Free Chains and Canes by Katie Porter Page A

The woman was a bleach-blonde stunner with enviable hips for a white girl. Her outfit was made of sequins and little else. “Don’t let him fool you. For seeming so damn laid back, he’s persnickety. That room might as well come with a plaque engraved with ‘Here dances Remy Lomand, so get the fuck out.’ I’m Lizzie Maynes, by the way. This is my husband, Dima Turgenev.”
    “Naya Ortiz,” she said, shaking hands with the pair.
    Lizzie grinned. “Ah, the new girl. Declan mentioned you choreograph too?”
    “Sometimes.”
    “Does Remy know that? He usually doesn’t work with choreography partners.” Dima shook his head. “He barely has the patience to add some flair to our routines. What is it—to think outside the box?”
    Lizzie laughed. “If we don’t explode the box, we risk a Cajun meltdown.”
    Dima’s sly smile said he didn’t really give a damn.
    Naya enjoyed his Russian accent—sharp in places, almost awkward. It suited his stiff posture and obvious shyness. Her mind, however, kept conjuring sloppy consonants and long, teasing vowels. Remy’s voice was another means of sinking her into a quick trance. She could try to hold on and fight it, but why?
    Daniel.
    Her heart accelerated its eager rhythm. “Then wish me luck. And I’ll let you get back to… Mierda , you’re good.”
    They bowed their thanks at near identical angles. Maynes and Turgenev. Who in the dance community hadn’t heard of them? Together longer than most fresh-faced Broadway chorus wannabes had been alive, they matched each other in a way that wasn’t forced or false. They were enviably confident within their shared sphere.
    Her retreat was probably too hasty, but she needed to get away from the pair. She and Daniel enjoyed that same confidence. Right? A flutter of guilt whispered otherwise.
    Frowning, she stopped in the hallway. Daniel knew her private desires. He’d done everything to facilitate them. Pampered girl that she was, she’d never probed as to why. He was a good guy. He wanted her happy. They got off hardcore whenever he needed a damn fine fuck.
    Did he harbor deeper desires too? Being curious about men wasn’t the same as how he’d responded to Remy’s demands.
    Come take my shirt off.
    And the big mind buster for the night: Only because you told me to.
    She’d heard the same trancelike notes in her own voice when submitting. The urge to please. The hope she had pleased.
    But… Daniel ? Fifteen years ago, he’d turned Louis Baker’s crazy, unsalable cloud-computing idea into an industry forerunner. They’d been ahead of the curve for more than a decade because Daniel was brilliant, innovative, charming, and above all, in control. There wasn’t a person or pencil or blade of grass in his vast empire that he didn’t know as well as his own name.
    Naya’s skin broke out in a wave of chills. After almost four years as lovers, she didn’t know what he truly wanted.
    She’d noticed the early hints of her desires in high school. At first it had been the adrenaline rush of dancing. She would hit her second wind, then a third, always flying higher, until she looked around—dizzy on endorphins—and found herself alone in the studio. Everyone else had tired and gone home. Afterward, she’d giggle her way home on the subway, then take a warm shower and cry.
    Still restless. Still aching for something she couldn’t name.
    Only meeting Patrick had solved the mystery. He’d been her lover while working a small off-Broadway show. In him she’d found commonality. They worked to the point of heady, bright-eyed exhaustion. Their first fuck had been on the floor behind the stage curtain after a late-night rehearsal. The theater might have been empty. Naya hadn’t cared. He’d forced her onto her hands and knees, slapping her ass with every plunge. She’d begged for more. He’d complied with rough commands and stinging slaps.
    Soon smacking hadn’t been enough. He’d graduated her to paddles, clamps, and