Dance for Me by USA Today Bestselling author J.C. Valentine !!!!
Dance for Me by: J.C. Valentine Forbidden #1 Publication Date: April 7, 2015 Genres:Contemporary, Romance Amazon - PRINT - Amazon UK - Nook - Kobo - iBooks
Synopsis:WARNING: Dance for Me is the first book in a trilogy and ends with a cliffhanger. Due to mature material, it is recommended for ages 17+. What if the person who stole your heart wasn't who you thought they were? When my parents passed away, I grew up fast. Learning to stand on my own two feet has been a challenge, but I'm making it... my way. I make no apologies for the path I've chosen. My choices have served me well, but no one knows the real me. Except one man. He's a mystery to me. He's controlling, demanding, and he has me wrapped around his little finger. Anything he wants, I'll give it to him. The hours we share together aren't about love. It's just sex. Hot, dirty, passionate sex. It was never supposed to be anything more than that. Until everything changed. Now, I'm more confused than ever. The more I learn about him, the less I seem to understand. What I do know is that I'm falling, and I have the feeling when I land, it's going to hurt.
About J.C. Valentine
Dance for Me Book Trailer
EXCERPTS- DANCE FOR ME by J.C. Valentine
At the end of the stage, I grasp the gleaming silver pole and twist, pressing my back into it. The shadowed figures watching my every move hover in the darkness just beyond my reach, urging me on.
Slowly, I slide down the length of the metal bar, my legs bending at the knee and opening wide, exposing the glittering gold strip that serves as a barrier between their eyes and the most intimate part of me.
There is something about taking my clothes off for strangers that I find exhilarating. It’s the knowledge that all those eyes are focused on me, on every movement, no matter how small, and that I affect them. It gives me a sense of control, of power. I push these men to the brink, testing the limits of their willpower, and the only thing they can do is watch.
And give me their money.
Dropping to my knees, I crawl across the stage. Encased in stretchy gold fabric, my breasts sway with each movement, creating a hypnotizing effect. Men can’t get enough of breasts, and thankfully, I have plenty to flaunt.
A few feet from the end of the stage, when I have reached as far as I am willing to go, I stretch my arms across the hard, cool surface, like a cat. Making eye contact with the darkness, I’m aware that whoever is on the other side is meeting my gaze with strained desire. Easing onto my back, I lift my hands overhead and stretch my long legs into the air, opening them wide, and then closing them again. The arch of my back presses my breasts toward the ceiling. Imagining what I must look like—nearly naked, needyand wanting, my body moving and arching, calling for my love to take me here, now—makes me feel edgy and wanton. As if the little clothing I wear is too much, threatening to smother me.
I’m not an exhibitionist, but there are times like this that an almost overpowering need to push past my own limits threatens to consume me. It takes everything I have to pull back.
Rotating onto my stomach, I push up onto my knees, reach for the pole again, and pull myself up. With both hands, I lift myself from the floor and bring both of my legs up, swinging in a full circle. Bills flutter to the stage, and I feel my smile inch up, slow and seductive.
It is then that I feel Him.
I’d noticed Him my first night on the job about five months ago before I learned the importance of lighting. He stuck to the perimeter of the room, choosing the same table in the same dark corner every time. From what I could tell, he had long legs, he was tall and had dark, almost midnight hair. The air ofimportance that cloaked Him made me peg Him as a professional. Although he alternated between jeans and slacks, polos and button-downs, I remember thinking he looked like the kind of guy who should be wearing business suits—sharp, expensive, and tailored.
He isn’t a regular by any stretch, but he’s definitely a creature of habit. I’d only seen him a total of four times before I began plunging the room into darkness—and I’ve only felt his presence a handful since—but I never miss the short glass, two-fingers, neat. My stomach flutters remembering those dark, penetrating eyes focused solely on me, glued to my every move, every sway, reading my body like a book. I’d never been more turned on in my life than the day I laid eyes on him—a perfect stranger.
