The Drake Diamonds: His Ballerina Bride

“What do you think?” he whispered, and the atypical hoarseness in his voice scraped her insides with shameless longing.

Just this once.

“I think when this is over—” she leaned closer, like a ballerina bending toward her partner “—I want to dance for you.”

Chapter Seven (#u480fde13-6669-5c69-acd7-44a4a02c15ad)

A better man would have stopped her.

A better man would have asked the limo driver to take her back to her apartment instead of sitting beside her in silent, provocative consent as the car sped through the snowy Manhattan streets toward the Plaza. A better man wouldn’t have selected Mozart’s Piano Concerto no. 21 once they’d reached the penthouse and she’d asked him to turn on some music.

But Artem wasn’t a better man. And he couldn’t have done things differently even if his overindulgent life had depended on it.

Instead he sat in the darkened suite watching as she slipped on the ballet shoes she’d chosen at Lincoln Center, and wound the long pink ribbons around her slender ankles. He could feel the music pulsing dead center in his chest. Or maybe that rhythmic ache was simply a physical embodiment of the anticipation that had taken hold of him since she’d leaned into him at intermission, eyes ablaze, face flushed with barely contained passion.

I want to dance for you.

Artem would hear those words in his darkest fantasies until the day he died.

“Are you ready, Mr. Drake?” Ophelia asked, settling in the center of the room with her heels together, toes pointing outward and willowy arms softly rounded.

So damned ready.

He nodded. “Proceed, Miss Rose.”

The lights of Fifth Avenue drifted through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting colorful shadows between them. When Ophelia began to move, gliding with slow, sweeping footsteps, she looked almost like she was waltzing through the rainbow facets of a brilliant cut gemstone. Outside the windows, snow swirled against the glass in a hushed assault. But a slow-burning simmer had settled in Artem’s veins that the fiercest blizzard couldn’t have cooled. His penthouse in the sky had never seemed so far removed from the real world. Here, now, it was only the two of them. He and Ophelia. Nothing else.

No other people. No ghosts. No rules.

I want to dance for you.

The moment Ophelia rose up on tiptoe, Artem knew that whatever was transpiring before him wasn’t about ballet. This was more than dance. So much more. It was passion and heat and life. It was sex. Maybe even more than that.

The only thing Artem knew with absolute certainty was that sitting in the dark watching the adagio grace of Ophelia dancing for him was the single most erotic moment he’d ever experienced.

It was almost too much. The sultry swish of her ballerina dress, the exquisite bend of her back, the dizzying pink motion of her pointed feet—all of it. Artem had to fight against every impulse he possessed in order to stay put, to let her finish, when all he wanted was to rise out of his chair, crush his lips to hers and make love to her to the timeless strains of Mozart.

To keep himself from doing just that, he maintained a vise grip on the arms of the leather chair. Ophelia fluttered past him on tiptoe with her eyes closed and her lips softly parted, so close that the hem of her skirt brushed against his knee. Artem’s erection swelled to the point of pain. Had he been standing, his arousal would have crippled him. Dragged him to his knees. For a moment, he even thought he saw stars. Then he realized the flash of light came from the diamonds around Ophelia’s neck.

It didn’t occur to Artem to wonder about the shoes or how she’d known they would fit. Nor did he ask himself how she could move this way. Questioning anything about this moment would have been like questioning a miracle. A gift.

Because that’s what she’d given him.

Every turn of her wrist, every fluid arm movement, every step of her pink satin feet was a priceless gift. Then she stopped directly in front of him and began a dizzying sequence of elaborate turns, and he swore he could feel the force of each jackknife kick of her leg dead center in his heart. He could no longer breathe.

Artem wasn’t sure how long Ophelia danced for him. Somehow it felt like both the longest moment of his life and, at the same time, the most fleeting. He only knew that when the music came to an end, she stood before him breathless and beautiful, with her breasts heaving and her porcelain skin glistening with exertion. And he knew that he’d never witnessed such beauty in his life. He doubted he ever would again.

Without breaking her gaze from his, Ophelia lowered herself into a deep curtsy. At last—at long last—Artem rose and closed the distance between them. As gently as he could manage while every cell in his body throbbed with desire, he took her hand in his and lifted her to her feet.

She rose up on the very tips of her toes, so that they were nearly eye level. When she smiled, it occurred to Artem that he’d never seen her so happy, so full of joy. Even her eyes danced.

He glanced down at her feet and the satiny pink ribbons that crisscrossed her ankles in a neat X.

“I used to be a dancer,” she whispered, by way of explanation.

Used to be? Used to be was ridiculous. Artem didn’t know what had happened in her past, but something clearly had. Something devastating. It didn’t matter what that something was. He wasn’t about to let it steal anything from her. Or make her believe she was anything else less than what she was.

“No.” He took her chin in his hand. “Ophelia, you are a dancer.”

Her eyes filled, and a single tear slipped down her lovely cheek. Artem wiped it away with the pad of this thumb.

He wished he had a bouquet of roses to place in her arms. Petals to scatter at her feet. She deserved that much. That much and more. But all he had to offer was the ovation rising in his soul. So he did what little he could. He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a tender kiss there.

“Artem.” With a waver in her voice, she took a backward step, out of his reach.

For a single, agonizing moment, he thought she was going to run away again. To glide right out of the penthouse on her pink-slippered feet. He wouldn’t let her. Not this time.

She didn’t run, though. Nor did she say a word.

She simply reached her lithe arms behind her and unfastened the bodice of her strapless gown. Artem felt like he lived and died a thousand petite morts in the time it took her dress to fall away. It landed on his floor in a whispery puff of tulle, right where it belonged, as far as he was concerned.

She was gloriously naked, save for the diamonds around her neck, just as he’d imagined. Only no fantasy could have prepared him for the exquisite sight of her delicate curves, her rose-tipped breasts and all that marble-white flesh set off to perfection by the glittering jewels and the pink satin ribbons wrapped round her legs.

“Ophelia, my God.” He swallowed. “You’re beautiful.”

* * *

Who is this woman I’ve become?

By putting on the shoes and dancing again, Ophelia had thought she could be her old self just for a moment. Just for a night. But this bold woman standing in front of Artem Drake and offering herself in every possible way wasn’t Ophelia Baronova any more than she was Ophelia Rose. This was someone she didn’t recognize. Someone she’d never had the courage to be.

Someone who actually believed Artem when he called her beautiful.

She felt beautiful, adorned in nothing but diamonds and pink satin shoes. Beautiful. And alive.

And aching.

She needed him to touch her. Really touch her. She needed it so much that she was on the verge of taking his hand and placing it exactly where she wanted it.

She stepped out of the pile of tulle on the floor and went to him, feeling his gaze hot on her exposed skin. Then she wrapped her arms around his neck, rose up en pointe and touched her lips ever so gently to his.

Artem let out a long, agonized groan, and to Ophelia, the sound was sweeter than Mozart. She’d never had such an effect on a man before. She’d never considered herself capable of it. And now that she knew she could—on this man, in particular—it was like a drug. She wanted to see him lose control, for once. She wanted him as raw and needy as she felt.

She got her wish.

His tongue parted her lips and he kissed her violently. Hard enough to bruise her mouth. He pulled her against him, and it seemed wholly impossible that this could be their first kiss. Their lips were made for this. For worshipping one another.

God, was it supposed to feel this way? So deliciously dirty?