I’ll Always Be With You (Lancaster Prep Book 4)

I’M in the studio running through my barre exercises, staring at myself in the mirror when I spot a shadowy figure in the doorway. I know immediately who it is, and I pretend that I’m annoyed though deep down, I’m thrilled he unexpectedly showed up.

West.

“What do you want?” My tone is snide, my attention … not on him. I want him to believe he doesn’t matter. I want to believe that too, but I’m starting to worry.

The last thing I should do is allow this boy to mean something to me. Nothing else does. Only dance.

I can’t let him worm his way into my thoughts. Or my heart.

“Always so rude.” He leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms in front of him. He’s wearing a gray crewneck sweatshirt and black joggers, pristine white sneakers on his feet. His hair is freshly combed and his face is smooth. Handsome as ever.

I’d guess he just took a shower, while I’m verging on being a sweaty mess.

Dropping to the balls of my feet, I let go of the barre and turn to face him, trying to gain control over my chaotic thoughts.

How glad I am that he’s here. How frustrated I am with him still. How he confuses me more and more as each day passes.

“What can I say? You bring it out of me.” My words are soft, without any heat behind them.

As if he senses my mood shift, he enters the studio fully, glancing over at the tiny speaker sitting on the chair. “No music today?”

“Not yet.” I lift my chin, mimicking his position by crossing my arms as well. “What do you want, West?”

“I wanted to check up on you. Make sure you’re okay.” He drops his arms at his sides, his gaze dropping to my legs. “You fell earlier. Did you bruise?”

I glance down at my legs quickly before returning my gaze to his. “Not that I can see.”

“You so sure about that?” He starts walking toward me and I do my best to calm my breathing, which only ratchets up the closer he gets.

“I stare at myself in the mirror all the time. I’m fairly certain there are no bruises,” I say wryly, turning my back to him and reaching out for the barre once again. “You can go now.”

“Are you dismissing me?” He sounds amused. When I meet his gaze in the mirror, he’s even smiling. He slips his hands in his pockets, devastatingly handsome without doing a thing beyond existing, and I dip my head, desperate to break eye contact.

Even more confused by the emotions swirling within me.

“Do you enjoy watching yourself in the mirror?” he asks when I still haven’t said anything.

I lift my head, my startled gaze meeting his. He’s far closer than he was only moments ago. Close enough to touch me. Close enough that I can feel his body heat seeping into mine.

“It’s part of dance, watching ourselves move. Making sure we’re perfect. Precise. Or we’re watching our instructors, mimicking their movements,” I explain.

“Do you like to watch?” His gaze roves over me, lingering on my chest. My boobs are so small, and they look even smaller in the dark green sports bra I’m wearing. The fabric is so thick and stretchy, it flattens my chest.

“It’s just … it’s what I do.” I shrug, sucking in a breath when my shoulder brushes his chest.

“Hmm.” He crowds me, not quite touching me, settling his hands on the barre on either side of my body, trapping me where I stand. “I like to watch.”

My breaths come even faster. His scent lingers, clean and fresh, and I bring my arms in closer so I don’t touch him. “Watch what?”

“You.” His gaze holds mine in the mirror. “Everything you do fascinates me.”

I’m trembling. From his nearness. From his words. From the look in his eyes. “Why?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because every time we see each other, you leave me wanting more.”

“More of what?”

“More of you.” His hands shift, his arms inching in closer and I hold my breath when they brush against me. He’s so warm. And strong. “You tempt me even when you shouldn’t.”

I can relate to that. He absolutely shouldn’t tempt me, yet he does.

All the time.

“I wish you weren’t so afraid of me touching you,” he admits, his voice hushed.

“I’m not afraid,” I immediately insist.

“What is it then?”

“It makes me … uncomfortable. Personal human interaction. Touching. Affection.” I close my eyes for a moment and swallow hard, surprised I’d say something like that to him.

But Weston Fontaine has always been able to draw my secrets out of me.

“Your parents must’ve really done a number on you,” he murmurs, his mouth terribly close to my hair.

“You don’t even know how much,” I say, my smile sad.

“Can I confess something?” His hands inch even closer together on the barre, his arms closing in on me and a shuddery breath leaves me when he seems to wrap me up, his front pressed against my back. “I think about what we did in this room all the time.”

