Willing Sacrifice

It brought her to a halt. When she turned toward him, her weariness translated to her expression, her tone of voice. It was more than being tired. Something he’d said or done had hit a nerve.

“No, Max. My audition days are long over. You be what you are and I’ll be what I am. It’s not likely to work in the long run, but I don’t count on things for the long run. We’ve already proven we can be very satisfying to one another in the short term, until the differences become obstacles instead of attractions.” She fixed him with a direct look, her back straightening. “When that happens, you won’t have to think about a different job or worry about any awkwardness. We’ll end it as adults, and friends, with no harm on either side. Agreed?”

“Agreeing to something beforehand and its reality are often very different.”

“True. If we have our doubts, on either side, we should probably stop right now and let this be it.”

Though she was only fifteen feet away, it was suddenly as if she was behind her desk at work, as remote in that position as she’d been up until six months ago. He could tell she meant it. If he said stop now, that would be it, and tomorrow he had no doubt she’d act as she’d always acted with him, before that day she’d sought him out on the parking deck and sat on the hood of his truck.

She flipped the switch with such calm, it told him two things. One, he’d barely scratched the surface of who she actually was, what she felt about things, and two, a woman with armor that thick had a lot going on below the surface. She’d said a dancer had to have utter confidence in her partner to do lifts properly. He wondered if she applied the same yardstick to opening up in her relationships.

“What’s the purpose of having a partner in ballet?” he asked.

“To allow the ballerina to have a greater reach on certain moves,” she said automatically. “The ability to float across the stage, rather than merely move across it. To exceed what she can do alone.” She arched a brow. “You’re a very clever man, Max. But it doesn’t answer the question I’m asking.”

“You didn’t ask a question. You made a statement. But if it is a question, maybe you’re the one who needs to answer it.” He crossed the floor, closed that distance so he was standing in front of her. “If we do this, I want it to be awkward. I want you to get so deep into me that, if it ends, I’ll feel like something has been ripped from my chest. I want to be forced to leave K&A because I couldn’t handle being this close to your scent, your heat, and not touch you, think about kissing you or making love to you.” He cupped her face, running his thumb along her jaw. “If you figure out how to put a collar and leash on me, Mistress, I’d rather you choke me with it than take it off.”

Her pulse was rabbiting under his touch, her eyes burning, her mouth soft in a way that made her seem vulnerable and yet untouchable at once. He didn’t give a fuck about her shields right now. Instead, he took the stick from her hand, dropping it to the floor. Thinking about it a bated moment, he dropped his grip to her hips, compelling her to turn so her back was to him. She tilted her head, keeping her gaze on his, trying to gauge his intent. There was a quivering stillness to her. Putting his mouth close to her temple, he directed her attention to the posters over the mirror. “Let’s do that one.”

It was a Latin dance setting, but he’d already figured out there was a lot of crossover in types of dance, and he saw echoes of ballet form in the lift pictured. The man was raising his partner all the way over his head, and she was arched toward the sky, one leg extended, one bent, arms in a graceful position like tree branches over her head. His part of things seemed pretty simple, but he put his hands exactly where they were in the picture. Janet was ready for him. Despite her tiredness, she bounced into the lift like a bird taking flight.

He had to adjust his stance, figure out the weight distribution. There was a harrowing moment where he nearly had to bring her back to the ground and re-try, but in the end he got it. He found the right groove and locked in, holding her up there for a good ten seconds. In the mirror, he could see her head was back, eyes closed, a look of near peace on her face, as if she was a bird in flight in truth.

When he at last lowered her to his shoulder, her body was curved back against his, her shoulder blades high against his chest, her buttocks pressed to his abdomen. As he took her down farther, her arm hooked around his neck and shoulder, the other hand catching in his shirt and the waistband of his jeans. He held her there with one arm, her feet just above the floor, him bearing all her weight. She wasn’t a “heavy old broad” at all—far from it.

He tugged the leotard off the lowered shoulder, baring the round, pale curve beneath. He cupped it, thumbing the nipple slowly, watching her reaction in the mirror. She had her gaze fixed on his hand, and when he shifted his support so he could cup her pussy fully beneath the skirt, she let out an erratic breath, dropping her head back on his shoulder. He swung her body up into the cradle of his arms.

She turned her face toward his neck. “I don’t want to leave yet.”

“I know.” He intended to snag a yoga mat from the stack in the corner, bring it back to the center of the floor, but she stopped him before he could head that way.

“I want to feel the floor beneath me.”

