Maja Resnik had told Harper’s Bazaar that I had been born a performer.A star,shehad said. I had never disagreed with her. Confidence in my ability, in what I could do, and how spectacular I could deliver, came as natural as breathing. I admitted this as freely to myself as someone who could recite the alphabet does. It was great to have the ability, but it wasn’t fabulous, unless you were two. My mother held great disdain for mylaissez-faireattitude, but there it was.
Having Brando as my sole audience, one set of eyes, one heart, one soul, seemed intense to the point of madness.
Though the ballet can be described as sensual, the fluidity of the body and how it moves, the movements are too focused, too choreographed, to become aroused by it. This? This was different. My movements were sensual, slow, and romantic, meant to turn him on. I had come to learn that Brando enjoyed the slow burn. Though I didn’t think he’d mind wild and intense either—perhaps another time.
I had never moved in such a way before, and never for anyone else. I was exposed to almost burning, and I had never been so aware of a piece of clothing on my body—so cool and so forgiving. The silk barely touched my legs, only drifted, caressed as it moved with me.
The intensity made me feel unstable to the point of free; somewhere deep inside, this secret between us felt like a blossoming addiction. I could dance for him this way,only him, for the rest of my life and never feel loss at not sharing it with anyone else—ever again.
His eyes moved me, directing the shifts of the wind, me the helpless ribbon lost to it. The drumming of his heart echoed in my veins, rattling bone, trembling to the marrow.
I was born to dance this way for him alone.
The song ended. Another slow, romantic song took its place.
I stood on the other side of the room, hands clenched, knees weak. My chest pumped up and down with my jagged breath. My heart beat out an erratic tattoo. The whirring of blood in my ears made me think of storms that come in the dead of night.
My cheeks were tinted scarlet, but a chill clung to me, making me feel feverish. This visceral response from my body was not a result of the dance—I could have gone on for hours without losing my breath or tiring. It was because of Brando. The way he watched me almost felt as if he wanted to absorb me into his skin. If eyes could be labeled dangerous, his would belethal. Even in the candlelight, from across the room, I could see how they simmered, close to an inferno that I had never touched before. Around him, my skin felt as thin as paper, the blood in my veins fire.
He hadn’t even touched me yet. His will alone left me close to trembling.
Minutes disappeared and neither of us spoke. I willed my eyes to stay on his and not drop to the floor. When the silence became too much for me to bear, I broke it, close to begging for relief. I couldn’t have been more vulnerable even if I were standing before him naked.
“Say something,” I whispered. “Please.”
“Never dance like that for anyone but me.”
I hadn’t planned on it,were the words on the tip of my tongue, but I decided to keep them to myself.
Silence stretched the length of the chasm that separated our bodies. Until he leaned forward, elbows resting on his legs, hands crossed, his eyes intent on mine. “Answer me, Scarlett.”
“I won’t,” I whispered.
He nodded. “And you, Ballerina Girl. Tell me what’s on your mind.” His words were like the fabric of the dress against my body, caressing.
“You,” I blurted. Then I took a deep breath, releasing it slowly.Pace yourself, Scarlett.“My heart has been yours, consciously, since that night out in the snow. Given or not.” I spread my hands. “Yours. Tonight, I give you all of me.”
The heat from his want seemed to billow out around him, and I could see the mirage of his will, and again, like that night under the stars, the shape could be molded to my desires. And I would. I would wield that power over him. As daunting as the idea seemed, it was minute compared to the want simmering inside of me.
I had essentially known Brando Piero Fausti my entire life, even if his presence had been background music that hadn't registered in my mind. Above all else, I knew my heart and soul had known him a lot longer. He had been in me all along. History. Present. Future. Always. The connection stretched through him to the humming of my blood.
There was nothing else to convince me of. I knew our love. I knew the time was right. The gown on my body had gone from what felt like a piece of clothing to a wish made upon a star.
Seizing the moment, never more sure in my decision, I kept my eyes on his, slipping the silk from my shoulders, baring more than just my skin to him. The deep V translated into an open invitation.
“Is this what troubled your mind? Me wanting you? Because I do. I want you, Brando. More than anything.”
His eyes became more hooded, yes, hooded, but more…concentrated, focused. He stood, his tall frame throwing shadows over my exposed body, and made it to me in a few long strides. His hands came around my waist and we walked until I was backed against the wooden beam.
I breathed him in, inhaling some exotic, Mediterranean drug, the melody of his essence—wood smoke, bergamot, rosemary, lavender, and the undercurrent of candied chocolate. I studied his lips like they were a test, and then leaned in a bit, drinking in the smell again. It wasn’t enough.
Lifting up on my toes, I licked his lips, and there it was, the residual sweetness on my tongue.
His hands tightened around my waist, imposing, yet comforting. His hands were large against my frame, and warm enough to seep into bone. The hotness of his palms seared through the thin silk, and I almost expected the fabric to burn, to smoke, to leave blisters on my skin.
He licked his lips; the wetness shimmered in the candlelight. Placing his pointer finger under my chin, he used his thumb to stroke my bottom lip. His eyes seemed magnetized to mine. I had never truly appreciated how remarkably dangerous they were until this moment.
Not only were they lethal, but almost sinful. Indecent. Maggie Beautiful’s description of Luca Fausti turned out to be an echo of his gorgeous son.
