Chapter Six Allegra
Six
Allegra
His movement starts slow, finding the intricacies within the music. His hips roll, relaxed and controlled, in a way that makes me automatically think about what else those hips can do. Since they are level with my eyes, it’s hard to look away.
I don’t want to look away.
The way he moves, the glide of his feet on the floor, the sensuous sway of his body. It’s nothing short of mesmerizing. I thought it was captivating last night when he was several yards away from me, separated by an audience and a stage. But here, with him right in front of me…I can hardly breathe.
He spins around me and I find my head involuntarily following the motion.
His hands land back on my shoulders before they skate down my arms to my wrists.
He captures my hands in his, raising them over my head and placing them on his chest. He’s still wearing a shirt, but I can feel the heat of his skin through the fabric.
Cord does some kind of handstand on the back of my chair, his arms bending in ways even I can’t fathom.
He lands back in front of me and he takes one of my hands in his again.
With his free hand, he lifts the corner of his shirt, exposing a set of abs worthy of being the show’s moniker.
He places my hand on his stomach and I suck in a sharp breath.
His skin is warm and smooth, my fingers catch on the ridges of his muscles.
His smile is wicked—he knows exactly how he’s affecting me and we’ve barely gotten started, if the performances from the night before are any indication. He leaves my hand pressed flat against his stomach as he reaches behind his neck to tug his shirt over his head.
And look.
Male ballet dancers have some of the most gorgeous bodies I’ve ever seen.
But Cord Donovan is on a whole other level.
I swallow thickly and he lowers himself so he’s practically sitting on my lap, his thighs bracing my hips. When he begins that sensuous hip-roll move again, he’s so close to my core that I worry he might feel the heat that’s burning me up from the inside out.
He takes my chin in his hand, bringing my gaze up so our eyes are locked.
Somehow, being the sole focus of his blue eyes is even more breathtaking than the feel of his body moving over mine.
He trails a single finger down the center of my chest, down my bare stomach, pausing just above the waistband of my leggings.
He lets it hover there, his grin never faltering. Dropping to his knees on the floor in front of me, his hands grip the tops of my thighs, pushing them open, making room for his broad shoulders.
I can’t stifle the gasp because suddenly his mouth is right there. Sure, there are layers of fabric between us, but the warmth of his breath seeps through and I shiver.
He wraps my legs around his shoulders, and I know what’s coming, saw it several times during the show last night, but it still catches me off guard when he stands.
His face is pressed in between my legs and before I can latch on to something to stabilize me—not that I need to with Cord’s strong hands anchored on my hips—he’s flipped me around.
Now not only is his face in between my legs, but my face is level with his crotch.
I should be disgusted or appalled, I should be shouting my safe word.
But all I really want to do is tug on his belt, loosen the waistband of his tight jeans.
My back hits the floor, gently, Cord’s body shifting and spinning once more. He hovers over me, the muscles in his arms straining as he dips his weight. His hips press into mine and an unfamiliar sensation shoots through my veins.
I want him.
Normally I don’t have enough free time or free headspace to want anyone. But right now, in this moment, desire is all I can feel.
My breaths quicken as Cord lands on his knees in between my thighs.
He tugs me up into a sitting position, his hands once again placing mine on the bare skin of his chest. He’s slightly sweaty, a little sticky, but I like it.
This time when he drags them down over his stomach, he places mine on the belt at his waist.
I don’t know if he was reading my thoughts, or if every woman he gives a lap dance to longs for this moment, but I follow his lead, yanking the belt loose from his jeans.
He unbuttons and unzips, directing my hands to circle around, slide in between the fabric of his pants and the cotton of his underwear and latch onto his ass. It’s firm underneath my fingers and he grins as they dig in.
His own fingers linger at the front of his pants. He cups himself over his boxer briefs and somehow that simple movement is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
His hand slips into the waistband of his underwear, tugging it down, revealing the slightest hint of dark hair underneath.
Right as the song comes to an end.
The cocky grin Cord has been wearing throughout the entire dance fades. He jumps up from his spot kneeling in between my legs, fastening the button on his jeans and tightening the belt.
