Dance, Sugarplum

11. Mikhail

CHAPTER 11

MIKHAIL

ACT 1

A million thoughts run through my head as I take up the position I’ve used all week to watch her. She steps into the room after some time, and I wonder what took her so long tonight. Jealous thoughts that she and Carter had an encounter of some kind run through my head as she turns on the music.

Her body grows more enchanting by the night, and I don’t know why this jealousy is burning me half to death and making my cock hard. Her routine is improving, her form regaining its grace.

Hours pass as I watch her work her routine into the ground. She’s almost good, passable at least. Is this all for him? Did she have some advanced warning he was coming here, and she wants to improve herself for him?

Potent rage fills me as I realize that like a fool, I allowed myself to believe her place in my company was what changed her. That she wanted to be excellent for me, not for him to take her back. I believed I was enough for her, but all of this was for him.

I’m combustible by the time she finishes. Her elegant body is slicked in sweat, and I’m more animal than man as I stare at her. Sense and reason left me several hours back, replaced by jealousy and a primal need to reclaim what’s mine.

Is she really mine if she runs back to him so quickly? I ask myself again and again. And what the hell would I have to do to prove the point to her that she does?

She returns to the dressing room. The sink runs for awhile before she reemerges in her oversized t-shirt. Normally, I would just enjoy a chance to look at her, maybe touch my cock again, but I’m wondering about her wet hair and what the hell she’s doing.

She heads over to the stunt pads and snuggles into them, quickly falling asleep.

A soft snore kicks up, and I’m sure she’s out. I step into the room, unsure what I feel, but its intensity can’t be ignored. Why the fuck is she sleeping here? Is she homeless? Is she waiting for him? Questions assault me as I stare at her, trying to figure out what the hell is going on here and why it makes me so sick.

She rolls over in her sleep, flashing me her little cunt, and it’s bare again just like when she put on her sweats. When does she wear underwear? Does she know what she’s doing? At least twenty people have keys to the front door, and she’s lying there with her pussy spread like a pretty pink buffet.

The urge to show her what can happen when she’s so negligent overwhelms me, and my tongue aches even worse with my desire to taste her.

My cock is harder than it’s ever been. For hours, my sense of reality has blurred as my carnal need for her has grown. I’ve been wanting her for years, watching her for countless hours. I fucking need her, and she’s lying here with her cunt out.

She’s dancing for him.

My cock is in my hand. I can’t take the pressure, the intensity of it all. My balls clench, and my cock leaks like fucking her is the only thing they’ve ever needed.

How dare she sleep here? Endanger herself and give him another chance? How could I be stupid enough to go home before her every night?

I’m sitting on the edge of the pads. She’s spread wide open, pretty pink perfection—I really can smell her this time. Enough light seeps from the bathroom to illuminate her silhouette. My cock jumps in my pants, and I touch it to keep from going insane.

My teeth dig into my bottom lip as I try to control myself. Rather than developing my strength, it tears to shreds as I reach out and play with the spot her pussy lips join. She sighs in her sleep like she’s dreaming pleasant things. My touches remain soft, and I wait to make sure she’s still asleep before I spread her lips and feel her silky smooth cunt for the second time.

She’s so pretty, her blond lashes fanned over her cheeks, heart-shaped lips softly opened and pouting. Blond hair fans across the pads and the balled-up sweatshirt she’s stuffed under her head.

Her tongue darts out to taste her lip. She sighs, and her hand lifts and drops, resting against one of her perfect tits. Lyla is everything, and I want more—need it. Playing with her clit, I release my throbbing cock so I can slide her shirt up her body. Goose bumps break out over the skin on her stomach as the shirt moves, and a moment later, her little tits drop from the fabric.

Fuck, she’s perfect. I need her.

She hasn’t woken up or shouted for me to get my fingers off her. Her soft little moans mean she wants this, and I don’t give a fuck that I know better on every level. I’m not thinking clearly enough to care about better or right as I lean down, cock in hand, and part my lips slightly, cringing at the creaking sound it makes and the ensuing pain. I find both worth it as I suck her nipple into my mouth. The taste of her skin is absurd pleasure and salt. My being vibrates, and she moans low in her throat, but her eyes don’t so much as twitch.

