Free The Fated Dance: Bound to the Shadow Dancer by Leeann Whitaker

stay right where I am and watch. But as soon as her eyes hit me, I know my place is behind this door. For now anyway.
    “I will call you when I’m ready,” she sighs.
    I look down and watch my shoes move out of the room while closing the door.
    The music sounds through the wall. Her first track: a predictable number. A number I’d associate with the line of work she’s in. I pace the room with my imagination bombarding me with wild choking images of her. Then the track sounds out of my choice. I could have chosen the classical number she danced to all those years ago. But for today, her first time, I’ve chosen something more contemporary that she’ll be familiar with : Emeli Sandé
    I’ve strode the length of this room over a dozen times, and now it’s all gone quiet. My pulse is rising to the stratosphere, picturing her dance in there. The door handle finally jiggles, and instantly I stop moving as her head peers out.
    “Ready.” She quickly disappears.
    With quick but hesitant steps, I make my way into the room.
    Half of me is being ruled by my requirements, telling me to be a man and enjoy watching her body. And the other half, my heart, tells me to stop this before things get out of control. Regardless of all doubt, I take up my position in the chair.
    She stands with her back to me and her head down. The music begins and her chest inflates. The beat is deep and slow, and I have to admit, damn hot. My legs bob restlessly as she bends her torso over. Her lengthy legs are in a flawless line, and her perfect ass draws my dirty gaze. Hell. I’m rousing painfully. I’ve not been this tightly wound and hard for a long time.
    She places the palms of her hands on the floor as her legs slip out. She’s down and stretched out into an effortless splits, circling her hips. There’s flexibility, and then there’s this. This is tease beyond all my fantasies, and she has no qualms in doing it to me. She is dancing like she’s alone; her and the deep beat as one.
    Now, she lifts her body onto her left shoulder, rolling as fluid as a gentle wave crashing on the shore near my feet. I cringe. She’s too close. Right before my open legs, elevating her whole body up onto her elbows, vertically. My frantic prayers are finally answered as the song begins to fade.
    I silently slow my raging breaths as she sits in position in the center of the room. She cradles her knees to her chest, ready for song two. Her arms rise above her head, then her hands clench the air down into her chest. She flips onto her knees and curls into a ball. Her mind is in the music, feeling every word and emotion as she flows up to her feet like silk. She spins on pointed toes as her fingers stretch out to me. The sensations of the first time I saw her dance come back to haunt me, as she plays out the pain within the lyrics. Jesus, I had no idea how hard this would be. She makes a dead man feel alive.
    As she slinks her body, striding in dream like movements, it’s so clear to me that she’s been through some kind of hell. I shuffle to the edge of my seat. I know I shouldn’t be trying to get closer, but I’m being moved by her deeply. She shouldn’t be throwing her life away pleasing guys like me.
    She pounds on the mirror and her long hair swishes as she drops to the floor, back into the same position she started. The song dies away, and is replaced by a tense silence. I watch her scrunched up body gasping, and it is torture. Do I stay here; applaud and rise to my feet; or try and talk to her.
    She inhales and jumps up to her feet to slip her white sneakers back on. All the pain she demonstrated in her dance, has been replaced with detachment. I gaze gormlessly, as she takes her iPod out of the docking station.
    “Tomorrow then?” She walks to the door, cold as stone.
    I swiftly stand up. This is purely a professional relationship to her, and it’s supposed to be the same for me too. I am a fool for thinking this was a good idea. She’s on my