I rap my knuckles on the door twice—two quick, rapid taps. It’s our signal. Sometimes, I pretend that this is a little game we play to keep the intimacy alive, but the reality of it is that the man behind the door is more concerned with secrecy. It doesn’t take a lot of imagination to guess why.
I don’t know what possessed me to accept His invitation, but I’ve been coming here every second Thursday and every first Sunday for months, ever since he’d taken an interest in my routine. He knows nothing about me, and I know nothing about Him, except that he likes control, an occasional glass of scotch, and he fucks like a god.
If I had to explain it, it’d sound crazy. The truth is, I have no idea how I got here. It just happened one day, and it keeps happening. And I’m not inclined to stop anytime soon.
He could be married. He could have kids. He could be a drug smuggler. I have no way of knowing, but I know that the few hours I spend in his bed are some of the best, most exhilarating moments of my life. At least when I am old and gray, I’ll be able to say I had lived.
The door cracks open revealing nothing but darkness and I am sucked inside by a strong, unyielding arm. A squeak of excitement leaves me as I am whirled around and my back is slammed up against the door.
Hard, punishing lips crash down on mine, and a hot, wet tongue forces its way past my teeth. Imoan shamelessly as my purse drops to the floor and my hands find the short fine hair that I know to be as black as the midnight sky.
My mystery man is always hungry after watching me dance.
Ripping the button on my jeans free, he plunges his hand into my panties and groans as his fingers part my moist folds. “Jesus fucking Christ. Always so wet,” he mutters as he nips my jaw, and then begins moving down my neck.
I am always ready for this, for Him. Maybe it’s because he’s my only source of sexual release besides my fingers since I broke it off with Eli last semester, or because he is so talented in the sack. But the truth of the matter is that a part of me gets off on the mystery. Our sex is just that—sex. It’s wild and dirty and passionate and honest. Strip away the mystery, and you lose all of that. Maybe not right away, but one day.
Relationships almost always have an expiration date. I’m not naive enough to think our arrangement doesn’t, but at least I know I won’t lose anything in the process. When my mystery guy gets bored, I figure I simply won’t see him again.
Those midnight orbs lift, and I swear I see the same pain and confliction in them that I feel inside of me. Could it be that he doesn’t want this any more than I do? That he, too, longs for our time together. “Nothing happened, and that’s the way it needs to stay.”
I hear the growl in his voice and even though I know it’s wrong, my body responds. I feel the flames of desire licking between my legs, making my nipples grow tight. Does he have any idea what he does to me?
I’m not sure how to take his words. Is he just saying that because it’s the right thing, the only way to cover his ass, or is it because he really believes that what we have shared together amounts to nothing?
Both possibilities are difficult to face, because there can be no good outcome either way, but I still want it, even if he doesn’t. “So where does this leave us?” I ask, using my books as a shield against my feelings for him. Ransom is the only man who has ever affected me this way—he can strip me bare with a single look. He can reduce me from a strong, intelligent, educated woman into a puddle of wanton desire with the stroke of a finger.
Pushing his hands into his pockets as he comes to stand before me, I realize, with a mix of horror and intrigue, that this man is the only one that has ever held the power to hurt me.
He holds my gaze as he stares down at me, and I see the muscle in his jaw tick in time with my heartbeat. We’re connected in a way that neither of us fully realizes, and I feel the draw to him growing stronger. “This leaves us right where we stand, with me as your professor and you as my student.”
The deep rasp of his voice triggers something deep inside of me, and I feel myself lean closer. The allure of those full lips is nearly impossible to deny. You can tell so much from a simple kiss. I want his on me—on the most intimate parts of my body—and I want him to know that.
His gaze drops to my mouth, and even though I know I shouldn’t, I need to kiss him. If this is it between us, then I need this last connection, this final goodbye.
“Miss Hart.” My name is a low warning as it whispers past his lips, but I ignore it.
“Please, call me Josephine,” I whisper just before my mouth closes over his. I don’t know who moans first. If Ransom meant for us to go our separate ways, then I probably shouldn’t have kissed him, because the way he is kissing me back definitely isn’t a goodbye.