Dance for Me

Chapter Twenty-One

My heart stops dead in my chest and my gaze skates down Ransom's body. He's dressed in simple black slacks and a pale pink button-down shirt, and I can't help drinking him. It's like he was plucked right out of my thoughts and dropped into the room just to torture me.

What is he doing here? I communicate the question with a firm look, one that Ransom returns with a cool, even face that reveals absolutely nothing.

Defiance. That's what I'm labeling that look. He knows this is the last place he should be, the last place I would want him to be, but he showed up anyway. Annie once said he was a man abusing his power, and I have to admit, right now I agree with her. I wonder what he told himself to defy all of his rules and risk being here tonight.

Mrs. Jackson is giving him a guided tour of her students' work, pointing to certain aspects that she finds notable. He nods and murmurs a reply at all the right times, but each time he looks away from me, his gaze returns a heartbeat later.

The more it happens, the more my insides flare with heat. It's a demanding ache that starts in my chest as a flicker of nerves and travels lower until it's a burning desire for so much more. He scans my body, and to the casual observer, it's a clinical assessment. Just a professor observing art in progress. To me, though, this is foreplay. Annie may have been right, but I find that I don't really mind.

He's teasing me with his constant looks. And that hint of a smile teasing his thick, firm lips? He slays me. I can't stop the memories of him looking at me like that when he was inside of me.

It's impossible to miss the desire in his eyes, just as it's impossible to deny the mounting need in my belly as he moves beyond my peripheral vision. Unable to see him, my breathing grows deeper, heavier, and I have to double my efforts to concentrate on maintaining my pose.

"She's doing very well," Mrs. Jackson comments, and my ears perk up.

"I can see that." Ransom's voice is soft and husky. Unobtrusive in the otherwise quiet room, but like a pin drop, I hear every word.

"If only all of my models were as poised as this one. I'm tempted to bribe her into dropping your class and joining mine." There's a teasing lilt to Mrs. Jackson's voice, but I suspect she's partially serious.

"The semester ends in two weeks, Celeste. You're free to scoop up whoever you want then."

"Indeed I will."

"Do you mind if I sit in on the rest of the class? I'd love to see the finished products."

"Absolutely," Mrs. Jackson says wholeheartedly. "You can have my chair if you'd like."

I want so badly to turn and look at him. I can feel Ransom's eyes on me, staring at the slope of my back, the curve of my butt. The place between my thighs that begs for his attention.

When Mrs. Jackson calls for the final round of sketches to begin, I stand on unsteady legs and try not to focus too much on the moisture pooled between my legs. A fact that becomes impossible to ignore when she draws up a chair and tells me to straddle it.

I'm facing Ransom this time, unable to escape from that penetrating gaze. With as much brazenness as I can muster, I ease down onto the hard wood and prop my arms on the back of the chair, folding them one over the other. The air touches my exposed clit, and with my thighs split open, I am painfully aware of how aroused I am.

Mrs. Jackson artfully arranges my hair over my shoulders, so it cascades down my back, and then she gives me a perfunctory nod, pleased with her work, and disappears to resume her walk around the room.