I play with her clit with the tip of my cock, and I can’t hold back anymore. She’s all I ever wished for. She tastes so good that I keep hurting myself and stretching my jaw just for another taste. I’m leaking precum. She’s so wet, and when I play with her entrance, all she does is whimper and turn her face to the side.

She’s worked her body so hard she’s practically comatose. All that practice is needed. She’s finally getting better, but I never imagined this as a benefit. Lyla is a series of doors I never thought myself capable of opening, but something about taking what’s mine has me insane.

She’s mine.

It’s that simple. She was mine the moment I saw her dancing for the first time. Leaning against her, I crack my jaw open and wrap my tongue around the stiff peak of her nipple. The pain is worth the experience. My cock strokes the line of her pussy, and I close my eyes in pain because I can’t go down and feast on her.

I groan, imagining the taste of her pussy, drinking from her while she comes all over my mouth. I drive myself crazy, my desires officially beyond my body’s capabilities.

I’d injure myself for a taste of her.

I’m making a mess of us, both wet and wanting. After every sleepy moan from Lyla, I think she’s waking up, but she’s having a long wet dream. I let go of my cock and graze my thumb over her slit until I reach her clit and slowly circle it. Her leg twitches, and her hip goes up in search of friction.

I give my little ballerina what she wants.

I work on her clit, my mouth opening carefully for another forbidden taste. Between her breasts, she smells like roses, something subtle and feminine. I shake with the want taking over me, the need to devour her reaching new levels. I want everything from her.

I want her dancing, her cunt, her whimpers, and her future.

My teeth graze her nipple at the same time as I dip two fingers inside her. She takes me in, so snug it feels impossible that my cock can fit inside her. I bring them all the way back out and push them slowly in again. Her hips follow my movements, and the whimper she lets out is sinful. It comes out raspy and from the back of her throat.

I almost come all over both of us. It’s too much, and I can’t take a second longer. I take my fingers out of her, and she’s so needy. Her hips keep moving, wanting more. I grab my cock, spreading her wetness all over me, and I play with her with my tip, the warmth and softness drawing a groan out of me. Fuck, it hurts, but if anyone’s going to get this response from me, it’s her.

Repeating the motion, I slide it up and down her cunt. The silky slip between us is intoxicating, the sensation better than some of the sex I’ve had. Spreading her wetness from her clit to her opening, I forget that either of us are human.

We’re less and more than that at once. We were meant to do this. Lyla was meant to be mine. Her soft moans in her sleep are all the confirmation I need. My little ballerina was born to take my cock. I’m going to come inside her because she’s supposed to take my cum.

My cock is pressed against her entrance as I talk myself up to what I know I’m going to do anyway. I know what I’m doing is wrong, but the idea of her belonging to Carter and not me has a grip on my sanity. She can’t ever dance for him again. She can’t even be around him. He doesn’t understand the gift she is. I do. I won’t wait around in the shadows while she trains for him. She belongs to me now.

My cock goes in, slowly stretching her. She’s so intensely tight I can’t help but curse. I haven’t spoken so much in years, and here I am, hurting myself over her pussy. My jaw strains and aches, but it fades quickly to the pleasure as I slowly slide my entire cock inside her. She whimpers and whines, her body and walls twitching around me. This is everything I didn’t know I needed. It's better than having her on my stage.

A whine builds in the back of her throat as she takes me. I fill her with my length and enjoy the feeling of my head filling her to the hilt. Holding her in place, I thrust short and hard, building up a pace that has her body bouncing back against me. I pull out and watch the sight of me entering her.

I start to worry that maybe she wasn’t starting her period. Perhaps she’s a virgin after all. Am I really taking her virginity while she sleeps? I don’t know, but I should pull out just in case. I don’t. I just thrust my hips, sinking deeper inside.

