Chapter Seven
Harlan
Putting on a hot pink leotard is a special kind of hell. Doing it at five in the morning while a savage ballerina watches with a smile on her face is something else altogether.
"You're enjoying this way too much," I mutter, trying to make room for my balls in the goddamn thing. It's an impossible task, though. Either my shaft is crushed by the crotch of it, or my balls are twisted.
"Oh, I'm absolutely enjoying this," Sophie says, beaming at me.
My soul shrivels when she stretches across the bed to grab a shopping bag.
"What's that?"
"The rest of your outfit."
Fuck my motherfucking life.
"I'm going to spank you, ballerina."
"Big talk for a man with a wedgie," she taunts, one brow arched.
I swear to Christ, as soon as this is over, I'm fucking her through the mattress. I don't care if we break the bed. So long as she can't talk when I'm finished with her, I'll be satisfied.
She tosses the bag at me.
I don't know why I even bother hesitating.
It's not like it's going to change whatever is inside the damn thing.
It's also not like hesitating will change reality.
And the reality is this: I'm not backing down.
Not now. Not ever. Not even if my balls are being crushed by a hot pink leotard I borrowed from a Drag Queen I met at a sports store.
I reach inside the bag, my hand coming into contact with a lump of itchy fabric.
Oh, fuck my life…
"A tutu. Seriously?" I growl, yanking it out of the bag.
"Yes, seriously." Her gaze settles on my crotch. "I've been practicing in the ballroom on the first floor. You definitely can't wear just that all the way down there. You'll be arrested for public indecency and whatever it's called when your dick assaults everyone's eyes."
"It's called public indecency," I growl.
"No, this is worse," she says, shaking her head. "Your dick is right there. Like…right there."
She is so getting spanked for this.
"You aren't even hard right now."
"Sophie?"
"Yes, Harlan?"
"Shut up before you make him hard."
She laughs so hard, I want to kiss her breathless. Instead, I step into the damn tutu, yanking it up my legs. I don't even bother looking in the mirror. I already know I look ridiculous.
Am I surprised when I see her snapping photos? Not even a little bit. Will I be surprised if they show up online soon? Also no. I fucked up. She's forgiven me, but she's still going to make me pay.
And you know what? There are worse things in this world than the captain of a professional hockey team dressed in a leotard and tutu because he lost a bet with a savage little ballerina.
If it makes her happy, I'll deal with whatever bullshit comes my way over it.
If it comes, it'll be from pricks who don't matter.
She matters. That smile on her face right now matters. And showing her that I'm willing to do whatever it takes to earn her matters. Everything else is just white noise and nonsense.
"How do I look?" I ask, planting my hands on my hips when I'm certain the tutu is more or less in the right place.
"Like you lost a bet." She grins at me, her green eyes light. "You ready to go be tortured, Captain?"
"As ready as I'll ever be."
She launches off the bed like a graceful cat, landing on her feet without a sound. Unlike me, she looks fucking gorgeous in her leotard. She's also wearing shorts over it. I fully intend to have her out of them by the time she's finished practicing.
She snags a pair of battered shoes from her dresser, and I blink.
"Jesus Christ, Sophie. You been to war in those motherfuckers?"
"Do not judge my shoes, Harlan Ward," she says, her tone pert as she cradles them to her chest like they're Louboutin. "I'll have you know that I had to beat the hell out of these to get them just right. And then I'll have to start all over again in a day or two."
"So…what I'm hearing is that ballet slippers are to a ballerina what skates are to a hockey player," I murmur, holding open the door for her.
She shoots me a questioning look.
"I change skates every few games."
"Oh," she says with a little laugh. "I guess so. I go through four pairs of shoes a week."
My eyebrow climbs toward my hairline. "You're shitting me."
"Nope. They only last about 15 hours of dancing, so you have to change them out or risk the shank or toe box breaking. When that happens, you're more prone to injury."
"That's a lot of…" I trail off, blinking in shock when I see—quite literally—everyone we know at the lodge lined up at the bottom of the steps, their phones pointed in our direction.
"Damn, bro," Briggs calls, clutching Tye's arm as he howls with laughter. "Give us a spin!"
I turn slowly to look at Sophie. "I'm giving you a two-second head start, ballerina."
"I didn't do anything!" she cries, laughing too hard to be believable.
"The evidence suggests otherwise, baby," I growl, holding up a finger. "One."
