Chapter 29
KIR
I try to tell myself that I need to slow down. That the last fucking thing Brooklyn needs is yet another man lusting after her and gazing at her with eyes that scream “swallow my cock”.
But all that goes to shit whenever she even looks at me.
“Kir?”
I blink, my brow knitting as I refocus on her.
Case. In. Point.
Last I remember, I was sitting at my desk. Then Brooklyn walked in after getting home from rehearsal. I forget everything after that because apparently all I can do when this girl comes into a room is stare at her.
I clear my throat. “Sorry—what?”
Brooklyn flashes an amused look. “Senior moment?”
“ Careful, babygirl .”
She grins impishly. “Did you hear anything I just said?”
“I lost the plot when you walked into the room.”
Heat spreads across her face, her eyes twinkling.
“I need your help,” she says. “My callback with Imperiya Korona is in a few weeks, and…” She shrugs eloquently. “Nobody else pushes me like you do.”
“I should hope not.”
She rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean. You make me work for it in ways even Madame Kuzmina doesn’t.
” She exhales. “Look, I know Ivan Yelchin is a friend of yours—” She shakes her head when she sees me start to open my mouth.
“No, I’m not asking that, I never would .
I don’t want favors. I want to get the apprenticeship because I’m the best . Not for any other reason.”
Something stabs in my chest as I smile at her.
This is quickly coming to a head. Sooner rather than later I need to figure out what the fuck I’m doing with my deal to push Inessa through to Ivan.
Brooklyn takes a breath. “I need you to coach me again. Like before.”
I slowly nod. “When did you have in mind?”
“I’m ready right now?”
I smile. “That’s my girl.”
Brooklyn blushes deeply.
Twenty minutes later, we’re in the ballroom of my house: Brooklyn in a leotard and practice tutu, me in gym pants and t-shirt.
I stand to one side, connecting my phone to the in-ceiling speaker system as I watch her finish stretching before she moves to the middle of the ballroom.
“Do you know yet what you're going to do?”
“We have a list we can choose from. I've picked the girl's variation from Victor Gsovsky's Grand Pas Classique .”
Holy shit. That variation is a nightmare of turns en attitude that quickly turn into balances.
Slow développés held for extremely long periods of time, which end in fifth position en pointe.
The final diagonal is all on the right leg, followed by turns en manège , also on the right leg.
And that’s all aside from the fact that even during a performance, never mind an audition, there’s no eye-catching set to distract from a mistake.
The music's not even particularly dramatic.
It’s just the dancer, alone on stage, every single flaw glaringly obvious.
“Brooklyn—”
“I know,” she says flatly, as if reading my thoughts. “Like I said: I want to get in because I’m good .”
“You can still show them how good you are with something el?—”
“This is what I’m doing for the callback, Kir.”
Goddammit. That sharp defiance in her is unreasonably attractive, and I’m a fucking sucker for it. I find the music on my phone before I lean back against the wall and nod to her.
“I hope I don’t have to ask if you know the choreography already.”
She rolls her eyes. “What is this, amateur hour? Yeah,” she smiles. “I know it.”
I dip my chin and hit the play button on my phone. “Dance for me, then.”
The music begins, and then?
She does.
I resist the urge to drop my jaw as I watch her attack the difficult piece. She’s a blur of arabesques and balances and pure grace when she holds the développés. I stand there fucking mesmerized .
She wasn’t lying, either. She knows every step, hits every single mark, and by the time the piece is done, I’m genuinely not sure I have any feedback for her other than “magnificent.”
I hit stop when the music finishes. Brooklyn stands panting in the middle of the ballroom, her chest rising and falling as she holds the final position, blonde tendrils clinging to her forehead.
She relaxes, her cheeks flushed as she turns to me. “Well?”
WELL it was perfect and I have nothing to say .
But that’s not what she’s looking for. And if I ignore the part of me that is utterly captivated by this woman, I’m sure I can find the asshole lurking beneath.
“You were late with the retiré . That's why you struggled with the abrupt stop.”
Ahh, there he is.