The memory comes back to me, when I gave him a blow job. How much he seemed to enjoy it, despite my inexperience. I was so afraid of messing everything up, and he made me feel comfortable. He has this … easy way about him sometimes. He both riles me up and calms me down, and it’s so confusing.

My feelings for him are—complex.

“Do you ever think about it, Carolina?” His voice is a whisper, making me shiver.

I nod once, my gaze finding his in the mirror.

“You’d never done it before, yet you let me come down your throat,” he continues. “You were fucking perfect.”

The shame I thought I might feel at his words doesn’t come and I hold his gaze, noting the way my skin starts to turn pink. The knowing look on West’s face tells me he notices too.

“Are my words turning you on?” He gently reaches around me, resting his hand on my bare stomach and I let him. I savor the heat of his fingers. How possessive his touch feels. “Are you wet?”

Growing braver by the second, I keep my gaze locked on his when I say, “Check and find out.”

A faint smile curves his perfect lips and he slowly slips his fingers beneath the waistband of my booty shorts. They skim along my skin, light yet with purpose and when he slides down further to find that I’m not wearing any panties, the pleasure in his gaze is unmistakable. “Dirty girl.”

I say nothing. Just revel in the way he made those two words sound like a compliment.

“Spread your legs,” he whispers and I immediately do as he says, hissing in a breath when he parts me, his fingers sliding into my wetness. “Fuck, you’re soaked.”

My gaze drops to his hand moving beneath my shorts, stretching out the dark green fabric as he starts to stroke. I can’t stop staring, feeling and seeing what he’s doing to me, my lips parting when he brushes his fingers against my clit over and over again.

“Does dancing turn you on? Or is it me?” His hand pauses, his fingers resting against my pussy and I strain toward them, wishing he would stroke me more.

“It’s—you,” I choke out, relief flooding me when his fingers begin to move once again.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. “Right answer.”

He touches and teases, humming against my temple when a whimper escapes me.

“Take off the shorts,” he demands.

I reach for the waistband with shaky fingers, shoving at the Lycra fabric, pushing them down past my hips and exposing my lower half completely within seconds. They fall to my knees, binding me in place and he reaches down with his free hand, pushing the fabric further down, helping me get rid of them completely.

Until I’m standing there with him fully clothed behind me while I’m only in my sports bra, his large hand completely covering my pussy, his busy fingers stroking me into oblivion.

“Look at you.” He turns his head toward me, his mouth on my cheek, sliding down to my neck, his breath warm against my skin as he kisses me there. Tiny, tender kisses that make me shiver. “Are you close?”

My nod is almost frantic, a moan sounding low in my throat when he presses his fingers hard against my clit. He rubs it in small circles, the pressure just right and leaving me panting.

Wanting.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he murmurs against my cheek, his gaze going to the mirror, meeting mine. “Don’t look away, Carolina.”

I couldn’t even if I wanted to. My gaze stays on his as he continues stroking me, his pace growing faster, making it hard to breathe. To focus. I stare at his busy hand, my trembling thighs, my hips that I didn’t even realize were moving. My head falls back, leaning against his shoulder, everything centered on that one spot he keeps rubbing. Pressing. Stroking.

The sensations build, growing stronger and stronger and I strain toward them, angling my hips just so, seeking his touch in a particular spot. It’s as if he can read my mind, my body, because his fingers are exactly where I want them. His speed increases, going faster and faster and I’m breathless.

Weightless.

I pitch forward when the orgasm hits me, a choked groan falling from my lips as I practically bend in half. He keeps me upright, his fingers holding me there as I rub shamelessly against his palm, the electrified sensation racing through my limbs, my blood, pounding in my very soul.

When I come back to my senses, I’m a shaky mess and West gathers me in his arms, holding me close. His fingers tangle in my hair and I press my face against his chest, trying to calm my breathing. Taking in his delicious scent. He slips his fingers beneath my chin, tipping my face up so he can kiss me and the press of his lips upon mine is gentle. Sweet. His tongue a delicious tease that I respond to with a sweep of my own.

Slowly but surely, he calms me down, though my body still quivers. He whispers soothing words against my ear, reassuring me that I’m going to be okay but I don’t know.

When it comes to what West and I share, I have no idea how I’ll survive it. But I know one thing.

What a beautiful way to go.