Chapter 10 #2
The position has me right against her back, her tight ass against my thigh, my arm mirroring her raised one and touching her elbow, the other hand wrapped around her waist and hip.
“Like that,” I breathe, almost directly into her ear. “Now, take it from right before the piqués.”
I pull away from her sharply. I have to.
I’m fucking hard .
I march back over to the iPad and glance back at her. “When I hit play, I want you to count yourself in and then go straight into it. Don’t pause like you were before. There’s no pause, Brooklyn. The piqués lead directly into the pirouette en dehors .”
Brooklyn opens her mouth to say something, but I shake my head.
“No questions. Just do it.”
I tap play again. She counts herself in and goes right into it. But she keeps that goddamn pause right before the pirouette.
“Stop.”
She whips her head around, glaring at me without a trace of a filter when I abruptly stop the music.
“Again, from the same place.”
“I didn’t?—”
“You did. Don’t question me, Ms. Ellis.”
She glares at me. I glare right back.
“Is that clear ?”
“Yeah,” she snaps.
My mouth purses as my gaze holds hers captive. “Excuse me?”
A blush tinges her cheeks.
“I mean, yes, that’s clear… sir .”
Fuck .
My cock really, really needs to calm the hell down when she says that.
“Again. And…go.”
I tap play, and the whole thing starts again. This time, she nails it, and goes directly into the pirouette en dehors . So when I abruptly pause the music again, there’s pure wrath on her face when she whirls on me.
“What the fuck ?!” she hisses. “I had that!”
“Yes, you did,” I growl, narrowing my eyes. “Now you can do it without someone holding your hand.”
I’m not trying to be an asshole. But I know the Imperiya Korona , and this is nothing compared to the whip-cracking that goes on there.
But again, the thought lodges and then crumbles in my head.
She won’t be dancing in Moscow.
She won’t get the apprenticeship.
I clear my throat. “From the top. Go.”
I tap play, relishing the way she shoots me one more glare and then slips into position. She nails the transition perfectly again. But once she’s made it through that part, I stop the music and make her start from the top of the variation again.
Then a third time.
With no breaks.
By the time I’m done with her, she’s collapsed on the floor, panting, her body trembling with exertion. The ragged sound of her breathing fills the studio as I grab a bottle of water from the mini fridge next to the piano and walk over to hand it to her, still down on the floor.
“Better.”
She glares up at me, her skin shining with sweat in a way that makes my hands twitch and my stomach clench.
“How do you know so much about ballet?” she wheezes.
“I own this company,” I say quietly. “In case you and your tone had forgotten.”
She frowns. “Plenty of rich pampered assholes own art galleries. That doesn’t make them painters.”
I smirk.
I like this fire in her. Maybe too much.
… Definitely too much.
“Well, this particular rich pampered asshole happens to know quite a bit about ballet.” My eyes stab into hers. “You have a shot ,” I growl. “But you need to conquer your fear.”
“I’m not afraid of?—”
She gasps as I surge right into her, looming.
A smirk tugs at my mouth. “You were saying?”
“ Fuck you ?—”
“Language, Ms. Ellis.”
Her mouth snaps shut, and she bristles.
“I’m not scared . You attacked me. That’s a natural response. But kung fu or krav maga or whatever that was isn’t ballet,” she hisses.
I slowly shake my head. “Ballet is war. It is merciless, it is unforgiving, and it is kill or be killed. If that’s not war…” I look away. “I don’t know what is.”
Brooklyn eyes me, sucking on her bottom lip.
Don’t say it. Don’t do this. You will regret it .
“I can work with you, Brooklyn.”
Fuck . I said it.
She blinks in surprise as she looks up at me. “What?”
“You’ll continue as usual during the day with Magda—with Madame Kuzmina, that is,” I say. “But after that, you and I will have one-on-one coaching. I will hone your near-perfect skills into actual perfection.”
She smiles a little. “Seriously?”
“Yes.” I lean down close to her. “Are you prepared to work hard?”
She nods vigorously. “Yeah, I am.”
“There will be rules, Brooklyn.”
“Such as?” she drawls sarcastically.
“Such as dropping that sass, for a start,” I growl. “No more swearing like a goddamn sailor. And being prepared to go into battle. If you think you can manage those, I can break you of your fear.”
The studio goes pin-drop silent, then slowly, Brooklyn starts to nod.
“I think I can manage those.”
“ Good girl .”
That’s something else I’m starting to relish: that blush that creeps over her face and neck whenever I say that. Or when she calls me “sir”.
And yes, I’m very aware how dangerous that is, especially as we move into this madness of me coaching her alone after hours.
“Let’s take the variation again from the top.”
I reach down, taking her hand and pulling her to her feet. She gasps a little when I yank her up so fast that she almost falls into me. But she catches herself, still blushing as she looks away.
I march back over to the iPad and turn to her. “Ready?”
Brooklyn nods and rolls her shoulders. “Yeah.”
“Go.”
This time, it’s even better: what I’m correcting are really the minutest details. But those details are the difference between very good and fucking perfection .
“Again.”
When she’s finished, I have her start all over again, going through the variation a second time.
“Again.”
And a third.
“Do not let that wrist collapse!” I bark as she moves into her fourth crack at the variation.
I step away from the piano, moving right over to her and walking backward next to her, following her every step and movement with a critical eye.
“The piqué!” I shout over the music as it swells. My pulse thuds as she twirls, her face a mask of concentration, her body twisting, spinning, her muscles flexing.
“Now the pirouette! Right into it!”
Her muscles work, tendons coiling, her skin sweat-slicked, her entire body a masterpiece of anatomy and grace as she nails the pirouette en dehors .
“Keep going!” I bark. “Full concentration!”
She twirls, dips and spins—and suddenly, her foot slips out from under her, pulling a choked cry from her lips.
I’m there instantly, my hands scooping underneath to catch her and stop her from falling…
…Right into my arms.
The music keeps playing, but suddenly, her palms are flat against my chest, our faces barely six inches apart.
Her eyes are wild and shining. Her breath is coming quickly, and I can feel the erratic staccato thud of her pulse just under her skin where my hands are clasping her back.
Time stops.
Everything stops.
And then suddenly, so fast that I don’t see it coming, Brooklyn’s lips are crashing to mine.
Kissing me .
For a second, it’s chaos. A riot of beauty, insanity, and need. My hands tighten on her back, as if to crush her to my chest and never let go. My lips open, and she whimpers breathlessly as my tongue slides into her mouth, tangling with hers.
She sinks against me. Her pulse goes fucking haywire as I growl into her mouth and kiss her like she’s fucking mine.
…Except, she’s not.
She’s a dancer at the company I own. She’s twenty fucking years my junior. And she’s looking for a shot at an opportunity she thinks I can give her.
Which I can’t.
With a growl rumbling in my chest, I shove us apart, wrenching my mouth from hers and stepping away.
Brooklyn’s face crumples, her eyes widening when she sees the dark fury in mine.
“Don’t ever do that again,” I say quietly, my voice black as night.
Without another word, I turn and walk out of the studio.
I have to.
If I don’t, I’ll gather her back into my arms, and neither of us will ever let go.