I thumb her clit, waiting for her to wake up. I know she’s going to. She might be tired, but she’s not dead. She’s already moaning like I’ve broken her out of the deepest parts of sleep.

I’m too close, about to embarrass myself inside her when her eyes flutter open. She can’t see me well in the dim light, and when she opens her mouth, she says, “Oh my God, Carter, please stop.”

Hearing his name from her mouth while I’m inside her is my worst nightmare. They were fucking. Why else would she assume it’s him?

A noise builds in her chest, and I think she’s about to moan for him , whine for him, just like she practiced and danced for him . But instead of that moan, she sobs.

“No, no, no. Please. Carter, stop. I don’t want you!”

I recognize the desperation in her tone as she struggles. She shoves my shoulder, anxious wheezes shaking her chest.

“Please,” she begs again, and it all clicks for me. I grab her face as she cries, shoving deep inside her. I should stop and leave her alone. But I’m not sane when it comes to Lyla, and there’s not a chance in hell I’m going to pull out, letting her think she’s squirming on Carter’s dick.

“It’s me.” The words ache as I force them out, but she needs to hear them.

She struggles for another moment, but her tears slow. “Mikhail?”

The moment stretches, and I wait for her reaction to my touch. It’s me. Not him. Never him.

“Thank god,” she whispers and frantic fingers grip me.

The world stops.

She fucking clings to me like I’m the answer to her prayers and not the monster in the shadows. Her arms lift to circle my neck, her legs wrap around my hips. Lyla buries her nose into my neck and inhales my scent.

“It’s really you,” she breathes.

I don’t remember anyone being happy to see me. Not my parents, who were never loving. Not the ballerinas, who are always afraid. I grew up ignored, so I made sure to never be invisible again. They recoil when I face them, and they respect me, but not one of them holds affection for me. They don’t consider me safe .

Lyla holds me like I’m her everything. As if the legends of my terror, and my personal poor behavior aren’t a bother for her.

“I thought, I thought—” She shakes her head, and the end of that sentence lingers in the air.

She thought it was him inside her, and the fact it’s me is a relief. I’m not sure how I could behave so badly and still receive such a compliment. Lyla Moore feels safe in my arms. I fuck her shallow and slow, but I need more. I put space between us and look down at her, catching her outline in the dim light.

“He started those rumors about you.” The truth fills every part of me. “You never slept with him.”

“I’ve never slept with anyone.”

The words are a salve. It’s not that I treasure purity when I’m anything but; Lyla’s actions are only a concern because I am so deeply obsessed. She’s mine in every way. No one left in this world bears a physical connection to her.

It’s sick to think her lack of parents could be a good thing, and I know that, but they leave a wide-open playing field for me to be Lyla’s everything. I need that more than I need air. Her producer, her director, her first. For once, my dreams seem attainable. They just come at her expense.

I wrap my hands in her hair and adjust the angle of our bodies until she’s loose and open, taking me like it’s her God-given destiny. If I thought Lyla was art on the stage, she’s everything as I take her.

“Mikhail, Mikhail,” she chants my name, and it sounds like she’s reminding herself who she’s fucking as well as begging. I’m only too happy to oblige.

I press an aching kiss to her lips as I search for just the right angle to set her off. She returns it, sweeping her tongue out to meet mine. I can’t exactly return the favor, but there’s something delicious and carnal about her licking me this way. My need to taste her overwhelms me and fills me with nearly as much anger as Carter’s words, but my jaw is already screaming from sucking her nipple into my mouth.

I pump my hips into her. All the anger, need, and longing I’ve spent the past three years nursing like a bad addiction, slipping away. Her pussy shakes around me, squeezing and tensing, and I know I’m done for.

“Mikhail,” she starts to chant as she builds to her orgasm. Careful to keep my rhythm exactly the same, I keep my cum in my balls as I wait for her to tip over the edge. The moment she does, sweet moans spill from her lips. I follow her, pumping her full of more cum than I thought myself capable of producing.

I’m a new man, the pleasure erasing all the pain, and my lips form the only word that has consumed my dreams and nightmares for the past years.

“Lyla.”