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  DANCE WITH ME

  Copyright © 2019 by Kristen Proby

  All Rights Reserved.

  This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. All characters and storylines are the property of the author and your support and respect is appreciated. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover Design by:

  Hang Le

  Photography by:

  Sara Eirew Photographer

  Interior Design & Formatting by:

  Christine Borgford

  The Big Sky Series:

  Charming Hannah

  Kissing Jenna

  Waiting for Willa

  Soaring With Fallon

  The Fusion Series:

  Listen to Me

  Close to You

  Blush for Me

  The Beauty of Us

  Savor You

  The Boudreaux Series:

  Easy Love

  Easy Charm

  Easy Melody

  Easy Kisses

  Easy Magic

  Easy Fortune

  Easy Nights

  The With Me in Seattle Series:

  Come Away With Me

  Under the Mistletoe With Me

  Fight With Me

  Play With Me

  Rock With Me

  Safe With Me

  Tied With Me

  Breathe With Me

  Forever With Me

  Burn With Me

  Stay With Me

  Indulge With Me

  Love With Me

  Dance With Me

  The Love Under the Big Sky Series:

  Loving Cara

  Seducing Lauren

  Falling for Jillian

  Saving Grace

  From 1001 Dark Nights:

  Easy With You

  Easy For Keeps

  No Reservations

  Tempting Brooke

  Wonder With Me

  The Romancing Manhattan Series:

  All the Way

  All It Takes

  ALSO AVAILABLE

  Kristen Proby's Crossover Collection:

  Wicked Force: A Wicked Horse Vegas/Big Sky Novella by Sawyer Bennett

  All Stars Fall: A Seaside Pictures/Big Sky Novella by Rachel Van Dyken

  Hold On: A Play On/Big Sky Novella by Samantha Young

  Worth Fighting For: A Warrior Fight Club/Big Sky Novella by Laura Kaye

  Crazy Imperfect Love: A Dirty Dicks/Big Sky Novella by K.L. Grayson

  Nothing Without You: A Forever Yours/Big Sky Novella by Monica Murphy

  Contents

  DANCE WITH ME

  Books by Kristen Proby

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  All It Takes

  Already Gone

  This book is dedicated to anyone who is healing.

  ~Starla~

  “You like that?” he growls into my ear, his eyes pinned to mine in the mirror in front of us.

  We’re on the bed, Levi’s back is against the headboard, and I’m braced against his hard, muscled chest. He’s spread my legs wide open, and I’m watching with rapt fascination as his hands glide over my skin, making me long in ways I haven’t in what feels like mellennia.

  “Oh, yeah,” I breathe, biting my lip when he nibbles my earlobe. “I like it.”

  “What about this?”

  His fingers pluck my pussy lips like guitar strings, and my hips circle in an invitation for more.

  Dear God, give me more!

  “Mm, seems that hit a nerve.”

  “About forty million nerves.” I’m breathless. My naked breasts heave as I pant, my nipples puckered from the pinching he doled out just minutes ago.

  Jesus, who knew a little pain was so fucking delicious?

  “Look at that,” he murmurs, and we both watch as those talented fingers dip inside me, then come out glistening in the low glow of the sidelight. “You’re wet, sweetheart.”

  “Shocker.” He grins at me in the mirror and pushes two fingers back inside me. My first reaction is to close my legs, to press against his flesh, chasing the orgasm he’s held just out of my reach.

  “Not yet.” He urges my legs out again and drags his wet fingers over my hard, pulsing clit. “Soon.”

  Who knew the sexy cop I just met today could make me feel so uninhibited? So reckless?

  So damn wanton?

  He doesn’t ask permission, he just takes and takes without apology, and it’s so damn sexy. Everyone’s always so careful with me. So timid.

  Don’t upset the pop star.

  But he’s taking the decisions out of my hands, and rather than feeling threatened in any way, I feel free.

  Sexy.

  Wanted.

  “Stop thinking so hard,” he growls. “Just watch.”

  “If you don’t fuck me,”—I swallow hard—“I’m going to die.”

  He smiles, a full-on, wide grin as if what I just said pleases him to his core, and the next thing I know, he’s moved out from behind me. He grabs my ankle and yanks me down onto my back, then covers me in one swift motion.

  “You move fast for such a big man.”

  “Reflexes are part of my job.” He’s braced over me on hard, muscled arms. “What do you want, Starla?”

  “You.” It’s really that simple—and that scary. For the first time in roughly five years, I want a man more than I want my next breath.

  “How?”

  I circle my hips, grinding against his hard, long cock and grin when he clenches his jaw and swears under his breath.

  “You’re a big boy. Figure it out.”

  His dark eyes are hot with lust and need as he reaches over for a condom, and flips me onto my belly.