I expect her to take off, forcing me to chase her. But apparently, Sophie only runs from her feelings, not from whatever threat I pose. She steps right up in front of me, her eyes locked on mine, the devil in her eyes.
"I'm not afraid of you, Harlan Ward."
"Wrong answer." I scoop her up, smacking her ass before I toss her over my shoulder. Everyone downstairs whoops and hollers as she pounds on my back, hitting me with her shoes. I just lock my arm around her hips to keep her steady and jog down the steps.
She bounces on my shoulder with every single one, growling and cursing up a storm. I'm fairly sure I'm going to have a ballet slipper imprint on my ass when she's done, but I don't even fucking care.
I march right through the throng of our siblings and friends, ignoring their taunts and teasing. All I'm focused on is the woman thrown over my shoulder and how much I love her perfect, diabolical ass.
It's true. I'm so fucking in love with her, I can't stand it.
"Have fun at dance practice!" Tye calls, sending everyone into another round of hysterical laughter.
I cannot believe they dragged their asses out of bed at five in the morning on vacation just to fuck with me. Actually, scratch that. With Sophie leading the charge, I absolutely can believe it.
I flip him off over my shoulder, carrying her down the hall and then through the double doors that lead to the conference rooms and ballroom.
"You're making me dizzy!" she complains.
She's full of shit, but I flip her upright anyway, settling her in my arms. She rewards me by thumping me in the center of the forehead.
"Mighty brave move for a woman about to get spanked, baby," I murmur, stomping into the ballroom. It's a massive space, made for dancing. I can immediately see why she's been practicing in here. I shove a chair up against the doors to block them so no one can get inside.
"You are not spanking me, Harlan."
"Watch me," I growl, flipping her onto her stomach over a podium sitting on a raised dais in the corner.
"Harlan!" she screeches, trying to buck out of my hold, but there's no chance of that happening. I pin her easily, ripping her shorts down her legs. Even though she's fighting me, she can't hide the way she pushes her ass back against me, like she's begging me to slap it already.
My hand lands against one round cheek.
"You asshole!" she shouts.
"That was for being so fucking perfect," I growl, planting my lips against her ear. And then I smack her ass again, harder this time. "That one was for making my dick this hard in a goddamn leotard."
She moans, pushing back against me again.
"And this one…" I rub her cheek before I slap it again. "Is for the hell I'm going to catch from Tye, Briggs, and my team for the rest of my goddamn life."
"You love it," she gasps.
She's right. I do. And I love the way she's face down over this podium even more.
I yank her leotard to the side, praying to God there are no cameras in here. If there are, I'm going to be bribing the security crew to destroy the tape before the morning is over.
"Harlan," she moans when I run my knuckle across her drenched folds.
"You want me to eat you?" I ask, parting her slit to play with her swollen clit. Christ, she's so ready for me, she's already soaking my hand.
"No. I want you inside me."
How the fuck I'm supposed to manage that in a tutu and a leotard, I have no idea, but I'm nothing if not inventive. I kick my way free of the tutu, then step back, practically ripping my way free of the leotard.
It's around my knees when I push my way into her, watching the way she stretches around my cock.
"Jesus. I could watch this forever, Sophie," I groan. "You're so pretty when you're stretched around me."
"Harlan, please," she whimpers.
I fuck her hard, the podium rattling under her with every thrust. My hand fists in her hair, yanking her head up, so her back bows and her tits are crushed against the wood, her face angled toward mine. I want to watch her face when I make her lose it.
Her eyes are wild, her lips parted, her breath coming in helpless little moans. I feel every one of them in my bones.
"Look at you," I tell her, my voice rough. "You love getting fucked on stage like this."
She doesn't deny it. She can't.
She's too busy trying to take every inch I give her, her hips rocking back to meet mine, greedy for every thrust.
I catch a glimpse of us in a mirror she has set up near the door—her bent over, the pink of her leotard bright against my skin, my cock driving into her over and over, harder each time.
I don't know how I'm going to survive this. I don't even care if I do. I just want to keep fucking her like this until the world stops spinning.
"You want to come for me, baby?" I ask, my teeth at her ear.
She shudders so hard it nearly throws us both off the podium. "Please," she chokes out. "Please, Harlan."
I reach around her, finding her clit slippery and swollen. I rub it in tight, hard circles, loving the way she goes still—a dancer's stillness, all muscle and control—so she can feel every second of it.