Amorous Liaisons. Sarah Mayberry
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there’s nothing to worry about. Because I’m perfectly comfortable taking my clothes off in front of you. You’re one of my oldest friends, for crying out loud. We used to live together, we’ve danced together. You even held my hair while I threw up after Peter’s birthday party that time. We have no secrets, Max,” she said.
He opened his mouth to object, but she waved a hand. “No. Not another word. You were planning to start this morning, yes?”
“Yes,” he said grudgingly.
“Great. Then I’ll have a shower and we’ll get started.”
She was still smiling when she closed the bathroom door on him.
Really, he was too cute. Worrying about her modesty. Totally wasted on her. Her body was the tool of her trade. She’d performed with dozens of male dancers throughout her career. Hands had caressed, gripped, slipped, pinched and God knows what else over the years. Standing naked in front of Max would be a piece of cake by comparison, and about as eventful for her as going to the supermarket was for other women.
It wasn’t until she was standing in front of him, about to bare all that the first stab of self-consciousness hit.
She hadn’t bothered dressing after her shower. She’d pulled on Max’s oversize bathrobe, laced up the scuffed pair of ballet slippers she carried in her dance bag and stepped back into the main apartment.
He’d set up a stool for himself alongside a small table filled with charcoals, pencils and Conté crayons. A space heater had been turned on to ensure she wasn’t too cold.
She took up position in front of him. Then she suddenly considered that maybe there was a difference between dancing intimately with someone while hundreds of people watched and standing completely naked in front of one man. Even if he was a friend.
Her fingers clenched around the tie on the bathrobe. Her stomach lurched with nerves.
She frowned, trying to work out why she was feeling…well, shy all of a sudden. She’d never been self-conscious about her body in her life. She knew she was in good shape, not an ounce of fat on her, her muscles lean and defined. Okay, she wasn’t exactly a knockout in the rack department, but that had never bothered her before. Big breasts would only have gotten in the way when she danced, and that had always been the most important concern in her life.
But this morning she found herself wishing that instead of her half handfuls she had a little bit more action going on up top. Lord only knew how many women Max had slept with. She’d hate for him to look at her and find her lacking. Unfeminine, even.
She sneaked a glance at the bronze figure she’d admired earlier. Bronze Lady definitely had breasts. A good B cup, maybe even a C. Most of the time, Maddy didn’t wear a bra at all. In fact, she had no idea what cup size she was these days. Which was something of a giveaway in and of itself.
Good grief, girl, get it together. Who cares if you have small breasts? Certainly not Max. You’re a dancer, with a dancer’s body. That’s what he’s looking for. Not tits and ass.
She forced her hands into action, unknotting the tie and almost throwing the robe open in her haste to get the moment of exposure over with.
She took a deep breath and made herself look up to make eye contact with Max. The sooner they normalized this situation, the better.
But he was busy with his supplies, selecting a pencil and sorting his charcoals into order.
Okay. Good. She had a few seconds to get her shit together without him watching her every move.
She slid the robe off her shoulders, letting it pool around her feet. The air was cool on her naked skin and she could feel her nipples tightening. She smoothed her hands down her hips and rolled her shoulders.
“Did you want my hair up or down?” she asked.
Max looked up at last. His gaze swept over her body. She couldn’t read a single emotion on his face and she fought the instinct to cover herself with her hands.
“Up. I need the line of your neck and shoulders,” he said. Then he returned his attention to his supplies.
She stared at him for a beat. Then she gathered the length of her hair and twisted it until it formed a loose knot on top of her head. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest, as though she was waiting in the wings, ready to run onstage and perform.
What had she expected him to say or do at first sight of her naked body? Break into applause? Go slack-jawed with admiration? Spout poetry?
She couldn’t believe she was being so ridiculous. Juvenile, even.
When she focused on Max again, he was watching her, his expression still unreadable.
“How do you want me?” she asked.
He took a few seconds to answer.
“Let’s start with first position, and move on from there.”
She set her heels together and turned her feet out, joining her hands together in front of her and lifting them till they formed a gentle oval in front of her hips.
“Perfect,” he said quietly.
She kept her eyes fixed on a point on the far wall. She could hear the soft rasp of pencil on paper as he began to sketch.
Five minutes passed, then ten. The room grew warmer. She let her gaze drift toward him. He was bent over his sketch pad, his hand moving quickly across the page as he split his attention between her and what he was creating. She wanted to talk, to ask him something to dispel the uncomfortable awareness she was feeling, but he was so inwardly focused she knew conversation wouldn’t be welcome.
She forced herself to think of something else. Automatically her mind reverted to fretting over Andrew and her forced retirement from the company. There was no comfort to be found there, she knew. Instead, she started to make a mental list of her contacts in the various Paris-based ballets. She’d toured the country twice in her career and danced with several French soloists. Nadine, Jean-Pierre, Anna—they were just a few of the fellow dancers she could call on to ask for the favor of hooking her up with specialists. This afternoon, she would—
“Okay. Let’s try some variations,” Max said.
She blinked and let her body relax. “You’re the boss.”
“Third position this time,” he said, eyeing her body assessingly. His regard was slow, steady. “En pointe, for as long as you can hold it.”
“How long do you need?” she asked. She could hear the ego in her voice. He smiled.
“Not long,” he said.
He started sketching, then stopped. “Can you look up for me?”
She lifted her chin. He frowned.
“Try angling your head a little more to the left.”
She shifted. His frown deepened.
“It’s not quite right…”
He stood and moved toward her. She stiffened, quelling the odd urge to retreat. Almost as though she was afraid of him, of his touch. Which was crazy. This was Max, after all. Her friend.
She could feel the heat from his body as he stood in front of her, studying the angle of her head. With her hands raised high above her, her weight supported on her toes, she was as tightly strung as a bow. And very exposed.
He reached out and nudged her chin up with his finger. A little higher. A little more to the left.
“That’s good,” he said.
His gaze swept the rest of her body and she felt a quiver of awareness deep in the pit of her belly. That odd instinct to retreat hit her again.
Then he was turning away, striding back to his sketch pad.
She took a deep breath, then another.