  I hear the tear of the packet, and I start to raise my ass into the air, but he plants his hand on my lower back and presses me to the mattress.

  “Stay.”

  “You’re damn bossy.”

  He straddles my thighs and presses his front to my back. Without lowering his weight onto me, he talks directly into my ear.

  “If you want me to stop, speak up now.”

  “Don’t stop.”

  It’s not a plea, it’s a direct order, and by the feel of Levi’s grin against my ear, he approves.

  He sits up and spreads my ass cheeks apart with his thumbs, but rather than sink inside me, he slides his hard cock back and forth along my wet slit, spreading the juices around until I’m back to DEFCON 5 in the arousal department.

  “Levi.”

  “That’s right.” He slides inside me, seating himself comfortably despite his size, thanks to how damn turned on I am. “You’re with me.”

  Trust me, I haven’t forgotten.

  And when he starts to truly fuck me, not holding back in the least, pushing and stretching until all I can do is fist my hands in the pillow and scream my release with abandon, I know I’ll never have another experie
nce like this one.

  He braces an arm on the headboard above me as he continues to move, until finally, with a low groan, he finds his own release.

  This is most likely where the uncomfortable awkwardness will set in. Let’s face it, I met Levi today through a friend—okay, my best friend, but still—and brought him back to my hotel suite after my sold-out concert. We didn’t waste any time with small talk.

  No, he jumped right to the good stuff, God bless him.

  So, I won’t be surprised if he grabs his clothes, thanks me, and heads out.

  But once he’s cleaned himself up, he returns to the bed, covers us both up, and pulls me to him.

  He’s warm and firm, and I admit he feels damn good. No one’s held me like this in a long time. That thought doesn’t hurt the way it used to. It’s just a small ache now, and that makes me feel guilty.

  I always feel guilty.

  “You don’t have to stay,” I blurt, then frown.

  “You want me to leave?”

  “No.” I let out a gusty sigh. “Honestly, I just don’t want you to think you have to stay. I’m giving you an out.”

  “Thanks.” He kisses my forehead and hugs me close. “Out received and declined.”

  His comment makes me feel better. Less cheap.

  Levi’s body is loose and calm. His fingers slowly comb through my hair, making me a little sleepy, which is unexpected because I rarely sleep.

  “You’re thinking again.”

  He doesn’t look down at me, and it gives me an opportunity to check out his sharp jawline, covered in just a little scruff.

  He probably shaved earlier in the day. It’s well after midnight now.

  “How did you get this scar?” I trace the white line on his chin.

  “Knife,” he says, not elaborating.

  I sketch his jawline with my fingertip, up around the lobe of his ear, then over the few gray strands of hair at his temple.

  “You have some gray.”

  “That’s the job,” he says simply. “And age.”

  “You’re not that old.”

  “Over forty,” he says with a grin. “But not ancient.”

  “I’m on the shady side of thirty-five myself,” I admit with a small smile. “Of course, we tell the media differently.”

  “Of course,” he repeats.

  “I like the gray. It’s sexy.”

  He captures my hand and kisses it, then rolls me onto my back and buries his face against my neck, biting and kissing the delicate flesh there.

  “Touch me like that, and it turns into this.”

  “I wasn’t touching you in a sexy way.”

  “You were touching me,” he says simply. “That’s all it seems to take with you.”

  “The hotel in Phoenix is ready, and security has already cleared it,” my assistant, Rachel, says. We’re sitting on my plane, and she’s filling me in on the details of our next city for the tour.

  This is typical for us. We catch up on our way to the next place. I usually forget where I am once I’m there.

  Except for Seattle because I have my closest friends there. Meredith and Jax used to tour with me back in the day, but now they have families of their own, and I’m still doing this: singing, writing, touring.

  I’m never home. I don’t know why I bought the huge house in Hollywood.

  “The crew is setting up at the venue now, and when we land, we’ll go straight there for sound check.”

  “I need a couple of hours this afternoon to rest,” I inform her.

  Her brunette head rises in surprise. I never request time for myself.

  “We can work that in. You do always get what you want, after all.”

  “What does that mean?” Of course I get what I want. I pay your salary.

  “I’m just kidding. You’re the boss.”

  “Is that everything?” I smile, but her comment stings. I’m not a diva. Not nearly as bad as other famous people I’ve seen.

  “I think so.” She closes her laptop and stares at me.

  “Just ask whatever it is that’s on your mind.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  I roll my eyes. Rachel’s been with me for three years. She knows me incredibly well, and aside from Meredith and Jax, she might be one of the few people I trust with the details of my life.

  “Okay, did you sleep with that hot guy last night?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Whoa.”

  “What?”

  “You never do that. Like, ever.”

  “I know.” I swallow and cross one leg over the other. I’m so damn sore today, it’s ridiculous.

