Elle
He quickens his pace.
“There's no glass.” Another turn. “No blood.”
I gasp as he pushes my legs, forcing them to drop, but it’s the weight of the fall that jars me back to reality. I gaze down and see that my feet aren’t touching the floor. They’re hovering a few centimetres above Gant’s feet as he follows the choreography perfectly.
“Dance with me, Dove.”
Suddenly, the music is back.
It takes me a few seconds, but I do, grazing the tips of my toes against the floor as Gant does all the work. I just have to lift my legs at the right moment; it's more like I’m posing than dancing, but the fact that I’m not putting any weight on my feet is giving me more confidence. Eventually, I watch us in the mirror, enamoured.
“What are you thinking?” He asks against my ear.
“This is the first song we danced to in Marisol’s studio when we first met.”
He says nothing, but I can tell he’s hanging on to my every word as he clutches me tighter with each turn.
“And here we are again, seemingly at the start.”
Or I am.
We twirl right.
“And I’m thinking about how much of a doll I feel like in your arms.”
He peers down at me, those sunless tunnels penetrating through me.
“How sometimes starting over maybe isn’t so bad if you have the right support. And you’re supporting me.”
For now.
“And with a little more support…” With more money, more resources. “I think I can stand,” I say, slipping further down his torso so that I’m putting more weight on my feet. “I can stand by myself.”
Without you.
I let him go, and immediately a burning I don’t expect tears through me. Not because there’s pain exploding through my feet, but rather it’s tearing through my heart.
Why? Isn’t this what I want? To let him go? To show him how cruel I can be, too?
But for it to be cruel, he’d have to care first, and does he really?
He reaches for me, and the burning pain stops as that familiar warmth starts oozing through my veins.
“Not just stand,” he whispers. “Fly.”
Fly away.
From you.
“I know my little love bird can soar above us all. She always has. She always will. It’s why I love hunting you. It’s why I’ll never stop.”
Love.
His weirdly sweet smile shreds something inside of me, and for the first time since waking up in my new altered reality, I kiss him with my whole heart. Because I’m not depriving myself of anything, right? Not while I’m here. I can take what I want. Use what I want.
It’s not greedy, it’s resourceful.
It’s self-care.
Delusion.
Pretend.
His lips part, and I take the bait, slipping my tongue into his mouth where he sucks on it sharply, before easing into a gentle massage. I’m melting, heat pooling between my legs as I taste him, really taste him after all this time.
I’d thought girls were crazy when they said they sniffed their man’s armpits, but here I am, greedily inhaling the breath that’s escaping his nose. His scent is engulfing me, strangling me as I huff it. Not synthetic cologne, but that natural scent my brain immediately identifies as nothing but him.
Him.
Him.
Him.
My fingers climb into his wavy, black hair as my legs climb up his torso again so that my pussy can kiss his hard cock that’s digging into me through his sweatpants. I rub against him, and he lets me. He lets me suck on his tongue, on his lips, and his sharp Adam’s apple as his head drifts back to let me devour him. When I think I’ve gone absolutely feral and his scent has intoxicated me enough to sink my teeth into his flesh, he spins me around smoothly like we’re in dance class.
My back is against his chest, his hands hooked around my knees that he’s spread wide.
“Do you know what I’m thinking?”
“What?”
“I’m remembering Stretch class when you ground that virginal pussy on me, behind the horsemen’s back, under the instructor’s watch. Grinding your little clit on my head even as you claimed to despise me.”
Immediately, I flood at his words.
“I remember, trying to stretch these hips out,” he says, pulling my knees wider until I’m in a split.
Go on.
“I’m remembering when you asked me to break that little band deep inside of you. That band that held you back from your full potential of spreading your cunt this wide.”
“What else?” I ask, licking my lips, and he traces the motion.
“I remember that dark stain too. Almost as dark as this one,” He zones in between my legs where my light pink leotard is turning fuchsia. “You ran into the girls’ bathroom and dried it beneath the hand dryer to hide the evidence of how badly you wanted me. Now, look at you. Look how unembarrassed you are to show me.”
His fingers dive beneath the gusset, and I don’t flinch when he breaks it and the fabric rolls halfway up my belly, exposing me. I hadn’t bothered with tights today.
“Look at it, ,” he whispers, walking us to the mirror, and I dig my fingers into his arms to keep myself steady. He’s lifting me high against his chest like he’s showing off his most prized possession to a crowd. “Look how you’ve opened for me. Watered for me.”
“More,” I say, suddenly breathless. I want him to go on because his filthy talk is making me wetter by the second. “Tell me more.”
He smiles wickedly. “I thought the same as you, that you looked like a little doll in my arms. But then I thought…more than a doll, I want to turn you into a puppet.”
“A puppet?” I swallow, then nearly bite my tongue as he flips me around, before spinning me upside down so that I’m facing his thighs, my pussy flush with his mouth.
“Gant!” I grip his knees, desperately trying to stabilise myself.
“Keep the split. Let me control you. Let me sink into you, Dove. You’ll like me controlling you.”
And he does, his tongue sliding into my slit so deep that I scream. When I recover a second later, I turn my head to catch sight of us in the mirror.
His nose is buried in my ass, his tongue fucking me, daggering me as he watches us in the mirror too with a crazed lust that makes me tremble. That makes me drop my head against him, against his cock.
I tug at his sweatpants, and when it bobs free, I lick at his salty, sweet precum. The same flavour from the hospital that makes my pussy clamp down on his tongue because I fucking knew it.
And now, it’s his turn to moan, to crumble face-first into my slit.