Dance, Sugarplum

19. Lyla

CHAPTER 19

LYLA

ACT 2

His screams penetrate my dreams, his despair dragging me out by my throat. I gasp, but this time, I’m not confused. Mikhail is having a nightmare about his accident.

My eyes fill with tears as I think about what all that means. His pain, his silence. How many nights has he spent alone screaming just like this?

Once again, I can’t stop myself. Climbing out of bed, I grab a robe. Frost clings to the window, and there’s a chill in the air like the heat got turned down or someone left a window open.

I head down the hall, stopping only for a moment in front of his door. I touch the wood as if it’s going to give me the permission I seek, but Molly’s advice rings inside my head.

He can’t ask.

I wait another moment, trying to decide, but another shout makes my decision for me, and I go in.

The scene is similar to the other night, but I don’t plan on leaving like I’m helpless this time. His body tosses and turns, straining against his memories, and I admit I wait a few moments too long as I wrestle with my nerves. This time, I do what I should have done before and close the door behind me.

The possibility of his rejection shoots anxiety and sparks of adrenaline through my system as I cross the room. This one impulsive action might screw up what little we’ve managed to build, but that doesn’t stop me.

“Mikhail?” I call softly as I sit on the edge of the bed. He must have taken a similar position that night on the stunt pads. My whole body warms slightly at the memory.

His pain shakes me. Is this how he feels all the time? Is he simply better at hiding it during the day when he’s less raw and exposed, or does all of this wait for him at night?

His warm sheets smell like him. My fingers graze the back of his hand, thinking that simple act is enough to wake him, but nothing happens. Crazy thoughts of fucking him like he did to me cross my mind, and maybe I’ll do exactly that another day, when he’s dreaming pleasant things. Lifting my leg up and over him, I kneel on the bed and lean a little of my weight against him.

He still doesn’t respond to the pressure, but he doesn’t throw me off, and I take that as a win. His back presses flat against the mattress, his movements jerky. A grunt tears from his throat, and his pain kills me. I can’t take it anymore . Making a split-second decision, I lay my body flat over his.

“It’s all a dream, Mikhail,” I whisper.

Our chests press together, legs tangling, and my mouth poised a breath away from his. His movements stop suddenly. Tension tightens his every muscle, so I smooth my hand over his hair, carefully brushing it out of his face. His silky hair slips between my fingers, reminding me of the forever soft ribbons on my pointe. I have to swallow my giggle and the urge to ask what shampoo he uses.

“It’s okay,” I tell him, resting my head on his chest.

He’s warm and hard in all the right ways. Listening to his breathing and heart slowing, I close my eyes to rest with him, just like I wanted that first night he took my virginity. His breathing changes, and his tense muscles relax, so I know he’s awake. He doesn’t say anything for a long few moments.

“Lyla,” he breathes.

“You were screaming,” I tell him. “I’m sorry I came in. I just couldn’t handle?—”

His arms squeeze me, keeping me in place, and I bury my nose into his neck. Mikhail doesn’t talk about his nightmare, but he doesn’t let me go for a second. The silence stretches between us as I listen to his heartbeat and trace patterns up and down his arm. I’m starting not to mind the silence the way I did before, but maybe it’s time for him to get used to sharing too.

“These cookies my mom used to bake were my favorite thing about Christmas,” I say to the silence. “She loved the holidays, you know? Even after my dad died, maybe especially after my dad died. She wanted something really good for us to look forward to.” I wait a moment to continue, but his head is tipped in my direction, so I’m satisfied he’s listening.

“She always took me to this department store and bought us the prettiest outfits. We have tons of professional pictures of us in these silly, over-the-top outfits.”

I swallow hard before I continue. The time after Dad died and before Carter was heart-wrenching and full of grief but sweet in many ways too. My mother tried so damn hard for me.

“She had this necklace, and I don’t even know why, but I thought it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. It was a teardrop gold pendant with a ruby right in the middle.

“One Christmas, the clasp broke, but it was her special Christmas necklace, and she wasn’t going to wait for a store to open it, so she pulled a red velvet ribbon off one of the gifts and wore it. I was seven. I remember looking at that necklace and thinking my mother is the most beautiful woman in the world.”

Tears fill my eyes even though I didn’t plan to get emotional. I miss my mother and father so badly, but this story was just meant as a distraction, a Christmas story.

“Anyway.” I brush it off. “Carter has all of her things. A lot of mine too...”

I search for something else to say, but it's hard to walk away from it now that I’ve mentioned Carter’s name. I’m still thinking about it when Mikhail shifts, moving my body from on top of him to beside him. Even with the low light, his eyes devour me.

