Dance, Sugarplum

20. Mikhail

CHAPTER 20

MIKHAIL

ACT 2

If I stop for too long and think about what this really means, I won’t do it. It’s time, and she needs a place to practice. I turn the knob and open the door of the old studio, averting my eyes so I don’t need to deal with what this place means or the damn crack in the glass.

I make a point of leaving the door completely open. I want her to see and understand this is not a mistake.

It’s an invitation.

She needs to practice, and I’m not ready to share her with the world just yet. She’s in my house, eating what I provide. When I get home, I can enjoy a lungful of her perfume, and her wet pussy stained my sheets yesterday.

More than just my possessive feelings over my little ballerina, her stepfather is still in the theater. His mediocre production ends today, so the stage will be all ours again tomorrow. I’ll breathe easier when he’s not around anymore.

I’ve been avoiding the bastard this whole week. It’s not good for business if I kill him backstage, and that’s what’ll happen if our paths cross.

He touched her. He destroyed her trust. He made her fucking homeless.

I’ve already decided he’ll need to be dealt with, but I’m not sure how to pull that off just yet, so I keep her away and avoid him at all costs.

He’ll pay for what he did, but helping Lyla will be a lot more difficult in prison.

If I thought I was obsessed before, it’s nothing compared to now. No one has ever seen me the way she has or comforted me through my nightmares… I’m too far gone now. There’s no way I’ll ever let her leave me.

Lyla still sleeps in my bed, the oversized T-shirt she wears all tangled up and showcasing her perfect little tits. Leaving was torture, and even now, each step I take away from her is just a little too tough.

But I have work to do today, and so does she. We have our first show in a couple of days, and I don’t tolerate mediocrity. All of my ballerinas need to perfectly meet the expectations set upon them.

By the time I make it to the foyer, her breakfast is being delivered. I tip the driver right when Molly comes down and grabs the parcel for me.

“Are you keeping her in again?” she asks.

I arch an eyebrow, and it’s all the answer she needs. Molly shakes her head, giving me an affectionate pat on my arm. “She’s not a toy for you to refuse to share.”

She raised me when my own parents weren’t interested in the job, so I nod respectfully even though she’s wrong. Lyla is mine to keep and play with. I don’t want to share her with the rest of the world, and now that she’s here, I don’t need to share with anyone.

My car arrives just in time, and I dip my chin to Molly before getting in. I avoid looking her way. She doesn’t fully know how it feels for me to be inside a car, but she has an idea, and I don’t like that.

As soon as I sit down, the leather smell triggers me, and as the car rolls forward, my vision closes like curtains after a show. My leg bounces in an attempt to release nervous energy, and my jaw ticks painfully. Goddammit, maybe I should just quit and take the subway.

The pain isn’t just because of the car ride. Since Lyla entered my life, I’m speaking much more than I should. The recommendation is not at all. I can’t eat solid food, for Christ’s sake, and eventually, I won’t be able to avoid Lyla at meal times. What will she think of a man limited to blended soups and smoothies? What a life.

My pride withers.

Lyla is different. I want her to understand my demands. I want her to know what I want and how I want it so I can sit back and watch while she moves mountains to do it. To make herself perfect for me because I will never be perfect for myself.

I arrive at the theater, and Eduard talks them through the stage and costume rehearsal. Lyla is supposed to be with them, but a gap between dancers marks her place. I sit at the back, watching them move. My fingertips drum over my leg as the notes ascend.

My prima ballerina enters the room, and she’s gushing about her costume. It’s bright and swallows her figure. She goes over her routine, and I'm bored before she’s even finished. She’s technically adequate, but something is missing when she dances. I need connection and for her to understand the music, but all she’s doing is the choreography.

It’s lifeless.

And I blame Lyla. She was supposed to be the one up there. She’s perfect for the role, yet I won’t cast her just based on the memory of who she used to be. She has yet to earn a place in this company. My eyes follow the rehearsal for a little longer, but I’m done for today. I send a message to Eduard reminding him to put Lyla’s costume to the side, then I head to my office and bury my nose in paperwork.

I’m in a bad mood, and I can’t hide. I need commitment and perfection from all my dancers. Nothing else will do. We are days away from opening our doors, and I don’t feel any of them is truly ready to perform at the level I expect. I’m consumed by my thoughts when I enter the office and find a small package waiting for me on the desk. A simple wrapping with an extravagant bow. I watch it from a distance. No one who knows me would send me a gift.

Well, Lyla would.

Lyla is the only person in this world naive enough to try to warm my cold heart. I don’t understand why she’d send the gift here when I see her at home every day, but I take the parcel and open it while sitting back in my chair.

Brown leather gloves.

Simple and basic, and I must admit I’m a little disappointed in her. Why would she spend money she doesn’t have on something that I have at least two identical pairs?

A note rests on the bottom, and I wonder if she at least explained herself.

Thank you for making me your ballerina.

Love,

Judith.

Who the fuck is Judith?

I spend only a half second trying to remember since I never memorize any of their names. Picking up my paperwork, I go down the list until I find Judith. She’s the prima ballerina, of course. The one I wasn’t so impressed by.

I throw the useless gloves in the trash right with her note. It rubs me the wrong way that she called herself my ballerina. Sure, they are all dancers for my company this Christmas, but only one of those dancers is mine in any way that matters.

And it’s not her.

She’s not the one who moves like music itself. She’s not the one I can’t stop thinking about. She’s not the one who I guard so close that I’m filled with pride because I managed to lure her into my home without any fuss.

