Dance, Sugarplum

21. Lyla

CHAPTER 21

LYLA

ACT 2

My ego bruises at the realization of how far my skills have slipped. I can’t blame it on hunger or exhaustion when neither is true. I’m just unpracticed. What once was instinct is now labor. I’m weaker and slower, someone I don’t recognize. This person doesn’t deserve to dance for Mikhail. I remind myself this is not who I am. This starved and lonely version of me is only temporary. All the things I once did, I can do them again.

I just need to keep pushing.

I pick up the pace and try the Fouetté turns once again. I tell myself I deserve the grace of not being perfect while homeless and starving. I should forgive myself if no one else in this city will. That time has ended. I’m fed, and I’m ready to fight for what is mine.

My landing is graceful, but I’m half a count behind, and that’s an eternity to a ballerina. I don’t even spare Mikhail a glance. We don’t need to tell each other what happens next. We both know. We are doing this until I get it right.

Having Mikhail in the room with me is the push I need. I blame this need for perfection on him, but I might be even worse.

This is mine.

My leg whips around, and I count my turns. One, two, three. I’m on time.

Four, five, and six.

Land.

I end the movement with my right foot perfectly behind my left. Mikhail stops playing and looks at me. He doesn’t smile or shower me with praise, yet I breathe a little lighter. I did it.

Of course, I just accomplished what any ballerina worth their salt is capable of. If I want to earn my place, I need to keep pushing. We both need more than that. I’m back to the center of the room, and he begins the piece from the top.

The red tulle sticks to my damp legs. My confidence grows with each step, and I flash a look to Mikhail. The music ascends, and while this is my cue to step away and give room to his prima ballerina, I dance her part in this studio.

Electricity runs free through my body, the excitement uncurling from the pit of my stomach to every extremity. The music flows within me. I feel it when my heart beats fast with the rhythm. I don’t miss a step, and I don’t doubt myself.

My beautiful grand jeté lands me on the other side of the room. I step to the side and don’t even glance at Mikhail. This part is not from his production. I know his prima ballerina can’t deliver this.

My lips curl just a little at the corner before I start again with the Fouettés.

Just half an hour ago, I couldn’t get the seven right, but now I embark on the thirty-two sequence that earned me a standing ovation every night when I performed Swan Lake . I’m transported in time. With each turn, a piece of Lyla reattaches, and I keep pushing. The only thing that could stop me now is the movement of his fingers on the keys.

He keeps playing, following my lead, and presses the melody, urging my turns all the way to the end, and I finish strong for him with an arabesque.

He plucks the last note, and silence engulfs both of us. My breathing is the only thing I hear. Mikhail stays silent as he turns around on the piano bench to fully face me.

We watch each other from across the room. I’m breathless in the best way possible like a piece of clear blue sky puzzle just clicked into place. His eyes cut, narrowing as he looks at me, but I know what I just did. I don’t know if I can repeat this every night like I used to, but I did it this once.

And it was fucking perfect.

He brings his hand to his jaw, the pad of his thumb grazing his bottom lip. The way he looks at me takes the air out of my lungs, undoing all that poise I just had. I’m waiting for his response—maybe his opinion of the moves I added to his routine or hopefully the praise I’m so hungry for.

“Crawl to me,” his rough voice demands.

The temperature in the room changes as heat runs up and down my body. My eyes widen in surprise, lust, and desperation to please him. I thought I’d done that, but I guess there’s one last hoop for me to crawl through.

“What?”

But he just stares, telling me he knows I heard. If there’s a man alive worth pleasing, it’s Mikhail. I sink to my knees, my beating heart pulsing in my ears. The room is silent except for the rustling of tulle as I crawl to him.

He leans back over the piano, staring at me with a hunger that makes me want to run to him.

“Slowly,” he insists, and that permanent crease between his brows softens.

I obey him, slinking across the floor, slow and sultry. By the time I’m kneeling in front of him, my mouth is dry. I don’t even notice the hard floor under me. He takes his hard cock out, and I have to sink my teeth into my bottom lip to hold back my moan of excitement.

He pumps his cock in his hands, forcing me to watch when I want so badly to actively participate. My eyes hungrily trace his working forearm as he strokes his cock.

His tip leaks precum. He gathers it on the pad of his thumb and paints my lips with it like it’s expensive lipstick.

“Don’t,” he cautions me, but I quickly ignore him, my tongue darting out for a taste. My eyes slip closed as I moan, and much to my shock, a light slap lands on my cheek. “I said don’t,” he growls.

I stare deep into his eyes as I lick up the rest. I don’t even care if I’m too needy. All I care about is pleasing him. He takes my jaw and chin between his fingers and then closes his hand around my neck.

I gasp, not expecting the move so quickly after that little smack.

“My ballerina, my pretty doll. Under all that tulle, you’re just a wet, willing whore.”

I wish I could argue, but my god, he’s right.

He nudges me up. His hand is warm and familiar, and my pulse quickens as I await his next move. He pushes me over the piano, drawing a loud and abrupt sound from the keys. I place one foot on the stool, trying to hold myself up. His other hand goes for my knee, stopping the attempt and smacking my ass down loudly. He follows up gently, smoothing over my thigh. I stop breathing altogether.

I flashback to the first time he touched me over the barre. Just like that, I’m drenched for him again, excited and scared of what he’s capable of doing to me.

So much like that time, he reaches the edge of my leotard, gently teasing the edge of my pussy. My breath comes shallow as he pushes the fabric to the side and runs his fingers up and down, spreading that wetness from my entrance to my clit.

“Please, Mikhail, please,” I whine before he finally gives in and thrusts two fingers inside my pussy.

He pumps into me, igniting my insides. “Talk dirty to me.”

“What?”

“All I want to do is fill your ears with filth, but you don’t want me to hurt myself, right?”

He stares deep into my eyes, waiting for me to answer. “Right,” I agree.

“So do it for me.”

“Fuck, I want you.” I lick my lips, thinking about what he wants from me. I’m not experienced, but I know what I want. I know what turns me on to some extent. “Fuck me, Mikhail.”

He brings his thumb over my clit. “More.”

My head falls back. This impossible man always wants too much.

“I need to feel your cock splitting me open. Please.” I’m whining so desperately that tears are next.

He shakes his head.

“Mikhail.” I try to bat my eyes, but he just smirks at me. Suddenly, I realize what he wants. “I’m your dirty little ballerina whore, and all I want is to dance for you and give you my pussy. Will you please make me your whore, Mikhail?”

Something feral takes over him, and the fingers pumping inside me quickly move to my mouth. He shoves them deep into my throat, making me gag, but instead of pulling back, I lap my taste off him. I use the task of sucking his fingers to distract myself from my desperation as he lines the head of his cock up with my entrance.

He slides home in one move. I’m so turned on I don’t need a lot more stimulation than his cock stretching me open. He’s impossibly big like this, and I have to try to widen my lips to take him all.

With each thrust, the piano keys sing. His balls slap against my wet thighs, making a mess of me and his gorgeous instrument. I moan even louder than the discordant notes.

He takes my pussy as seriously as he did his composition as he played. Bringing my legs up, I give him deeper access. My whimpers mix with his grunts. Dampness coats my skin and sticks the two of us together. I shout his name until my voice goes hoarse as his hips slap relentlessly against my ass. I’m his.

I’m so perfectly his, so entirely his.

He must see it on my face because he’s suddenly much closer to the edge. I’m nothing if not a willing whore for him, so as he gets closer, I get closer too. When he comes, I come with him, and we’re left tangled together in a sweaty pile on top of his piano.

When he steps away, his cum drips down my legs, staining all the pretty red tulle.