Naya Ortiz had danced with countless male partners since she’d turned fourteen, the year a boy from the Ukraine enrolled in her great aunt’s dance studio in South Brooklyn. He’d certainly learned to lift. Sometimes she’d teased him that he was their own version of Coney Island’s Cyclone. Twenty girls waited in line for their turn to get thrown skyward and spun in circles.

She felt that way now. Remy Lomand’s audition choreography hadn’t included any lifts, but he might as well have dropped her into a death spiral.

He held her hand as he led her stage left. In the dark behind the thick scarlet curtains, he pushed her against the nearest wall, front to front, as if they were still on stage.

“We’re not dancing anymore,” she said, hands on his shoulders. “You have other girls waiting.”

“Don’t want no other girls.”

Naya couldn’t hide a shudder that scared the holy hell out of her. She was engaged. Daniel was somewhere in the club right that moment. If he had any idea how that dance had affected her…He was a generous man. Powerful and patient and so fucking sexy. Sure, they’d tested limits. Once they’d even included another man.

A total disaster.

That guy had wasted two hours trying to turn her on. Remy Lomand had needed less than two minutes. Jesús Cristo. Again she was thinking of rollercoasters and rides she didn’t want to end.

“I’m sure you have other dancers to audition.” She had endurance like an Olympic swimmer. After all, Broadway demanded resilience. But her words were breathy and out of step with her thoughts.

Remy’s hands had slid to her hips as if they belonged there, even after the music stopped. “Auditions are over, girl. What’s your name again?”

“Naya Ortiz.”

“Well, Mademoiselle Ortiz, you just embarrassed the competition and made me the envy of every poor shit here.” He grinned. They were concealed in shadows, but that flash of white teeth was unmistakable. “That might include some of the gay boys.”

“So you’re not gay?”

He pushed her hair back from her neck. His soft exhales dove down inside of her. Rather than feathering across her skin, the feeling was deep and concentrated. He kissed her where goose bumps tickled her throat. She could feel his smile. “I take what I can get, darlin’. Right now, that’s you.”

Naya laughed. Outright laughed.

He jerked back as if she’d decided to reenact the improvised slap from their dance.

“Way to make a girl feel special,” she said, still with a playful smile. “You deserve every bit of the annoyance on your face.” She ducked under his arm. “If I’m hired, I want to hear it from Mr. Shaw.”

“He does what I tell him.”

“I doubt that.”

She was walking away, smiling, feeling bright as a soap bubble in the sunshine, when he caught her around the waist. Spun. Pressed flush. This time he didn’t work with slow brushes of lips against skin. He caught two tangled handfuls of hair and twisted.

Naya gasped.

Dangerous.

That was the most coherent thought she could manage when he began to push her, slowly, with firm intent, toward the floor. Her loose, damp hair became his tool as her knees folded under the rush of submission. She sank into the sensation of it, the rightness, as rational thought was replaced by almost joyous excitement. Dimly she registered the press of hardwood against her kneecaps, but most of her senses—most of her world—focused on the intent way Remy Lomand stared down at her.

She’d barely had the chance to look at him before her audition. Just a general assessment: great arms, sloppy dresser, fuck-worthy Cajun accent. The shadowy backstage accentuated the hollows beneath his cheekbones, his lower lip, and the graceful sweep of his brows, one of which was pierced by a silver bar. A swatch of bright light caught the line of his jaw where bristling stubble was a shade lighter than his brown hair.

“When it comes to which dancers to hire, he does what I tell him. I’m through with girls who won’t listen.” That slippery-smooth accent was like hot honey. It should’ve been sweet and slow, but Naya burned with every syllable. “You’d listen, chere.” He tightened his grip on her hair, even giving her head a little shake. “Wouldn’t you?”

Naya was spinning and lost and oh, damn. So fucked. He’d needed one dance to learn what a few boyfriends had never discovered. He’d needed one dance to learn what had taken her four months to discuss with Daniel.

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Katie Porter is the award-winning co-writing team of Lorelie Brown and Carrie Lofty, friends of nearly seven years. After years of wishing and planning, they finally share an office in the Chicago area.

Both are multi-published in several romance genres. Carrie holds an MA in history, loves movies, and has no fear of gross things like dissecting formaldehyde sharks. Her two daughters aren’t appreciative. Lorelie is a US Army veteran and true-crime devotee, whose three boys love when she screams like a little girl around spiders.

All four of Katie Porters’s “Vegas Top Guns” contemporary erotic romances have received 4½ Star Top Picks fromRT BookReviews. These books are “impressive and incredibly well done,” and will “move Fifty Shades of Grey to the children’s section.” The third title, HOLD ’EM, won the 2012 RT Reviewers’ Choice award for Best Ebook Erotic Romance, and the m/m Christmas-themed CAME UPON A MIDNIGHT CLEAR was nominated for Best Book of the Year.

In January, LEAD AND FOLLOW launched “Club Devant,”a sexy five-part series set in a glitzy New York City burlesque club, described by Publishers Weekly as “deftly leaving readers with the welcome message that life can hand out happy surprises.” Its sequel, CHAINS AND CANES, was deemed by RT as “racy and absolutely flawless!” and also received a 4½ Star Top Pick.

Up next as back-to-back releases in 2014 are the first three installments of “The Boston Boys”–an adventurous,La Femme Nikita-inspired series of military erotic romances. More details soon to come!