Chapter 64 Sonya
SONYA
Adrian’s palming his length, the whites of his knuckles popping out against the thickening bulge. “Sonya,” he says my name as I move to the center of the studio. “You’re going to kill me, baby.”
How he looks—the sheer longing, desperation, and pure suffering on his expression—is how I feel. My arms shake as I lift them into position.
Two years ago.
The only person I think about is you.
Ask me who I love.
All the lights are on, there’s no music, and it’s us alone, finally together. All I want to do is run, throw myself against him, tackle him and never let go.
But first…
First, he has to see what he does to me. I need him to know, and I don’t know a better way to do this. Words, I’ll trip over and choke on them. But dance? It’s a way to say what I can’t, this thorny, slivered window into my guarded soul.
My first turn is fully rotated, my feet pointed. I shiver as air glides across all my revealed skin. There are goosebumps everywhere and a thick pulse between my legs. This lingerie covers nothing.
Closing my eyes, I hold my form in arabesque. One leg lifts behind me. I’m not smiling like I normally do on stage. There’s nothing fake about this, no mask I’m wearing. Nowhere to hide as an implosion gathers power inside me, growing, reshaping—
The only person I think about is you.
Ask me who I love.
The kind of ballet I’m used to is usually slowly built. Little moves lead into slightly bigger moves and so on until at the end, you explode into leaps.
Ask me who I love.
Unrestrained energy whips through me as I breathlessly, full throttle, go straight into my fouetté turns. Three of them. Five. Ten.
The studio blurs. My eyes seek Adrian. Out of control, it’s him I want. Seeing him is imperative, like breathing air.
When our eyes connect, I could stagger to my knees.
So often his hair is styled to be perfectly mussed. That’s not the case right now. It’s so far gone, his fingers disheveling it so badly that the ends have stuck up. That and his parted mouth, a blush riding high across his cheekbones, and—
“Fuck,” he drags out. “Sonya. Fuck.”
I slow down to a stop, to say I agree with it all. What he’s going through, I am, too. We’re both in this together. “You’re so unbelievable.”
A second later, I wince because I meant incredible. Also, mine. Also, everything. “It’s not coming out right,” I hurry and explain, flushing.
“It’s okay, darling.” His words are chewed out as if he’s biting his own tongue. Even so, his expression softens with patience. “You don’t have to—“
“No, but I want to. You have to understand.” My voice pitches and cracks. “Me too.”
His eyes are bright and trained on me, as I try to elaborate, but nothing comes out. Frustrated, I move away and keep dancing. Me too isn’t enough. But I’ll get there.
En pointe, I’m dancing completely differently. Not like I did when he snuck into the studio to check on me, so many weeks ago. That ballerina has been shed. It’s not about ethereality and lightness and playing a character for the audience.
More harsh fouetté turns.
There’s a tempest inside me. These big, overwhelming, choking feelings. I’m panting, exhausted. My balancés and bourées are a minor reprieve, before even more fouetté turns.
The skill it takes to do them is brutal. A visceral strain on my body. I’m so tired now, my body cramping in every spot.
The only person I think about is you.
Ask me who I love.
I do want to ask and be ready with my own six words.
Am.
In.
Blank.
With.
You.
I petit saut, then I piqué turn. Once, twice, three times before a glissade, before the big one—
Grand jeté.
My legs are perfectly ninety degrees, legs split in power, fluidity, athleticism. A massive leap across the studio, and I land with my front foot downwards and knees bent to absorb the shock. My back leg and arms remain extended outward.
This suspended pause. Disbelief.
Then my arms unfold down.
I’ve done it. Executed a show-stopping, timeless, iconic move without suffering from the yips. No hesitation, no blankness, no panic swallowing me whole. My body remembered what to do. I didn’t fall. In fact, there’s been no falling at all, dancing for him.
I turn to Adrian to share the news, breath catching, as the tension in my body uncoils finally in what feels like forever.
Our eyes lock together and my limbs wobble. Actually, no. That’s not true.
I have fallen.
For him.
For his eyes. His warmth. His existence. All his different, lovely, adorable, maddening smirks. How visibly turned on he is right now, and how viciously he’s holding himself back. His pained, slight smile. “When can I touch you? I’ll make it good, Sonya. I promise, baby.”
I go to him. Circle him.
His hands fist on nothing.
