Dance, Sugarplum

2. Mikhail

CHAPTER 2

MIKHAIL

INTRODUCTION

“Lyla Moore, auditioning for any open female role,” the assistant holding the door says. My heart skips a beat, and my stomach drops in anticipation.

It’s been two years since I lost out on the opportunity to cast Lyla as my Giselle, a disappointment I’ve yet to recover from. I remember the way she used to move, the perfection of her features, and the way she held them as she danced. I hold my breath in expectation.

Then the dancer steps into the room. She’s skinny even for a ballerina, flat and unimpressive.

My stomach does a sick sort of flip.

Who is she, and where the fuck is Lyla?

My jaw tenses, and sharp pain shoots from the tip of my chin to my ear. Fuck , I stifle my soft groan.

The pain is worsening instead of improving lately with all the stress taking over. I rub my jaw, trying to dissipate the ache, but the poorly healed bones and tendons just creak disagreeably. My attention returns to the ballerina onstage. Lyla wouldn’t dare stand me up, not after everything she’s done. But is that really her?

My fingers strike the clipboard in my lap, and a nervous ballerina glances my way, unable to make out more than my shape in the darkness. I try to force myself to relax, but I can’t, not for my audience nor my sense of self-preservation—until she faces the room fully.

With her delicate features in view, my muscles unwind enough to relieve the worst of the pain.

Lyla.

That relief only lasts a second, quickly replaced by the obvious question. Why does she look so off?

The hollow beneath her throat dips gauntly, giving her a starved look rather than her previous alluring elegance. The circles beneath her eyes are bruised, too heavy for makeup to hide, and her leotard is a mess, ripped on the side, pilled, and faded, like it’s been washed too many times.

What the hell happened to her?

She’s been missing from the dance scene and society for two years. Of course I’ve heard enough rumors about her, but giving in to the speculations of jealous ballerinas has never served me before, so I didn’t give them much credit in this case either.

That changes as I take in how far she’s fallen. Something must’ve happened to her to cause such a startling decline. They said she was in a relationship with her stepfather. An unimaginable low for someone who had just buried her mother.

A surge of jealousy courses through me at the thought of someone else touching her, especially the man who had the pleasure of her gracing his stage. It would make sense. She said no to me and stayed loyal to him. Maybe that’s why.

She’s beaten. If the rumors that ruined her career are true, and the relationship went downhill, that could explain why the ballerina at center stage is not the one I saw dancing years ago. Either way, her detractors have won. I never thought lowly enough of her to pity Lyla, but I’m not so sure anymore.

What have I done?

My stomach flips as I consider the years I’ve spent sick over the image of her twirling around my stage. Have I been obsessed with an illusion instead of a woman? I wrote this ballet and the accompanying score with her in mind. Hours at my piano dedicated to a standard that no longer exists? Is the thing I’ve wanted most in the world gone?

She attempts to keep her head back and her shoulders high. There’s nothing wrong with it, but she lacks that old finesse. Frankly, I’m repulsed with myself, with her, with the institution of ballet as a whole for building these impossible dreams just to watch them crash at our feet.

Right when I’m about to give up my entire life’s work, I notice the artful movement of her feet getting into third position. Her eyes fill with determination as she bends her arms, the grace and poise still present, a glimpse of who she used to be sparking to life. Every part of me relaxes and tenses at once.

The only woman who ever told me no.

A few years ago, Lyla made a big deal about her independence as a dancer and a new vision she wanted to pursue. Daring, bold Lyla Moore .

She planned on leaving her stepfather’s company—or so she said—and allowed local directors and producers to vie for her to fill positions in their companies.

I spent months sending gifts to woo her, lavishing her with whatever flattery I thought might win her over. Eventually, she went back to the bastard anyway, continuing to dance the traditional ballets he had asked of her for years. It was a professional slight, and not a small one, but there turned out to be an even larger problem—she made me obsessed.

I’m not the type of man who wants anything on the surface—rich, powerful, connected. Of all the things I’ve ever wanted, like attention from my mother, or my father’s approval, this one fucking dancer circles the top of the list. My heart beats so hard that my chest aches.

There’s no music as she twists and turns, a weak comparison to the blinding light she used to be, but I hear the song she’s performing anyway. My hands flex as I realize I’ve seen this before—only better.

Her body has always merged with the notes as she moves. She’s never danced to the music. She’s the composition lifting off the page. The notes play in each turn she takes. I hate her for that, for radiating intensity even when she’s half beaten.

Pure, unadulterated poetry.

Is this exactly the same routine she danced for his company?

After she turned me down, I let impulse get the best of me and bought a ticket to watch her. Her perfection stayed with me, even when she performed his traditional, uninspired ballets. The hunger and jealousy were so great that I had to leave before the end. If I had it my way, I would have thrown her over my shoulder and stolen her from him.

My knuckles strain with the urge to reach out and shape her, push her toward more daring moves. She’s playing it safe, only hitting the mark because she chose the easy way out. My face warps in rage as I watch. Did she really think this was enough?

How long has she wallowed in her own misery while her muscles weakened and her form withered? I’m consumed by rage now. How dare she dance like this for me and like that for him?

