The Don’s Possession

5. Kit

CHAPTER 5

KIT

The morning after Raphael shows me the studio, a guard escorts me back there. The space feels different in daylight—less intimidating, more familiar. My muscles ache to move, to stretch, to dance away the tension of captivity.

"Begin your warm-up," Raphael commands from the doorway. He's shed his suit jacket, wearing just a crisp white shirt and tailored pants. "Show me your morning routine."

I lift my chin. "I don't perform on command."

"No?" His smile is dangerous. "Then perhaps you'd prefer to return to the interrogation room?"

My body betrays me, already moving into first position at the barre. The familiar rhythm of plies and tendus centers me, muscle memory taking over despite my resistance.

Raphael watches silently, his presence heavy in the mirrored room. I try to ignore him, focusing instead on the stretch and burn of each movement. But his reflection follows me, dark eyes tracking every gesture.

"Your turnout is sloppy," he says suddenly, approaching. "Here." His hands grip my hips, adjusting my position. Even through the fabric of my clothes, his touch burns.

"I know how to dance," I snap, but don't pull away.

"You know how to perform." His fingers press into my hip bones. "But true artistry requires perfect control. Again."

I repeat the movement, hyper-aware of his hands guiding me. "Better," he murmurs, too close to my ear. "Now developpe."

As I extend my leg, his hand trails up my thigh, ostensibly checking muscle tension. "Higher," he commands. "Control it."

My leg trembles with effort as he pushes me further than my usual limits. "Good boy," he breathes, and something inside me flutters at the praise.

"Stop that," I manage.

"Stop what?" His hand slides back to my hip. "Helping you improve? Teaching you proper form?"

"Stop... this." I gesture vaguely at our position. "Whatever game you're playing."

"This isn't a game." He turns me to face him, keeping me against the barre. "This is education. Discipline. Something you clearly need."

"I have plenty of discipline."

"Do you?" His finger traces my jawline. "Then why did you let Lady Ashworth manipulate you so easily? Where was your discipline then?"

I try to look away but he catches my chin. "I needed the money."

"And now you need something else." His thumb brushes my lower lip. "Structure. Control. Someone to guide that raw talent of yours."

"I don't need anything from you."

"Your body says otherwise." He steps closer, caging me against the barre. "Show me the next combination. From the beginning."

I should refuse. Should fight. Instead, I find myself moving through the familiar patterns, hyperaware of his gaze, his occasional corrections. Each touch lingers longer than necessary, each adjustment more intimate than the last.

"Now center," he commands after what feels like hours. My muscles burn pleasantly, body warm and loose from exertion.

I move to the middle of the room, settling into fifth position. Raphael circles me slowly, predatory grace in every step.

"Improvise," he says softly. "Show me what you can do when you're not constrained by classical forms."

Music fills the studio—something dark and sensual, nothing like my usual ballet pieces. I hesitate, caught between resistance and the urge to move.

"Dance, little one." His voice carries both command and challenge. "Show me who you really are."

The rhythm catches me, pulls me under. I begin to move, letting the music guide me. Ballet technique blends with the seductive movements I've learned at Obsidian. I catch glimpses of myself in the mirrors—flushed cheeks, eyes bright, body moving with fluid grace.

Raphael's reflection watches intently. I spin away from his gaze only to find him again in another mirror. There's no escaping his presence, his scrutiny.

"Beautiful," he murmurs as I finish a complicated sequence. "But you're still holding back."

"I'm not—" I break off as he approaches, his hands settling on my waist.

"Let me show you." He guides me into a new movement, his body pressed against my back. "Feel how the motion should flow."

I follow his lead, our bodies moving in perfect synchronization. His breath stirs my hair, his hands sure and possessive on my hips.

"There," he says softly. "Now you're beginning to understand."

"Understand what?"

"The perfect balance between control and surrender." He turns me to face him, one hand sliding up my spine. "The beauty of submission."

"I'm not submitting to anything."

"No?" His smile is knowing. "Then why are you still in my arms?"

I realize with a start that I am—chest to chest, his hand splayed across my lower back, my own hands resting on his shoulders. I try to step back but the barre stops me.

"You can't keep me here forever," I whisper, but the words lack conviction.

