Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
For now, my brain helpfully supplies. There’s still the repairs. The insurance. The rescheduled classes. The—
“Stop.”
Mal’s voice cuts through my spiral. He’s standing near the front desk, watching me with an expression I can’t quite read.
“Stop what?”
“Whatever disaster you’re catastrophizing about.” He pushes off from where he’s been leaning and walks toward me. “I can hear you thinking from across the room.”
“That’s not possible.”
“The crisis is handled, Isadora.” He stops a few feet away, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. “The studio is safe. The children are home. Everything that needed to be done today has been done.”
“For now.”
“Yes. For now.” His voice softens. “That’s how life works. One ‘for now’ at a time.”
I want to argue with him. I want to point out all the problems that will be waiting for me tomorrow and all the reasons I should be worried and planning and preparing instead of standing here in my empty studio with my heart beating too fast. But I don’t.
Because standing here, in the aftermath of everything, with the soft hum of machinery and the last rays of sunset filtering through the windows, I don’t want to think about tomorrow. I want to think about now. About him.
“You stayed,” I say quietly.
“I did.”
“All day.”
“Seemed like the thing to do.”
“Most people would have left after the pipes were fixed.”
He tilts his head, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I’m not most people.”
“No.” My voice comes out rougher than I intended. “You’re not.”
Something shifts in the air between us. The playful energy that usually surrounds him sharpens into something more focused, more intent. His eyes, dark in the fading light, fix on mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch and I see the red sparks in their depths.
“Isadora.”
“Yes?”
“You’re staring at me.”
“I’m aware.”
“Any particular reason?”
Because you spent twelve hours handling my disaster like it was your own. Because you danced with a shy little boy and made him feel special. Because you’re standing here, still, when you could have left hours ago. Because I can’t stop thinking about what it would feel like to kiss you again.
I don’t say any of that. Instead, I close the distance between us.
It’s only two steps—two small steps that feel like crossing an ocean—and then I’m right in front of him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, close enough to see the slight widening of his eyes as he realizes what I’m about to do.
“Isadora—”
I kiss him. It’s not like the first time, that explosive collision of heat and frustration in my kitchen. This is slow and deliberate. I rise up on my toes, thread my fingers through his hair, and press my lips to his with everything I’ve been feeling all day.
Thank you. I want you. Stay.
For a heartbeat, he doesn’t move. Then his hands are on my waist, pulling me closer, and he’s kissing me back with a hunger that steals the breath from my lungs.
His mouth is warm and demanding, coaxing my lips apart, and when his tongue slides against mine I make a sound I’ve never heard myself make before—something raw and desperate that should embarrass me but doesn’t.
His fingers dig into my hips hard enough to leave marks, and I want him to leave marks.
I want evidence of this moment, proof that it’s real.
“Tell me to stop,” he breathes against my lips.
“No.”
“Isadora—”
“I don’t want you to stop.”
He makes a low, rough sound that vibrates through his chest and into mine, and then he’s walking me backward and my back hits the mirrored wall with enough force to rattle the barre.
The glass is cold through my thin shirt, but his body is furnace-hot against my front.
The contrast makes me gasp, and he swallows the sound with another kiss, deeper this time, more demanding.
His hands slide up my sides, mapping the curve of my waist, the indent of my ribs. When his thumbs brush the underside of my breasts, I arch into him instinctively, and he makes that sound again—that groan that feels like it’s being pulled from somewhere deep inside him.
“You have no idea,” he murmurs against the corner of my mouth, “how much I’ve wanted to do this.”
I laugh, breathless and slightly hysterical. “Me too.”
His teeth graze the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder, and my thoughts scatter like startled birds.
“That’s cheating,” I manage.
“Is it?” Another kiss, this one right over my pulse point. “I thought all was fair in love and dance.”
Love.
The word lands somewhere in my chest and takes root. I pull his mouth back to mine, kissing him harder, and my hands find the hem of his shirt. The fabric bunches as I push it up, and my fingers finally touch bare skin. He sucks in a sharp breath.
His skin is hot and smooth, with firm ridges of muscle beneath it. I trace the lines of his abdomen, feeling the way he tenses under my touch, ad the way his breath stutters when my nails scrape lightly over his ribs.
“Isadora.” His voice is wrecked. “If you keep doing that—”
“What?”