The ones who have finished their auditions sit in a row, and their whispers are far less quiet than their feet. They’re discussing the ghost of Lyla, who pirouettes across the stage. It doesn’t matter what she does. She’ll always be the target of their gossip. I’d pity her if I weren’t incredibly offended that she dared to come here like this.

Counting her ribs, I pay more attention to her lack of muscle definition. My fists tighten as I wonder when she last ate. Is she keeping her routine simplistic because she’s unsteady on her feet? Not eating because she’s mourning the loss of her torrid affair?

A growl bubbles from me, scratching my throat on its way out. I pride myself on being a controlled man, but anytime Lyla is in the vicinity, my primal urges take over. I want to own her, put her name on my show bill, and be the master of her every move. I want to push her until nothing about my little ballerina is safe ever again.

Lyla stops in a final pose, and the music she created with her choreography abruptly ends with her left foot twisted at the wrong angle. The old version of her never would have allowed such a thing. The air thins, and the watching eyes expect something that won’t come—a signature Lyla Moore finale.

She bows and leaves rather than sitting alongside the other dancers. I wait about thirty seconds before following her.

I’m careless by leaving, uninterested in the remaining auditions. It’s always been like this. I forget everything else when Lyla comes to play. I lurk in the shadows as she crosses the halls with her head down. I’m glad she understands how badly she fucked up and hasn’t lost all sense.

But even at her worst, there’s something about Lyla. I’ve been in this game for many years, seen many productions, and enticed many good ballerinas to my stage, yet no one ever compares. I knew I had to have her the minute I laid my eyes on her. She could only dance for me.

I follow her to the dressing room, my back to the wall, watching her through the small gap in the open door. She peels off her ripped leotard and then her tights, shoving them into her bag. I watch from the back corner of the dressing room. I decide I’m not hiding, and it’s not my fault she never cared to close the door.

My insides boil, and I wonder if I should confront her. Spell out to her how insulting it is to watch her dance like that when I know she’s capable of so much more. The need to spare the use of my jaw stops me. The injury is permanent, and speaking isn’t comfortable, but maybe she’s worth a little more pain.

I’ve chosen about six words that will frighten her and give her the proper idea about what to expect when, all of a sudden, she’s naked. My train of thought stops in its tracks with a resounding fuck.

Her ass is even better bare, and I have this crazy feeling I can smell her skin from here even though I know I can’t. My cock presses against my zipper, and I can’t remember the last time I was this hard. She doesn’t turn to face me but opens her cubby and moves a few things around inside. Long blond hair spills down her back, flirting with the dimples above the crest of her ass.

The obvious hints of malnourishment concern me, but she distracts me from the thought when she grabs a T-shirt from her bag and throws it over her body. No bra, nothing.

She never turns, so the image of her breasts remains nondescript, but I picture her small tits tipped with hardened nipples from the cold air of the poorly heated room. Saliva pools in my mouth at the thought of tasting them.

She lowers her body to grab her sweatpants, and her slender thighs part just far enough to flash me her pink pussy, begging to be fucked. The moment crystallizes as I memorize the color and shape and paint myself a vivid picture of how tightly she would grip me. Then she steps into them, pulling the fabric over her hips with nothing underneath. I have to hold back the curse ready to fly off my lips.

She’s going to walk around with her pussy out like that?

I don’t have time to dwell on the thought. She’s grabbing her backpack, so I step away and enter the adjacent room so she won’t see me. I catch the smell of her perfume as she passes by, long blond hair swinging after her.

Why the fuck couldn’t she make an impression like that during her audition?

I step out and go to the dressing room where she once was. I don’t like that all I can smell is hairspray and perfume rather than her pink little cunt, but fuck, it makes me even harder.

I open the cubby she had stuffed her bag inside, and like an early Christmas gift, I find the pair of panties she didn’t bother to put back on.

I’m not a stalker or some panty-stealing Peeping Tom, but I guess all of my standards are flying out the window today. I’m taking a subpar ballerina into my company, and I’m about to rub my dick with her panties.

I look around the room for just a moment before I crush them to my face. The smell of her cunt, her sweat, all of it draws a bead of cum to the tip of my cock. I pull my dick out and lean against the wall as I stroke myself, trading between breathing her and rubbing her leftover juices into my dick.

My breathing increases, and my grip strengthens. I bring my hand down with unrestrained anger. My desire is so powerful, yet it’s the last thing I want to feel. I want to own her, but this feels a lot like being owned.

I imagine her cunt opening up for me—her warm, silky pink entrance taking me to the hilt. Burying myself in her, filling up her too-delicate body and moving her the way I like. Molding her with an artful hand until she perfectly fits all my needs.

A pearly bead of cum drips down my shaft, and my grunt hurts. I’m closer now, her panties soaked with precum, and I’m nothing but raw anger and desire.

She told me no once. And I won’t let her do it twice.

The relief crashes through my body in a powerful wave. Ropes of cum forever stain her little scrap of pink. I don’t know what possesses me, but I shove those cum-soaked underpants back in the cubby for her to find later. Because she’ll be back this time. I’ll make sure of it.

I want to stain her too, carve my name into her body, use every hole, and call her mine. I want to choreograph her dances and fuck her until her legs don’t work.

I leave the dressing room with a rare smile on my lips, thinking about the outrage on her delicate face when she finds the panties.

She doesn’t need to know what creep is coming for her. As long as she knows I’m coming.