Chapter Seven #2
"Don't you dare come without my say-so," I tell her, tightening my grip in her hair. "You hold it. You fucking hold it, ballerina."
She makes a guttural, desperate sound. Her thighs quake against the podium, and I can feel her pussy fluttering, desperate for permission. I slow down, grinding deep, making her feel every vein, every inch.
She sobs, biting her own arm to keep from screaming.
"Fuck, you feel that?" I groan, thrusting slow and hard as she arches and writhes. "Your cunt is milking my cock, Sophie. You're so ready for it. You want to come, baby?"
She tries to nod, but I hold her still.
"Not yet. You hold it for me. Just like that. Don't you fucking dare finish until I say."
She's shaking, her hands clutching the edge of the podium so tight her knuckles are white. I keep the pressure on her clit constant, never letting her lose the edge.
She's a mess, moaning my name, her hips stuttering as she tries to obey.
"Good girl," I whisper, biting her ear. "Now."
She detonates, her whole body bucking as she screams my name, coming so hard she nearly throws us both to the floor.
The force of it rips me in half. I slam into her, losing every ounce of control, and let myself go, pumping her full.
We collapse onto the podium, her face pressed to the cool wood, my chest covering her back, both of us panting like we just ran a marathon.
I love her.
I want to say it, right now, with her body still trembling in my arms. But I don't. She's not ready. Not yet.
Instead, I kiss the frantic, racing pulse in her throat. "You're perfect, Sophie. Absolutely fucking perfect."
She laughs, a breathless, wrecked sound, and twists her head to look up at me with those wild eyes. "Flattery and orgasms will not get you out of practice, Harlan."
She isn't kidding. Once we're able to move again, she puts me to work. And if I ever thought hockey practice was grueling, I was a delusional jackass.
There is nothing more physically challenging than trying to keep up with a professionally trained ballerina. We're barely finished stretching, and my legs are already trembling.
"You giving up already?" she taunts, smirking at me as she goes en pointe in a series of dizzying turns that send her whipping down the length of the ballroom before she catapults herself into the air.
"I'm fine right here," I groan, leaning back against the wall to watch her. "Carry on, ballerina."
She grins at me again, her entire face soft in the way it always is when she's dancing, like this is where she belongs.
"Can you start the next song?" she asks.
I reach for her phone, hitting the button to skip to the next song on her playlist.
I expect her to do another round of turns, maybe show off, but instead she goes very still, her chin lifted, her shoulders melting down as the music swells around us. It's a song I've never heard before, minor and slow.
She doesn't look at me. She just moves, her arms floating up like her bones are made of air, each step a story. I've watched her do all kinds of things—slap a grown man, curse a mountain, take a fall that would break most people in half, and then laugh about it—but I've never seen her like this.
Sophie is pain in motion. She's sadness and longing, all of it thrown out into space by the way she bends her hands or sweeps her body across the floor. She's not just dancing. She's telling a story I can't quite read.
It hurts to watch her. It's also perfect.
When the song dies, she bows her head, her chest heaving, her cheeks red and wet. Just a little. No one would notice except me.
"What the hell was that?" I ask, getting up so fast I almost tip the podium beside me.
She wipes her face and laughs, embarrassed. "It's from the first act of Giselle. She's dancing for the man she loves, even though she knows he's going to break her heart." She shrugs, blinking away the tears like they're nothing.
But my steps stall, my stomach sinking.
"Is that what you think I'm going to do, Sophie?" I ask, my voice quiet as I pace toward her.
"What? Don't be ridiculous. It's just a dance."
Maybe to most people, but I know her. I've watched every goddamn ballet she's performed, so often they're burned into my memory now.
And never—not once—has she cried dancing any of them.
She's never danced one like that, either, like she was telling her own story instead of the one choreographed for her.
I stride toward her, my steps heavy and careful. "I'm not going to break your heart if you give it to me, baby," I say, whisper-quiet.
Her lips twist into a sad little frown. "What other choice do you have, Harlan?"
"What does that mean?"
"It means…" She huffs a sad little puff of air.
"It means your life and career are in Los Angeles.
You signed a contract. You can't just walk away from it.
" Her bottom lip trembles. "And my life and career are in Chicago.
Even if we wanted this to continue after this weekend, we're just setting ourselves up for heartbreak. "
I rock back on my heels like she hit me. That's what it feels like. Hell, it feels like she just cracked a piece of my heart.
"So that's it then?" I ask. "You just give up on us here and now? Decide we aren't worth it?"
"That's not…" She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I'm just trying to be realistic, Harlan. And realistically, I leave in the morning."
"Jesus Christ." I stare at her, shocked. "You're leaving in the morning."
"Well, yeah." She tilts her head to the side, confusion painting her expression. "I have to go back. You're leaving tomorrow, too."
She's right. I know she is, but goddamn. It feels a little like she just told me that she's leaving me, and I think maybe that is what she's saying—that she doesn't want this to continue after tonight.
She's already decided that I'm going to break her heart, so she's cutting her losses when the weekend ends. She's running, right the fuck out of my life.
"I guess you have it all figured out then," I grit out, my hands clenched at my sides so I don't snatch her up and try to fuck her into seeing it my way. I have a feeling that'll do more harm than good, especially with that haunted, hunted look on her face. "Fuck me, and how I feel, I guess."
Her face falls. "Harlan, that's not… I'm just…"
"You're running," I snap. "I got too close again, so you're kicking me right back out of your life. Well, fuck that, Sophie. I'm not doing this half in, half out shit."
"What does that mean?"
"It means you need to figure out what the fuck you want," I growl, stomping for the door. "Because your heart isn't the only one that can be broken, ballerina. So can mine. And you're fucking breaking it right now."
"Harlan, I…"
I pause, waiting for her to say something else. But she doesn't. And hell, I don't blame her for it. I get it. That's the worst part. I really fucking do.
She's spent her whole life being told she isn't good enough, so she's running now because she has no idea how to let herself believe that, for once, she's exactly enough. She's always been enough. She always will be. But I can't make her believe that. She has to do it for herself.
She has to want this—want us—enough to fight for it, too. And I'll fight through hell for her, but I can't fight her demons, not if she isn't willing to fight them, too.
"I know what I want, and what I'm willing to risk for you.
But I can't make that choice for you," I say.
"I can't make you want us enough to fight for it.
It's up to you to decide if you want me the same goddamn way I've wanted you since I saw you at Sidney and Hattie's engagement party, Sophie.
It's up to you to decide if you're ready to let yourself be loved. "
I stride through the doors, my heart aching at the sight of her in the middle of the ballroom, her head bowed like the weight of the entire goddamn world is on her shoulders. I want to turn around and go back to her, pull her into my arms, and promise her that I've got her.
But right now…I can't have her. Not when I'm not entirely sure she even has herself.
"Fuck," I growl, slamming my hand against the wall.
The small pain is nothing compared to the way my fucking heart hurts.