The Tale Of The Dancing Girl

By Grace D'Otare

Devlin loves it when Maeve tells him erotic stories. This time, he wants a story about a woman who is afraid – and the man who helps her overcome all her fears....

Delilah took the place of the young dancing girl as a favour...but she didn't expect Colonel Weston to be among the Khan's guests! Her provocative movements catch the Colonel's eye...and awaken her own desire. Can the dance – and a little hands–on tutelage from a fellow dancer – teach Delilah to lose all her inhibitions with Weston once and for all?

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Jul 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781460827123

Grace D'Otare

Grace d'Otare has traveled the world looking for love in all the right places. For now, she's settled on the Third Coast because a change of seasons builds character. Turn-ons: a man's laugh, playing dress up, castles with turrets. Turn-offs: cold hands, Axe, damp socks. First Erotic Experience: Sweet Savage Love, a sleeping bag and a flashlight. Favorites: dark chocolate, a deep voice, faux fur and room service. Education: behind the auditorium curtain, in the girls' dorm lounge and underwater (that hot tub.) After graduating eighteenth grade, Grace earned the title "Master of Education." Rigorous independent study and online enrichment opportunities continue to maintain her qualifications. Grace is always on the lookout for readers to share her next sexy adventure. Grace loves to hear from her readers via her email: [e-mail]

Book preview

The Tale of the Dancing Girl

Grace D’Otare

Contents

Begin Reading

Two hands on the wheel, please.

How many years have I been driving, Maeve?

I’ve never seen it so bad out here. You realize we could hydroplane at any minute. How can I possibly enjoy your hand creeping under my skirt at a time—

Well, I can, Devlin said. He gave her thigh a squeeze.

Maeve shoved his hand down. It got as far as her knee. Single-minded, aren’t you?

The wipers beat against the glass, fighting the whip of rain into the car’s steady acceleration.

How much farther do we have to go? Her question sounded perfectly calm. Maybe we should pull over? Find a place to stop. It’s been pounding down for the entire drive. You must be exhausted.

We’re not stopping. He was using the firm voice. One finger circled the tender inside skin of her knee. You need to get your mind on something else.

How would you suggest I do that? This storm is practically drumming on my head. No other cars on the road. No lights for miles. If we crash…

Enough. Warning—there’d be a full-blown fight if she continued.

Was he deliberately accelerating, with only one hand on the wheel, the other just waiting to slide up her leg? Maeve’s heart beat faster.

Let’s have a story.

A story? she repeated. Now?

Yes.

At least the man kept his eyes on the road. Maeve turned away, peering into the streaky darkness beyond her window. Why then did she feel as if he were watching her every move?

Tell me a story, he asked quietly, about a woman who was afraid.

Fear was not her aphrodisiac of choice. Afraid of what?

Whatever you like.

She tapped the car’s burlwood armrest with her nail. And she meets a man…

Who helps her overcome all her fears.

Maeve lifted an eyebrow at that, but the idea tickled her mind. I’m not really in the mood, you know. But I’ll see what I can do.

That’s my girl.

The percussion of the drums throbbed in time with Delilah’s heartbeat. All the women crowded near the entrance began to sway.

Bugger, Delilah whispered. I can’t do it.

You cannot change your mind now, Nima, the eldest, whispered. Don’t think of them as men. Think of them as…palms.

Palms?

Not hands, of course. Trees. Think of them as large potted trees one must dance around.

Delilah tried to laugh, but the sound hurt her throat. One palm in particular had caught her eye. What was he doing here?

The other women began to pet her, and coo those same soothing words that had brought her to the dance floor that very first time in the women’s courtyard. Their hands were soft and sweet smelling from the jasmine oil smoothed over bare arms and ankles. Even in the dim light of the hall, they glistened with it.

Listen to the music.

Think of the garden.

Let it live inside you.

Eleven women,