He grabs my chin between his fingers and closes the space between us. For a second, I think he’s going to kiss me, but he doesn’t. We breathe into the empty space, the tension building between us.

Our chemistry is like magic. My thoughts focus on him alone. His warm hands shift from my chin to my neck and down my chest. He pushes my robe open, groaning when he sees I decided to sleep in one of the fine silk nightgowns.

He takes my breast into his palm, teasing my nipple with those skilled fingers through the fine fabric. Somehow it’s even warmer than his bare touch. I sigh in a mix of relief and building anticipation for what he’ll do next. How can he dominate all my thoughts so easily?

He slowly pushes my robe off my shoulders, plucking the straps of my nightgown and pulling them down my oversensitive skin. I want him to take me like he did our first time on those stunt pads. Every inch of me vibrates, practically begging him to rush.

The sun is just beginning to crack the horizon in the distance, but Mikhail doesn’t give in to my impatient desires as he makes it his mission to touch and taste every part of me except where I want him most. He’s pure torment as lips, hands, and teeth search, tease, and punish my body, picking out the ticklish spots. He’s playing me like I’m his piano, and all he wants is to see me break.

Flames rush my body, my back arches, and my pussy aches, desperate for him to take me again. His voice grates as he whispers into my ear, still rough from the screams.

“Touch your pussy.”

My eyes roll back, and my hand slips between my legs before he finishes the sentence. I dip two fingers inside myself, appreciating just how badly I want him. Using my dripping fingers, I apply pressure to my clit. In half a second, I’m already gasping.

His demands are everything. They shape my body while I dance and control the food going into my mouth. He snaps his fingers, and I’m wet.

As I move faster, the pleasure only grows. A sharp grip pulls my eager fingers away, and I whine at the loss of sensation. My eyes find his, revealing my confusion. My complaint sits on the tip of my tongue when Mikhail forces my hand to his mouth and closes his lips around my fingers.

A chill runs down my spine when I feel his jaw fight not to open, but I hide my reaction. It’s not disgust but horror at his pain.

Carefully, he pulls my fingers to the back of his throat, and I shiver as his tongue laps them. He groans, the vibration surprisingly pleasurable as it travels up my hand.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” I tell him, but I know it’s too late to avoid it entirely.

“I don’t care.”

I pull my fingers back, but he bites. “Shit! Ow. I do care about hurting you .”

He raises a mischievous eyebrow at me.

“Give me more, or I’ll hurt myself worse trying to get my tongue in your cunt.”

Well, I can’t have that, can I? The same two fingers pump slowly into my pussy, as my other hand teases my clit. My toes curl, my desire to come warring with my desire to please and obey him. Of course his approval wins out, and I take my fingers and spread my juices over his lips.

He nips my fingers again as he pulls them deep into his mouth.

He groans as he tastes me again, and I’m filled with a rush of power at being the one to draw this reaction out of Mikhail Ivanov. That intensity lurking beneath his calm facade is what intrigues me most about him, that and how fucking good he makes me feel.

He keeps his teeth tight around my fingers as he slips one of his own inside my pussy. It’s so much thicker than my own that one takes up just as much space.

“Oh god,” I moan low in my throat as he adds another finger. I’m still so inexperienced. All of these things are new and intense. Wrestling with my impending climax, I try to hold out as long as I can.

“I have to come,” I whine.

“Make a mess for me.”

He presses his fingers to my G-spot, changing the angle enough to make me feel profoundly full, like I’m about to pee.

He drops down on the bed beside me, removing his fingers just long enough to grip my thighs and pull me up and over his face. I cry at the loss and the sudden change in position, but soon, his fingers are back inside me.

“Oh god, please don’t.” This is so much more embarrassing than I ever imagined, but he’s staring at me with pure hunger and reverence. He’s perhaps more desperate to taste me than I am to come.

His look is familiar like he does when I dance, an intensity that I’ve never seen from anyone.

“Touch your clit. Show me what you like.”

He watches the movements of my fingers in silence, marching his fingers to my pace. His expression says this is the best ballet he’s ever witnessed, and he’s desperate for the finale—I am too. His attention brings me to a new level, and I can’t even remember being embarrassed as I let go, coming as I shout his name.

Wet heat pours from between my legs, splashing his hands and face, dropping down my thighs and coating me. Jesus, when Mikhail comes, it’s nowhere near this big of a mess.

My orgasm runs past my knees, soaking the bed. It pools in the divots my knees make and wets the tips of his black hair. My head spins, and I feel wrung out like a sponge and in need of water.

I look down at my director with an apology on my lips, but I find him with the most serene expression. I squirted in his face , yet Mikhail looks the closest I’ve ever seen him to happy.

“Delicious,” he tells me as he pulls his cock out of his pants.