Nodding, he lowered her to it. She stretched out on her back, lifting her arms above her head, sliding her fingers along the cracks of the wood. “Where I first learned to dance, I knew every groove in the floor, every worn and polished place, every sanded-down knot. I can still smell the pine. After a dance class, if you laid your cheek on the floor, you could see the scuff marks our shoes had left.”

“You loved it.”

“Yes. But I was Debbie. I had the passion, the love for it, but I was only good enough to be one of the company, not the star. That was all right though. Since I was good enough to do that, I got to dance on a stage, in front of an audience.”

Since he knelt above her, he saw her come out of the past, sharpening on the present. “I want my stick.”

He retrieved it, laid it next to her. Then he eased the leotard down to her waist, exposing both breasts to his gaze. Untying the wraparound skirt, he removed it and the leotard fully. The shoes and tights followed. He took his time and she watched him closely throughout. Though her lips tightened, she didn’t stop him.

He sat back on his heels. Now, without him wearing a blindfold, without her covering her legs with hosiery, he saw them. Two circular scars on each limb. At some point in her life, they’d both been broken, compound fractures. The age of the scars seemed similar, suggesting they’d happened at the same time.

He understood her enough not to ask, not tonight. Like his sister’s story, that was territory they’d have to learn at a careful pace. But he bent, pressed his lips to one of the scars and earned a tremble. She feathered her fingers through his hair. When he lifted his head, he had the pleasure of sweeping his gaze up a lovely female form clad only in her jewelry. The pendant was a charm, a tiny ballet dancer.

He shed his T-shirt. He’d never thought too much about his body from an aesthetic viewpoint. It was a tool, a weapon to keep honed, but he found he responded strongly to how much she appreciated it. Her avid gaze said she wanted to touch, so he came down to her, closing his eyes as those demanding fingers caressed and scraped his upper torso. They lowered to the jeans, tugged on the belt. As he was unbuckling it, she dipped into his back pocket to retrieve his wallet.

Bemused, he sat back on his heels, watched her open it. She flipped past his commercial license, his concealed carry permit, his single credit card. Then she dug into the interior pocket and retrieved a condom, giving him a sultry look she did much better than Tasha—the benefit of true experience. “Always prepared?”

“Always. There are a couple more in my coat.” He nodded toward where he’d left it hung on a hook on the wall.

“Hmm. And ambitious. When was the last time you had sex, Max?”

“Not so long ago that I don’t need that.” He regretted having to say it, but though it had been infrequent, there’d been the occasional hookup with other lonely people. Always protected, but he wouldn’t risk Janet for the possibility of error.

She handed the wallet back to him with a reserved expression that made him wonder if he needed to make up for lost ground, but then she dispelled that concern. “Get tested, and you won’t need to use it while you’re with me. My tubes were tied long ago, and sex…” She paused. This time, he wondered if her imperious look covered something more vulnerable. “You’ll be the first in quite a while,” she said at last.

“Then I’m honored. Mistress.”

He pushed the jeans to his thighs. She didn’t object to him not taking everything off, her eyes dark and lips parted, eager. Though urgency beat between them like a bass rhythm, things had slowed down as well. He lowered himself down onto her, and her legs slid around his hips, heels caressing the backs of his knees beneath the jeans. She put her hands on his chest like bird wings, spreading her fingers wide and making him feel like she was learning him, tugging his chest hair, tracing the shallow indentations between ribs as she worked her way downward.

He took care of the necessary evil of the condom, but he was going to do as she’d said. He wanted to feel her without that barrier. When he guided himself to her wet cunt, he led with two knuckles, rubbing against the labia, feeling the slick give before he moved his hand out of the way and pushed inward, lifting his gaze to focus on her face.

She was staring at him. In that hushed silence, his gradual progression into her body, he felt something indescribable. With every inch he sank into her, it was as if he’d found something he’d lost. She’d unclipped her hair and it waved around her face, softening it. It gave him a momentary pause, her parted lips, the yearning expression. Then he was all the way in and her eyes closed, her body lifting up toward him in reaction.

He caught the back of her head, bracing his weight with his other hand as she moaned softly against his lips. The feminine noise set him on fire, the hushed moment giving way to something more edgy and dark, needy. He parted her mouth with his own and plundered, taking over with tongue and teeth. He lifted his hips, partially withdrawing, but only to increase the friction, push into her harder. This time when his eyes opened, hers did as well, and he saw the challenge in her gaze. He dove back into that kiss. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">