Chapter 6 Ghosts Dancing #2
The admission hits me like a fist to the chest. She's twenty-nine years old and she's never—because he broke her so badly she couldn't—
"I've been broken too long to be anyone's first," I say, even as every cell in my body screams to claim her.
"Then we'll be broken together," she responds, pulling me back.
I should refuse. Should be stronger than this. Should honor Elena's memory by not taking another ballerina in her studio.
Instead, I lift Sonya in my arms and carry her to the mirror.
Press her back against the glass, her nightgown riding up around her hips. Kiss her until we're both breathless. My hands map her body—small breasts, narrow waist, the muscles of a dancer even after five years away from the stage.
"Tell me if it hurts," I say against her mouth.
"Everything hurts. Make it hurt differently."
I slide the nightgown off her shoulders. It pools at her feet. She's naked except for the ankle wrap, standing in Elena's studio, reflected in mirrors on three sides.
Beautiful. Broken. Mine.
I strip off my sweatpants. Her eyes widen at my size, a flash of fear crossing her face.
"We'll go slow," I promise.
"I don't want slow. I want to feel something."
I lift her. She wraps her legs around my waist automatically—ballet flexibility making it easy, natural. I position her against the mirror, the glass cool against her back.
"Watch," I tell her, angling us so she can see our reflection. "Watch what I do to you."
I enter her slowly. Feel her barrier. Meet her eyes in the mirror.
"Last chance to stop," I say.
"Don't you dare stop."
I push through. She cries out—pain and surprise and something else. I still, letting her adjust, watching her face in the reflection.
"Breathe," I tell her. "Just breathe."
She does. Slowly, her body relaxes around me. Accepts me.
"Move," she says. "Please. I need—"
I move. Slowly at first, watching her face in the mirror. Watching the pain fade, replaced by something else. Confusion. Then pleasure.
Her flexibility is extraordinary. I adjust her position—one leg over my shoulder, the other wrapped around my waist. The angle lets me go deeper. She gasps, arching against the mirror.
"Look," I tell her. "Look at yourself."
She does. Watches herself in the reflection—body bent in ways most women couldn't manage, taking me deep, transforming from broken dancer to claimed woman.
I feel her blood on me. The evidence of her innocence. It should make me gentle.
Instead, it makes me feral.
"Mine," I growl against her throat. "Say it."
"Yours." She's panting now, her body moving with mine. "Always yours."
I work her through the discomfort to pleasure. Teaching her body to respond, to recognize what feels good. My hand finds her breast, thumb circling her nipple. She moans.
"That's it," I encourage. "Tell me what you feel."
"Full. Stretched. Like you're—oh god—like you're everywhere."
I change angles again. Hit something inside her that makes her cry out.
"There?" I ask.
"There. Please. More."
I give her more. Drive into her harder, faster, watching our reflection. Her leg is nearly behind her head now—ballet training making her impossibly flexible. I take advantage of it, bending her in ways that let me claim every inch.
Her first orgasm catches us both by surprise. She clenches around me, crying out in Russian—words I don't catch but understand anyway.
"Again," I demand.
"I can't—"
"You can. You will."
I prove it. Work her body like an instrument I'm learning to play. Find what makes her gasp, what makes her moan, what makes her beg.
Her second orgasm is stronger. The third one even more. By the fourth, she's sobbing my name, her body shaking with pleasure.
Only then do I let myself follow. Release inside her with a roar, marking her, claiming her, making her mine in the most primal way possible.
We stay joined, breathing hard, watching our reflection. Her blood and my release mixing. Past and present. Death and life.
I trace her name on the mirror above her head. Deliberately now. Consciously.
S-O-N-Y-A.
She sees it in the reflection. Understands what it means.
Not overwriting Elena. Honoring her by living again.
"I’m falling in love with you," she whispers.
The words should terrify me. Instead, they feel like absolution.
"I know," I respond, still buried inside her. "I've known since the gallery. Since I covered your body with mine and couldn't imagine a world where you weren't in it."
I carry her—still naked, still trembling—through the mansion. Not to the guest wing. To my master suite. My bed.
The bed where Elena slept beside me. The room I abandoned the night she died. I've slept on the couch in my study for fifteen years, as I couldn't bear to come back to where we were happy.
I lay Sonya down on sheets I've had the staff change weekly despite never sleeping here. Pull her against my chest in a bed I swore I'd never share with anyone again.
"Sleep," I tell her.
"Here? In your bed?"
"This is your bed now. Your room. Your space." I kiss her forehead. "You're not a guest anymore, Sonya."
She's asleep within minutes, exhausted by pain and pleasure and everything between.
I stay awake, watching her breathe. Tracing her name on my own chest in the dark.
For the first time in fifteen years, I don't trace Elena's name before sleeping.
I trace Sonya's.
And Elena's ghost, somewhere in this mansion, finally rests.