Brooklyn shoots me a look. She fucking knows she just nailed the shit out of that, which means she knows I’m letting my inner dickhead out. But we both also know she asked for my feedback.
“What else?”
When I hesitate, she shakes her head. “No holding back. I want brutal honesty. Ivan won’t know I’m your…” She flushes, clamping her mouth shut. “That we?—”
“No, he won’t,” I mutter.
She nods. “So, let me have it. I want you to be an asshole.” She grins. “Overlook the fact that you came in my mouth yesterday.”
I groan, my dick twitching in my pants. She giggles. “Ooh, I think I just made you blush.”
“Keep it up and I’ll make that ass blush with this hand,” I growl.
Brooklyn grins at me, and goddammit , my heart twists and flexes.
“You came out of the last développé a touch too soon. You need to nail the balances en pointe better . Your manège needs tightening, and your arabesques were uninspiring.”
Brooklyn’s lips purse, fire sparking in her eyes.
“ Uninspiring ?”
I lift a shoulder.
I watch her drink in the frankly asshole critique before swallowing it down.
“Fine,” she mutters. “Thanks for the feedback.”
I grin at her. She purses her lips, but it slowly turns more into her holding a smile back in return as her eyes sparkle.
“Again,” I say. “From the top, when you’re?—”
“I’m ready,” she says quickly.
This time, when she starts to dance, I’m no longer a smitten bystander. I move around her as she pirouettes and balances; appraising, assessing.
“More lift!” I say sharply. “Into the— yes. Good. Perfect.”
Her body twists and glides, her feet flying over the floor and her ankles snapping to attention as she goes up en pointe . I move closer to her, guiding her as if pulling invisible strings from less than a foot away.
She twirls, and my hands land on her hips. She elegantly unfurls her hand to the ceiling, letting her gaze follow it up, and I’m right behind her, my hand ghosting up her arm to lift her fingers just a touch higher.
When she does the first diagonal, I'm there too, tracing a finger down the back of her thigh, lifting her knee just a hair to perfect the line of the attitude .
Brooklyn hits the final position and comes to a panting, gasping stop, her back against my chest, one of my hands on her hip, the other on her gracefully upturned wrist.
The music stops, and her chest heaves as she delicately holds the pose.
“ And that ?” she breathes, her body trembling under my touch.
“ That ,” I murmur quietly, leaning down to let my lips brush her ear, drawing a quiet little gasp from her throat, “ was perfection .”
For a second, time stops.
She’s the one to break the moment eventually, slowly turning in my arms to face me. I keep my hand on her wrist, and when she twists into me, my arm snakes around her, pulling her tight against my chest.
She’s still breathing hard, her breasts heaving against me as her crystal blue eyes lock with my dark pools. Electricity crackles between us. Every nerve in my body tunes to hers—sensing her, touching her, inhaling her feminine, slightly floral scent as my eyes stay riveted to hers.
Her breath catches. Her lips part, glistening as the lower one trembles and begs to be fucking devoured.
It’s that little tremble that finishes me. With a groan, I crush my mouth to hers, growling into her mouth as I kiss her fiercely. Brooklyn moans, her lips parting and her tongue tangling with mine as I utterly claim her mouth.
It’s a riot of panted breaths, nipping teeth and soft, swirling tongues as I clutch her tightly to me.
Finally she pulls back, her eyes wild as they search mine, her lips swollen and bruised from my kisses.
“ I don’t want to be told what I am and am not ready for anymore ,” she whispers quietly, her head slowly shaking side to side. “You don’t scare me. This ,” she chokes, sliding her hand to my chest, her fingers over my heart, “doesn’t scare me.”
“ Brooklyn —”
“You keep telling me I’m not ready for you. And I’m fucking telling you, I am .”
My jaw sets. My eyes spark, pure need and hunger surging through my veins.
“Go to my bedroom,” I growl quietly.
Her eyes open wide in shock. Her throat bobs as she swallows and nods.
“When you get there, take off all your clothes. Then get on my bed on all fours, facing the pillows.”
“ And then ?” she breathes.
“And then, babygirl,” I growl quietly, “we’ll see how ready you really are.”