"I don't need forever." His fingers thread through my hair, tightening just enough to sting. "Just until you accept what you really want."

"And what's that?"

"This." He pulls me closer, our foreheads almost touching. "The discipline you pretend to hate. The control you secretly crave. The pleasure of surrendering to someone stronger."

"You're wrong." But my voice shakes, betraying me.

"Am I?" His other hand grips my hip, thumb brushing the exposed skin where my shirt has ridden up. "Shall we test that theory?"

I should say no. Should push him away. Instead, I find myself swaying closer, drawn to his heat, his strength, his absolute certainty.

"That's it," he murmurs. "Stop fighting what you need."

"I need to leave," I manage, but make no move to escape.

"No." His grip tightens. "You need to stay exactly where you are. Under my control. In my care."

"This isn't care. It's captivity."

Raphael's eyes darken, a predatory gleam replacing the amusement. "Captivity," he repeats, his voice a low growl. "Perhaps. But even captives can find pleasure in their confinement. Especially," he leans in, his breath hot against my ear, "when their captor knows exactly how to please them."

His hand moves, sliding from my hip to cup me through the thin fabric of my dance pants. The sudden intimacy steals my breath. His thumb strokes a slow, deliberate circle against my erection, and a moan escapes my lips before I can stop it. "No," I gasp, even as my hips press involuntarily into his touch. "Don't..."

He smirks, the sound a low rumble in his chest. "Don't what, Kit? Don't touch you? Don't make you betray yourself?" His grip tightens, and he pulls me flush against him. I gasp again, feeling the hard length of him through our clothes. The friction is intoxicating, making my denial even more futile.

"Raphael," I hiss, pushing against his chest even as my body arches into his touch. "Stop this."

He ignores my protest, his hand moving lower, dipping beneath the waistband of my pants. His fingers close around me, stroking with expert pressure. A wave of pleasure washes over me, so intense it almost buckles my knees. "I...I don't..." I stammer, the lie dying on my tongue as another moan escapes.

"You don't want this?" he murmurs, his voice thick with amusement. "Then why are you so hard, little dancer? Why are you trembling in my arms?"

"I'm...I'm cold," I manage, the words pathetic even to my own ears.

He chuckles, a low, dark sound that sends shivers down my spine. "Cold?" His fingers tighten around me, and I cry out, my head falling back against the barre. "I think you're burning, Kit. Burning for my touch."

He continues to stroke me, building the pleasure slowly, teasingly. I'm caught in a whirlwind of conflicting sensations—the shame of my body's betrayal warring with the raw, undeniable pleasure he's giving me. I clench my jaw, fighting to maintain some semblance of control.

"Raphael, stop," I plead, even as my hips buck against his hand.

"Stop?" He slows his movements, torturing me with the nearness of release. "Why should I stop when you're enjoying it so much?"

"I'm not—" I break off, a strangled gasp escaping my lips as his thumb brushes against my sensitive tip.

"You're not enjoying it?" He repeats the agonizing tease, bringing me to the edge, then pulling back just as I'm about to shatter. "Lie to me again, Kit. Tell me how much you hate this."

"I—" I can't form the words, lost in a haze of frustrated desire.

He continues the agonizing cycle, driving me wild with need. My body screams for release, but my pride, what little remains, clings to defiance. Finally, when I’m a whimpering mess, practically begging him without words, he abruptly withdraws his hand.

I gasp, my body still thrumming with unsated need. He smiles, a predatory gleam in his eyes. "Perhaps another lesson tomorrow, little dancer. If you behave." He steps back, leaving me aching and empty, leaning against the barre for support.

Later, in the sterile confines of the attached shower, the hot water cascading over my skin does little to soothe the burning ache in my core. I close my eyes, Raphael's image flashing through my mind—the dark amusement in his eyes, the possessive grip of his hand, the feel of his hard body pressed against mine. My hand moves instinctively, stroking myself as I replay the earlier encounter, fantasizing about his dominance, the way he brought me to the brink and then left me wanting. The orgasm that finally rips through me is a pale imitation of the pleasure he denied me, but it's enough, for now, to quiet the desperate yearning he ignited within me.