  “Are you going to see him again?”

  I shrug, unsure of how to respond. Just then, my phone pings with an incoming text.

  “Speak of the devil,” I mutter but don’t read the message with Rachel sitting next to me. She waits for a heartbeat.

  “Aren’t you going to read it?”

  “Not with your nosy ass sitting here.”

  She pouts but moves to a seat on the other side of the plane. “You’re no fun.”

  I shake my head and open the text.

  You didn’t answer me this morning. Talk to me.

  I bite my lip and close the message without replying. I stare out the window, at the clouds and the mountains below.

  I like Levi. I want him. And that hasn’t happened in a long time.

  But I’m also broken, and he deserves better. So it’s for the best that we just go our separate ways, calling last night exactly what it was.

  A one-night stand.

  ~Starla~

  “I don’t sleep.”

  The doctor frowns as he types something into his cheap laptop.

  “Why is that?”

  Oh, I don’t know . . . nightmares from watching the love of my life die in front of my eyes? Guilt? Anger? Unbearable sadness? Pick one.

  But I don’t say any of that out loud.

  “Insomnia,” I reply and have to close my eyes against the wave of dizziness that settles over me every three minutes or so.

  “How long has the dizziness been happening?”

  I fucking hate going to the doctor. I literally just told his nurse all of this ten minutes ago. Now I have to say it all over again, and it makes me stabby. Most singing artists have a doctor on staff, but I don’t. I’m just . . . fine. And maybe a little pissy.

  Of course, I’ve been moody for about five years now.

  Finally, a couple of days ago, I called my producer and asked him to recommend someone. A physician excellent at caring for vocal health, who also understands the art of discretion.

  “A couple of months,” I reply and cough into my hand. My voice is still raspy from the tour I just wrapped up. “It didn’t happen often at first, but it’s getting worse. And the last week or so, it’s happened on stage, and I can’t have that. Everything is choreographed down to the tiniest detail, and I can’t be off. I don’t want to get hurt.”

  “I agree with you there,” he says and finally looks me in the eyes and smiles. “Let’s figure this out, shall we?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He pokes and prods, checking out my glands, looking up my nose, listening to me breathe. The usual routine at the doctor’s, whether you’re there for a headache or the plague.

  I cough again when he asks me to breathe deep.

  “How long have you had the cough?”

  “It’s a side effect of my job,” I say, clearing my throat. “I just came off of a thirteen-month tour, singing pretty much every night of the week.”

  “And that’s finished now?”

  “For about two weeks,” I confirm with a nod. “And then I go back into the studio.”

  “When was the last time you took a break?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t take breaks.”

  He sets his computer aside, pushes his glasses up his nose, and looks me dead in the eyes.

  “Starla, everyone needs to take a
break. Especially someone like you, whose job is so physically demanding.”

  “I have a career to manage,” I reply simply. “I have a staff to pay.”

  “What about your family?”

  I raise a brow. “That’s none of your business.”

  He lets out a sigh. “I’m not trying to be nosy here. What I’m saying is, you need to rest. Your vocal cords, your body. Even emotionally, you need it. I’d also like to address your weight.”

  “I’m not overweight,” I say immediately. “I’m muscular.”

  “You’re underweight,” he says. “Do you have a chef?”

  “I have catering for everyone,” I reply, evading the question.

  “That’s not what I asked you.”

  “I eat when I’m hungry. I don’t drink coffee or alcohol. I’m not unhealthy.”

  “You need to sleep and eat, and you need a break,” he says firmly. “I’ve worked in this industry for years, Starla. You’re not the first famous singer to walk into my office. I’ve been doing this for twenty years, and I’m telling you, this is classic exhaustion.”

  “I don’t have a brain tumor?” I ask softly, finally expressing my worst nightmare.

  “I highly doubt it,” he says. “You need to take three months off.”

  “Three months?” I stand and pace the small exam room. “I can’t take that kind of time. Every day is scheduled. That would mean cancelling appearances.”

  “No concerts,” he says again. “If you’re slated at awards shows, that’s fine, but no full concerts. No studio time. You’re a superstar, Starla. A few months off isn’t going to kill your career.”

  No, but it might kill me.

  “I don’t believe this,” I mutter and sit in a chair when the dizziness comes. “I hate being dizzy.”

  “It’s not fun,” he agrees. “And your voice sounds overextended. All of these years of hard work have taken their toll.”

  “I’m only thirty-six,” I remind him. “I’m hardly ready to retire.”

  “I’m not suggesting retirement,” he says with a kind smile. “But I’m writing a prescription for ninety days away from work. Go on vacation. Visit someone. Do anything, except sing.

  “Come back after those ninety days, and we’ll reassess. If the dizziness doesn’t get better in the next week or so, call me. But I think after a few days, it’ll be much better.”