Annabel Joseph
FIREBIRD
Acknowledgements
I would be remiss if I did not thank MalcolmD and Nemith for their help and inspiration in imagining the rope scene that takes place in Chapters Thirteen and Fourteen. Thanks also to Ibid for educating me on the ins and outs of the male orgasm, and the entire AIAMITLTGMBFO group on Fetlife.com for so generously feeding my fantasies.
I also need to thank my husband for his patience and support, and my trusty editors, Audrey and Venessa, for brutal honesty and helping me see what I’m too close to see.
And lastly, a belated thank-you to Low, who lives where laughter meets kink. Thanks for tickling my imagination time and time again.
Chapter One
Prosper stood in the wings in her wispy white tutu, a sparkling tiara in her upswept orange locks. Her face itched, but she didn’t dare scratch it. She couldn’t chance ruining her makeup, although the heavy foundation made her want to rake her nails across her face. Beside her, nine identical girls in white tutus waited and fidgeted, going up and down on their toes. She scuffed her shoes across the floor, then looked over at the ten dancers waiting on the other side of the stage. She glanced up into the light rigging and blinded herself.
Damn it. All to avoid looking at him. Jackson Spencer, the new choreographer. Tall, fine, blond haired, and blue eyed. Stronger and sexier than any man had a right to be. She’d already caught his eyes twice trying to steal peeks at him. What was he doing, standing there against the back wall?
Watching. It felt like he was always watching her.
She knew she was just being paranoid. She supposed he came to watch the performances, to study the dancers’ strengths. She’d seen him wandering around backstage several times last week. Once she’d even run into him on her way out of the dressing room. It had felt like hitting a wall. He’d mumbled “excuse me” and righted her. She’d chanced one look into his blue eyes and been burned by the intensity there. Why did he always have that intent look in his eyes?
He was an artist, that’s why. He didn’t mess around. The dancers could sense that already. He was going to choreograph a new Firebird; everyone was talking about it. Kristen and Blake, the lead principals, were already looking back at older productions for ideas on characterization. Prosper thought if she was lucky, she might be cast as one of the twelve princesses, but she almost thought she’d be better back in the ranks of Kostchei’s minions. Safer. If Jackson Spencer turned those intense eyes on her in rehearsal, if he wasn’t pleased with her work, ugh. She would die.
Prosper squeezed her eyes shut. Her crazy perfectionist issues. She had bigger, more important things to think about. Glenna, her roommate, had told her earlier in the week that her cousin was coming to New York to move in with Glenna. Which meant Prosper would have to move out. She’d made a few calls about apartments and realized she’d never in a million years be able to afford one unless she got a job. Well, a second job. Corps dancers just didn’t make very much money. She would need a job she could do around the never-ending schedule of rehearsals, classes, and shows. She already knew she’d end up waitressing again. Waitressing or bartending was pretty much the most convenient, quick way for dancers to supplement the pittance they made in the corps.
Prosper sighed and dug one toe into the floor. Her pointe shoes were a mess. She’d be called on the carpet by Lawrence, the director, if he noticed. She needed to get her act together and find an affordable place to call home and a second job. And to accomplish all that, she needed to stop daydreaming about scruffy blond hair and amazing blue eyes.
Just one more glance. She’d look back at him once more before her entrance. She stole a peek from beneath her heavily made-up lids. He stood with his back against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. She took in the blue jeans that accentuated the definition of his thigh muscles. Her gaze lingered on the distinct bulge at the top of his legs, then traveled up the long torso to the broad shoulders, then up to his eyes—
Staring right at her. Caught. Kayla tugged at her elbow, and Prosper realized she’d almost missed her cue.
That night she stayed up late imagining him lecturing her for not paying attention, right before he rolled up his sleeves and pulled her over his lap.
Jackson watched as the dancers trickled into the studio for daily class, shedding their sweaters and jackets to reveal their trim, muscular bodies. They all moved with that smooth grace dancers possessed that perhaps resulted from being utterly at home in your well-trained torso and limbs. He thought he probably walked the same, although he rarely danced anymore. He’d left that behind the year he’d turned twenty-six, and now, almost ten years later, he didn’t miss it one bit, preferring choreography to dance hands down.
He’d just begun his stint as a guest choreographer at the Townsend Ballet last week. He’d had plenty of work back home in Chicago, but he was excited about dipping his toes into the New York dance scene, if only for a while. Right now it was late October—Nutcracker season—but rehearsals for the spring season were about to begin. He was contracted to stage a new version of Stravinsky’s Firebird to celebrate the centennial of the ballet, and he was meeting with the company director today to discuss casting.
The dancers knew why he was there. He felt the nerves in the room. He didn’t smile. He wasn’t here to be friendly, to play bitch boy to the overweening egos of the principals, or to coddle the corps with simple, mincing steps. He was here to create something beautiful and affecting, and that would only come with a lot of hard work and bruised egos. And the talents of a certain dancer named Prosper Ware.
He had decided on her for the lead role the first time he’d seen her dance. Her technique was so beautiful, her body so slender and perfectly proportioned. He intended to cast Prosper as his Firebird, and Blake, the tallest principal male, as Prince Ivan. Choose one of the primas to play the Tsarina. He could already imagine Prosper picking through the steps with that precise manner she had. And her petite size—it was perfect. Now he just had to convince Lawrence to take a chance on an unproven dancer from the corps.
He shifted when he saw her enter and move to her place at the barre. God, that flaming orange hair. Even her warm-up stretches possessed a quality of movement that set her above the crowd. He was still staring when the ballet master clapped his hands to call the company to order. Lawrence entered soon afterward. He greeted Jackson as he came to stand beside him against the wall. The gossiping quieted, and the dancers lined up by rank to begin the exercises. Principals, soloists, corps, all in their places. As class commenced, Lawrence pointed to Kristen, the lead principal female.
“Kristen is very dependable and highly talented. I’m assuming you want her for the Firebird.”
“Mm. Maybe the Tsarina.”
Lawrence looked surprised but deferred to him with a nod. “Elsa, then. Although she’s not as quick as Kristen.”
Jackson pointed to Prosper. “That one’s really quick. The redhead.”
“Mm. Prosper Ware.”
“I was thinking about her for the Firebird.”
Lawrence chuckled. “Yes, her hair is quite fiery, isn’t it?” He sobered when he noticed Jackson wasn’t laughing. “You’re serious?”
“I think she’d be perfect. Her size, her quickness.”
“She’s only a corps dancer.” Lawrence’s voice rose over the plinging of the piano, but he dropped it as a few dancers glanced their way. “Just because she’s got red hair—”