.
I’m a fucking idiot.
This is a girl I do not want. This is a girl who is not, and never will be, mine.
I let her go, burned by her touch, consumed by her fire, wanting nothing more than to dance with her, to come alive again.
I’m so fucking screwed.