She’s not my ballerina.

The hours tick away, but I do very little work. I look at the costume I laid on the chair, and I can’t stop myself from imagining her in it. Ultimately, my desires win, and I take the hanger with the costume and rush home, planning to bring her into my room to try it on.

Music hits me the moment I step inside, but it stops abruptly and restarts. The same thing happens again, and this time, the not so delicate sound of her curse follows. Both are clear signs she’s not getting the choreography right. As I climb the stairs, she marks each of her frustrations with a curse. Her little mouth is filthy when she thinks she’s alone.

Bringing her costume to my room, I let her do her own thing for now. My suit jacket lands on the bed, and I roll my sleeves up. I perk up when the music goes for a second longer than before, thinking she finally got it, but then her frustrated scream echoes around the house, and the music restarts.

I think I’ve had enough of letting her figure things out on her own with her filthy mouth. She seems to only be frustrating herself more. I grab the costume and head down the hall, telling myself I’m a very well-intentioned man. I stop in front of the studio’s open door, hungry, eager to force greatness out of her and myself into her.

Lyla stands in the middle of the room, her face red from exhaustion, tendrils of hair falling from her bun and whipping around as she practices Fouetté turns. She balances on one leg, the other whipping around her at an impressive speed. She seems to be getting it, so why all the cursing?

The Lyla sleeping in the theater couldn’t pull off this move. That’s why her audition was so safe ; she wasn’t sure on her feet. This move requires balance, technical skill, and control. She’s no longer so thin I worry she’s starving, and seeing how she hasn’t resisted my efforts, I know how thin she’d gotten wasn’t by her own choice.

When it doesn’t go her way once again, she curses under her breath and turns to her phone to stop the music, but her hand freezes when she sees me.

Her delicate throat works down a lump, and she brushes a rogue strand of hair out of her face. “You left it open.”

I nod, a little thrill zipping through me that she was nervous about my reaction. She smiles a little, and I nearly return the gesture. She’s so good for me. I don’t say anything, but I don’t move away either. Deep inside, I always knew if I opened this place to her, it meant me coming in too. I can’t imagine having this woman dance in my home and not being here to watch, but I’m still unsure about it.

My grip on her costume is tight, and my amusement is not enough to take away my nerves entirely. I take a long breath before my foot crosses the threshold, and I’m inside once again. My concentration rests on her, not the memories or the humiliating spiderweb crack. My eyes hungrily trace my favorite features—all of them. But especially the small beauty mark beside her nose. The way she bites the inside of the cheek and the cluster of light freckles dancing across her shoulders.

I hand her the costume, my movements robotic before I step away and give her space, leaning over the piano with my arms crossed over my chest.

Beckoning her to take the last few steps to me, I hand her an ensemble I never imagined her wearing. The costume is beautiful and layered, but it looks like the others, and nothing you’d catch the star dancing in. She’s just one of many on the stage, yet her face lights up when she looks at it. I push it toward her a little more forcefully and nod my head for her to try it on.

She pulls it off the plastic hanger, inspecting the inside.

“And you’re going to watch?”

“Mm.” The sound is one of affirmation and excitement. I fucking love her body.

I don’t move. Of course I’m going to watch as she takes her clothes off. Nothing in the world would make me miss my favorite show. She rolls her eyes, but her cheeks are pink with the flattery. Little by little, Lyla is coming out of her shell. She’s so far outside my normal preference and nothing like I told myself she would be when I was obsessed with her body and dancing but not the woman beneath.

Her smiles, giggles, and willingness to push me make me feel more alive than ever. For years, I’ve told myself I prefer obedience and things in their place, but I’ve never been more inspired than when surrounded by her brand of disorder.

She pushes the leotard straps down her shoulders, and I completely lose my train of thought. It doesn’t matter how many times I see her body, it always feels like the first time. She reveals her body slowly, first her breasts with her rosy pink nipples, so beautiful and delicate, already peaked in stiff little points.

Her soft, flat belly next, then her pretty pussy puts itself on display, begging to be licked. The gift I bought for her after I finger fucked her on the barre pools around her feet. She kicks them out of the way and excitedly climbs into the costume.

She turns from me to the mirror, tilting her head as she watches herself. Her big brown eyes are sparkling with a million questions behind them. The red looks perfect against her pale blond hair. It makes me want to buy her a wardrobe of red dresses so I can rip them from her body.

“Do you like it?”

“I’ll like it better when you nail the fouetté turns.”

Her mouth opens in shocked offense like she can’t believe what I just said. It shouldn’t be a surprise. I expect a lot from her.

“Mikhail!” She makes a face like she’s not taking me seriously and turns back to the mirror. “I can’t believe you hurt your jaw just to say that to my face.”

Making sure she reaches her full potential is the best use of my jaw. I don’t say that. Instead, I make a sign for her to take it from the top, and I sit on the piano bench.

It takes her only a second of confusion, but then she walks to the center of the room to start. I’m rusty and not the same pianist I once was, but this composition poured out of my soul. It’s not something I learned, but what I am. Even if I forget all the music in the world, I’d still know how to play this as long as I live.

Lyla tips her chin up, feet in first position and arms in fifth. She’s ready. I start the section quickly, and the Fouetté turns need to follow the rhythm. She gets to three on time, but her fourth is delayed. She knows it, so she doesn’t bother with the fifth.

She’s back in first position. Determination sets into lines on her face as she nods at me, asking me to run through it once again.

That’s my girl.