Page 1 of Watch Me

1

Shanna

Who knew it would take a mere two minutes, seventeen seconds to destroy all my dreams?

I eject the flash drive from my laptop, resisting the urge to fling it across the dressing room. Instead, I set it with great care on the table beside me and stand, sniffing back my tears.

I adore my dance partner, Kristoff…but what was he thinking?

Besides looking for inventive ways to get off, not much. That’s very clear.

In the snap of my fingers, any hope of achieving twenty years’ worth of dreams is gone. Goodbye, California Dance Star competition, which Kristoff and I were favored to win in eight days. Adios, any chance of making World Cup Latin finals—something I’ve been striving for my entire dance career.

Kristoff knows how important that is to me. I’m twenty-eight—old by ballroom standards. He’s the best partner I’ve ever had. This is our year; everyone says so. And I don’t know if my bodycan continue training at this pace anymore. This year might be my final chance to achieve everything I’ve strived for since childhood.

But that flash drive holds damning video footage recorded last week, according to the date in the lower right corner of the screen. It came with a scrawled note that cryptically read:

WATCH ME.

If I don’t fix this mess-and fast-I’ll never be a champion.

Sighing, I close my eyes, hold back my tears, and try to think. But everything on that video flashes through my head in full Technicolor. Kristoff, the tall and ungodly handsome Russian, stands above two figures, one male, the other female. He cradles each of their heads in his hands as they kneel before him. Their tongues slide up and down his erection, lick his balls, and occasionally meet at the head of his cock for a juicy kiss.

“You like that big dick?” he asks. They both moan. The camera zooms in as the woman, a stunning blonde with a starburst tattoo on her breast, deep-throats Kristoff.

The other male, a buff guy with military-short hair and his own raging hard-on, stands and licks Kristoff’s nipples. My dance partner groans, but the sound is soon drowned out when the other man begins devouring his lips in a harsh kiss.

That’s the first thirty seconds—plenty depraved by the deeply traditional standards many ballroom judges hold. Then comes the middle of the clip…

Kristoff, looking flushed and intent, penetrates the blonde, plunging in with one slow, agonizing stroke after the next. Seeing him enjoy a woman is a surprise. I thought he was strictly gay. Clearly, I was wrong. Not a problem.

Until the camera pans back, revealing the fact that, while Kristoff sinks into the blonde, the other man is shuttling into Kristoff’s ass, the forward momentum of his stroke pushing Kristoff deeper into the panting woman.

My breath catches. Heat creeps up my neck. I’m horrified to feel an unwanted tingling between my thighs. What is wrong with me? I don’t have time to be turned on by this. I have to catch this blackmailer and do whatever damage control I can before my dreams are dashed for good.

It isn’t even Kristoff or his lovers arousing me. But sex—hell, a man’s touch—is something I haven’t experienced in so long. I’ve been too busy practicing, giving my all to reach the pinnacle of my dreams. I’ve shoved my sex drive aside.

Now I’m feeling it.

As if the rest of Kristoff’s sex tape isn’t eye-popping enough, the end will undoubtedly crush my dreams of being a ballroom champion for good.

The man reaming Kristoff suddenly pulls free and tears off his condom, then scuttles around to hover over the supine woman’s pussy, frantically jerking his cock while Kristoff stands above her, gripping her thighs and slowly railing her. The man with dark hair watches them feverishly before throwing back his head and spraying semen over the woman’s wet mound. Collectively, the trio groans.

Not to be outdone, Kristoff withdraws, pumps his cock in his harsh fist, and comes all over the woman’s puffy sex, too.

But that big finish isn’t satisfying enough for Kristoff.

He grabs the other man’s shoulders and urges the buff guy to kneel beside him, between the woman’s widely splayed legs. They stare at her dripping, swollen pussy before bending together to lick her. Deep. Clean. Until she orgasms against their dueling tongues.

During the clip’s final moments, the camera pans back again to reveal the most damning aspect of the video: the trio performed the whole scene for a rapt audience.

Even the memory of it has me groaning, fuming, and bracing my head in my hands. What am I going to do? If the stodgy judges of ever-elegant ballroom dance ever see this footage… The thought of what they could—and would—do to our scores at the California Dance Star makes me panic. Kristoff and I will go from first to worst in the standings.

Equally unnerving, I’m still more than vaguely aroused. Not that I’m attracted to Kristoff, especially after the position he’s put me in. But the freedom to just let loose and fulfill my fantasies, particularly with a certain Latino billionaire, flips my switch way too much.

No. I put Alejandro Diaz out of my mind. I have to. My neglected libido is irrelevant until I figure out how to ensure Kristoff’s video doesn’t fall into the judges’ hands. If I don’t, everything I’ve worked for will slip through my fingers like sand.

From the time my mom took me to a dance studio and I smelled the mix of fresh wax, sweat, and determination, dance became my everything. I lost myself in it. The studio was the only place I felt free to express myself. From my very first competition, I wanted to win. Dance was my escape when my mom got sick. And after I lost her to cancer, I was determined to make her proud and prove that all her hours of driving and waiting and watching me weren’t for nothing.

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