He reaches down a hand to help me up and I almost push it away, not sure I can handle another brush of his skin on mine. But I’m also not sure my leg muscles are working properly and the last thing I need is to try to stand on my own and fall flat on my face.
So I slip my hand into his. The moment I’m back on two feet, I drop it.
He takes several steps away from me, his hands coming to rest on his hips as the silence threatens to drown me.
After what is probably only seconds but feels like hours, he swipes his shirt from the floor and tugs it over his head. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face. Thanks to the sweat, it stays in place, showing off his perfect cheekbones.
“So,” I say, making my way over to the couch. I pull on my sweatshirt, letting my fingers tangle in the soft cotton hem so I don’t have to figure out what to do with my hands. “What comes next?”
Cord clears his throat and for the first time, avoids my eyes. “Look, Slippers, I can teach you the moves. I can show you how to roll your hips and bat your eyes, but it isn’t all about the choreography.”
“It’s not?”
He beckons for me to join him in front of the mirror.
I stand in front of him, facing our reflection.
He pushes my shoulder blades inward, slouching my posture in a way that feels completely unfamiliar.
My sweatshirt slips off one shoulder, but I make no move to right it.
“Right now, you think of your body as a tool. It’s what allows you to dance.
You think in terms of pointed feet and straight lines. ”
I straighten my shoulders the moment he releases his hand from my back. “What else should I think about my body then?”
“Think about all the ways your body can bring you pleasure.” He smirks, watching my breath still in my chest, his eyes lingering on the line of my collarbone.
“The taste of a really good meal. The exhilaration of pushing your body and the adrenaline that comes with it. A hot bath after a long day.” He trails a single finger over my exposed shoulder, goose bumps exploding in the wake of his touch. “That first touch from a new lover.”
I don’t say anything because I know if I open my mouth right now, I will either collapse into a pile of nervous giggles or throw up and, honestly, I’m not sure which is worse.
His eyes meet mine in the reflection in the mirror. “Let’s meet again in three days. Before then, I want you to find pleasure in your body. Start thinking about it as something more than just a tool.”
My inner people pleaser immediately nods, agreeing to his instructions before I have time to consider if I truly even know what he means.
It’s been so long since I’ve done anything just for pleasure’s sake, unless you count staring at hours of Bravo at the end of a long day, and somehow I don’t think binge-watching reality TV is the kind of thing he has in mind.
“Take a picture of whatever it is you end up doing and text it to me.”
I raise one eyebrow. “You expect me to send you a photo of myself in the bath?”
If I didn’t know better, I’d say that was a flush creeping over his perfect cheekbones, but something tells me it will take more than one semiflirty comment to get under Cord Donovan’s skin.
“Let’s meet here on Tuesday. What time works for you?”
“After dinner? Maybe eight?” I’m already dreading the added hours after a day full of class and rehearsal, but I remind myself to keep my eye on the prize. It will all be worth it once that part is mine.
Cord nods. “Sounds good.” He checks his phone. “Want me to get you a cab?”
I shake my head, knowing I can’t afford another pricey taxi. “I’m going to take the subway.”
He doesn’t offer to walk me to the nearest station, which is good because I don’t know if I can handle much more time in his presence.
So I give him an awkward wave and head toward the elevator. “See you in a couple days.”
“Hey Slippers,” he calls as I step through the doors into the elevator. “Make sure you bring your dancing shoes next time.”
I flip him off right as the doors are closing, but it doesn’t cut off the sound of his laughter. Luckily, it does hide the wide smile that spreads across my face at the sound.
I manage to make it through Sunday and Monday without thinking too much about Cord Donovan.
That’s a lie.
Obviously.
Every moment that I’m not thinking about dance, I’m thinking about Cord. Many moments when I should be thinking about dance, I’m thinking about Cord.
It’s not just how ridiculously hot he is, or how, when I got home after our first session, I whipped out my dusty vibrator and came harder than I have in a very long time.
It’s his words, his directive. His homework I’ve been completely ignoring.