“I’m going to lose what little control I have left.”
“Maybe I want you to lose control.”
He pulls back just enough to look at me. The red flames in his eyes are brighter than I’ve ever seen them, and there’s something almost wild in his expression.
“Do you know what you’re saying?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know what I am?”
“Yes.”
“And you still—”
I reach up and cup his face in my hands. “I know exactly what you are, Mal. I’ve known since the moment you walked into my studio and turned everything upside down.” My thumbs trace his cheekbones. “You’re chaos. You’re impossible. You’re the most infuriating person I’ve ever met.”
His jaw tightens. “That’s not exactly—”
“You’re also kind,” I continue. “And patient. And you stayed. When I asked for help, you stayed.” My voice cracks slightly. “Do you know how rare that is? Do you know how many people in my life have left the moment things got difficult?”
“Isadora—”
“I don’t care what you are. I care who you are. And who you are is someone I—” I stop, the words catching in my throat. “Someone I trust.”
For a long moment, he just looks at me. Then something shifts in his expression, so vulnerable it makes my heart ache.
Then he kisses me again. This time, it’s different. Softer. Slower. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of my mouth, the taste of my lips. His hands cradle my face with a tenderness that makes my eyes sting.
“You destroy me,” he whispers. “Do you know that? Every time I think I have my footing, you say something like that and I—” He breaks off, pressing his forehead to mine. “I don’t deserve you.”
“That’s not for you to decide.”
“Isadora—”
“Shut up and kiss me.”
He laughs against my lips. “Bossy.”
“You love it.”
“I do.” Another kiss, deeper. “I really, really do.”
His hands slide down to my thighs, and suddenly I’m being lifted, my legs wrapping around his waist instinctively.
The new position brings us impossibly closer, and I can feel all of him now—the hard planes of his chest, the rapid beat of his heart, the thick ridge of his cock pressing against my core.
I rock against him without thinking, and we both groan.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re going to kill me.”
“Good.”
I roll my hips again, and his fingers dig into my thighs hard enough to bruise. His head drops to my shoulder, his breath coming in ragged gasps, and the knowledge that I can affect him like this is intoxicating.
“Isadora.” His voice is muffled against my skin. “We need to slow down.”
“Why?”
“Because if we don’t, I’m going to take you right here against this mirror, and you deserve better than that.”
The mental image his words conjure makes my breath catch.
“What if—” I swallow hard. “What if that’s what I want?”
He goes completely still. When he lifts his head, his eyes are practically glowing—something that should frighten me but only makes me want him more.
“Don’t,” he says roughly. “Don’t say things like that unless you mean them.”
“I mean them.”
“Isadora—”
“I want you.” The words come out steadier than I feel. “I’ve wanted you for weeks. Every time we practice, every time you touch me, I think about—” I stop, cheeks flushing. “I think about this.”
“This?”
“You. Me. No music. No rules.” I meet his eyes. “Just us.”
Whatever wall he’d been trying to maintain crumbles, and then his mouth is on mine again, fierce and desperate.
His hands are everywhere. My shirt gets pushed up, his palms sliding over the bare skin of my stomach, my ribs, and then higher.
When his thumb brushes over my nipple through the thin fabric of my bra, I cry out against his lips.
“Sensitive,” he murmurs, doing it again. “I’ll remember that.”
“Mal—”
“I want to learn everything about you.” Another brush, another gasp. “Every sound you make. Every way you like to be touched.” His teeth close gently on my earlobe. “I want to make you come so hard you forget your own name.”
Oh God.
“Then do it,” I breathe.
He makes a sound that’s almost a growl, and then we’re moving. He carries me across the studio like I weigh nothing and I’m vaguely aware of passing the front desk, the coat hooks, the small hallway that leads to the office.
“Where—”
“Somewhere with a door that locks.”
The office. Of course. He kicks it open, somehow managing not to drop me, and then we’re inside and he’s laying me down on the couch I’ve used for countless breaks between lessons.
The leather is cool against my heated skin, and I arch up into him as he settles over me.
The new position puts our bodies in perfect alignment.
When he rolls his hips, the exquisite friction makes me moan.
“There,” he says against my throat. “That sound. I want to hear that every day for the rest of my life.”
The rest of my life.
The words should send me running. Instead, they make me pull him closer.