Dance for Me (Fenbrook Academy #1) - New Adult Romance by Helena Newbury

of the cellar. I felt his eyes on my legs.
    Of course he looked at your legs. He’s a man. That doesn’t mean—
    “What would you like me to dance?” I asked, as much to silence my own thoughts as anything. I took my pointe shoes from my bag and then dumped it and my clothes out of the way.
    “Your choice,” he told me. “Nothing that’ll be too uncomfortable on the floor.” He stepped back and stood against the wall.
    That threw me. Him choosing would almost have been easier, because now I had to pick between pieces I knew solid choreography for and could do really well and the ones I truly loved but wasn’t as good at. I debated as I sat on the floor wrapping the ribbons around my ankles. In the end, I picked something in the middle. I loved it, I was pretty good at it, and there wasn’t too much that would be problematic on the concrete floor.
    He handed over his phone, set up like a remote for his music system, and I scrolled through until I found the piece I wanted. A few seconds later, the first bars filled the room, the notes drifting and echoing in the huge space.
    I was moving, almost without thinking about it. This wasn’t like the audition. There was no pressure to be the best and there were no inscrutable judges watching. I could almost have been on my own, dancing for pleasure.
    I stepped, sank into the plié and glided into the turn, pushing harder than I normally would because of the concrete’s friction. And then I made the mistake of looking at him.
    And suddenly, it was different again.
    It wasn’t that he was looking at me with lust—at least, not on the surface. His eyes were as pure and clear as they’d been before, drinking in the movements and the flow. It was that he was watching me so intensely, relying on me to deliver...something. Inspiration? I couldn’t imagine inspiring anyone.
    It wasn’t like a rehearsal, because I was alone. It wasn’t like solo practice, because when I got a step not quite right or didn’t nail a turn, I couldn’t go back and try it again. I was performing. For him.
    It wasn’t the most challenging dance, especially that first section. So why was my heart racing? Why could one person make me nervous, when I’d danced for full theaters in our end-of-year shows?
    I could feel his eyes on the shape of my extended leg as I leaned into a six o’clock arabesque, on the line of my arm as I straightened up. He wasn’t just watching, he was absorbing, in some way I couldn’t fathom, and whenever I messed up I felt like I was feeding him false information. It shouldn’t be like that! It should be like this!
    I felt like I was in a spotlight, in the very center of a massive stage and instead of an invisible audience I could forget about, I was being watched by the one guy I wanted—needed—to impress.
    Yet something made it bearable, kept me teetering on the knife edge of tension without tipping over. When I made a mistake, he never did that little hiss of breath, never made me feel I’d got it wrong. He just watched, without judging and without commenting. I’d never seen someone so lost in the beauty of dance.
    And gradually, I started to relax. My steps became more assured, my moves more graceful. When it came together, I actually felt lighter, the little glides of each bourrée almost effortless. I risked a few small jumps, careful on the concrete but wanting to give him something he’d remember. For the first time in my life, I was dancing not for an audience or for a judge or to play my part in a group, but for someone.
    I was doing it to please him. A little flutter in my chest.
    I was doing it to give him pleasure. A sudden, darker heat, lower down.
    I realized I was only an arm’s length from him. My last few steps had taken me forward, and normally I would have been near the front of the stage, staring out into the blackness. But here, in this underground room, it put me right up close to him. We locked eyes, and I was breathing harder than I