He’s beautiful and mine. And I adore him so much it hurts, along with this other yawning, all-encompassing feeling that settles into my bones. Reaching out, my fingers smooth across a jaw so set that it must be hurting him to clench it like that. “How about now? Touch me now.”
It’s as if I gifted world peace in the palm of his hands. His grin is so incandescent as he cups and squeezes my ass and works a strap of my camisole. It doesn’t budge. Not an inch. “There are too many of these.”
“Yeah, it was a nightmare to get into it.”
“I can’t—I’m sorry, baby.”
Sorry?
Before I can blink, he rips half of them apart. Lace flutters to the ground.
“Oh my God,” I moan.
“I’ll buy you a room full of replacements, Sonya, I swear. Please don’t be mad,” he says, pleading with me.
I’m gulping in air, feverish, as he drags his teeth across my skin.
“You really are a Neanderthal,” I say, grinding my hips against his.
I’m spun around. The wall of his fully clothed body is behind me. He pauses. “Too much?”
“Keep going,” I beg. Please more.
“If there’s anything you don’t like, the way I’m touching you, my dirty talk—”
“I will. Now—” I grab his wrist. And try to bring it lower to where I throb the most.
He doesn’t need more guidance. Adrian rips the last bit of fabric away and sinks his middle finger deep inside me. The stretch has my eyes rolling back.
With his other hand, he reaches down and cups the spot above my knee. A split second later, my leg is back in the air. Like his personal ballerina, he’s positioned me open. So he can go deeper.
Both of us whimper as he drags the digit in and out of my tight channel. At the same time, his thumb coaxes circles, applying delicious friction to my clit. Slowly, torturously—
I’m clenching, moaning, thrashing in his arms, and I almost come right there.
But then the room shifts. One-armed, he lifts me off the ground and carries me forward all the way until we’re in front of a mirrored wall. Now I can watch him finger-fuck me.
“So wet and needy, baby. Wait until I fuck you so long and so deep, my cock is all you’re going to feel even when I’m not inside you.”
God. His words alone. They have me shaking and sweating.
“Give me one like this first,” he breathes into my ear. “You can do that for me, right?”
My spine bends as he inserts another finger. This time it’s his whole hand working me over, along with his thumb on my clit. The perfect pressure as my mind unravels.
“You’re soaked, baby. So wet you’re going to take me so goddamn well tonight.”
“Adrian,” I moan.
“Don’t worry, darling. It’ll be good for you. My cock is going to fill up your pussy.”
He’s so arrogant. I pretend I hate it.
“I’m going to eat you for hours.”
My ears roar, almost deafening me. “H-Hours?”
“Won’t you let me?” he asks, sounding extremely put out by the thought I might not.
My hips jerk as he shudders. “Last time I didn’t get enough.
I was too desperate, too fast. I couldn’t make it last, but this time…
” His fingers come out and tease my clit.
“This time, I’m going to take my time with you. ”
“Adrian,” I start again, but can’t continue.
“Don’t you like being a good girl for me?” His voice has gotten guttural, more possessive, but still breathless. Almost like he’s in pain. “How many times will you be a good girl tonight? On my fingers. On my tongue. And you want my cock, too. Right, love?”
I can’t answer. I’ve lost all ability to form words.
My fractured sounds are all I’m capable of giving him, and how I clench on his fingers, my core spasming so many times I’ve lost count. I’m flying. Drowning. Rescued. Lost.
Between his fingers, he pinches my clit.
I scream his name, falling apart, coming so hard my vision blanks.
When it finally comes back, I latch onto his face in the mirror. He’s concentrated on me with such feral intensity. Barely a rim of blue left, his pupils are blown. Completely flushed, his mouth is wet.
Lowering my leg, he hugs me tightly from behind. I try to grind down against the ridge in his pants, but he doesn’t let me. It’s like trying to move a brick wall.
“Adrian?”
“One more, okay?”
Before I can wonder what he means, I’m arranged to face him. His palms possess my waist and he lifts me, his biceps bulging. All the way up, past the point where my legs could wrap around his waist—because they’re wrapping around his neck.
The mirror wall is support.
So are my hands as they dig into his hair.
Adrian wastes no time. None. Ten seconds later, I’m chanting his name and writhing with need, barely recovered from the aftershocks of my first orgasm, seeing stars again and contorting as his tongue laps me up.
I cry out as he eats me through a second orgasm.