Leaps & Lies

Epilogue

I t becomes a poorly kept secret around Renaissance that a locked door means don’t knock .

The first time Marin, the lead choreographer with a perpetually mild expression, walks in on them, they aren’t even doing anything worth mentioning.

Yes, Julian came to collect Vivian after rehearsal. And yes, he did manage to end up seated on the ground, strong fingers digging into the arch of her left foot as she sighed. And, okay, yes, Vivian may have moaned, “Oh, please don’t stop,” a time or two. But it was a foot massage—really!

The second time, when Scarlett walks into Julian’s office without knocking to find Vivian on his lap, practice skirt hiking up to her hips, she lets out a shrill squeak and trips over herself in an effort to escape before they’re all scarred for life.

The third time, they’re tucked into a corner booth in the café. It’s late afternoon, so the space is mostly empty, the lunch hour having come and gone. Both of Julian’s hands are visible—for a change—but when Ella approaches them to ask Julian about a discrepancy in the supply order, Vivian’s hands are notably hidden from view.

“Can you two please get a room?” she begs.

They learn to lock the door.

“Well, Ms. Ladoe,” Julian begins, sweeping into the nearly empty studio with a confidence in his stride that should be silly. It’s hot as hell instead. “I’m afraid your performance today wasn’t nearly up to par. I think it’s time we consider . . . private lessons.”

For all that Vivian wants to laugh at the blatant power dynamics of his setup, there’s a shiver along her skin that she can’t resist.

“Oh, no. I’m so sorry, Mister Julian. I didn’t mean to disappoint you,” she replies with a flutter of her eyelashes. It feels over the top and silly, but in a vibrant, playful way. “But I’m not sure that I can afford private lessons. They must be so expensive. I’m too young to get a job, but would you let me pay . . . some other way?”

“Fucking hell, Viv.” Julian barks out a laugh, easily breaking character. It bounces through the studio, and Vivian’s jealous that she can’t hoard it for herself. “Too young for a job? I think we’re both past you being ‘too young,’ huh?”

Vivian grins at him mischievously. “Fine, you’re right. Would you lock the door and get over here?”

By the time he’s locked the studio door and turned to cross the room to her, Vivian’s back in character.

“I’m just so busy with rehearsal, sir. If there’s any way you could help me, I’d be . . . so . . . appreciative.”

The closer Julian gets, the more her skin tingles, static electricity and goosebumps prickling her skin.

“I suspect we can come to some kind of arrangement, Ms. Ladoe,” he rumbles out.

Before she can reply—in truth or in character—Julian wraps a large warm palm around the back of her neck, spearing fingers into the neat hair below her bun before he pulls .

Both Vivian and the shy, innocent Ms. Ladoe gasp, immediately wanting more. With a few more tugs, and the light tink of bobby pins dropping to the floor, Julian has dismantled her bun entirely.

“Fuck, Viv,” he groans, leaning down to press his face into her blonde waves. “Why are you so short?”

“I’m not. You’re just too tall!” she counters, grasping at his arms and shirt eagerly.

“C’mere,” he says before he’s hauling her off her feet and over to the side of the room. He props her up to sit on the barre where it’s mounted to the wall. She’s crowded into the corner of the studio, with a wall of barre on her right, a wall of mirror on her left, and a delicious looming Julian before her. Seated on the barre, she’s higher than him.

“Oh, this is perfect. Why haven’t we done this before?” he asks. He’s eye level with her breast and quickly tugs the straps of her leotard off her shoulders to reveal them.

Vivian wants to reply with something about privacy or professionalism or how his sister is her boss. But when his teeth catch around her nipple, all she manages is “Guhhhh—”

Julian wedges himself between her spread thighs, dropping a hand to her waist when she totters dangerously from her perch. He sucks and bites at her breasts, leaving a wake of raised red skin behind before he finally reaches up to take her mouth.

It’s rare that Vivian is taller than Julian, and the height emboldens her in their kiss. Instead of allowing him to run the show, she meets him with force, licking when he licks, nipping when he nips. When he drops his mouth down to her neck, she’s breathless and certain her lips are bruised.

“You did so good today, Sugar Plum,” he croons against her damp skin. “I watched your rehearsal after my meeting. You’ve been working so hard, and it shows.”

Vivian’s skin flushes at the praise and her heartbeat ramps up.

“Nuhhh, thank you,” she gasps out.

“Can you get undressed for me, sweetheart? I don’t want to rip your leotard.”

Vivian’s panting above Julian’s bent head, breath fanning his curls. “Gotta get down.”

Once her feet touch the floor, Vivian’s certain that she’s never undressed quicker. Not even during quick changes backstage.

She glances around the room impatiently as Julian takes his own turn undressing. Aside from her bag and shoes in a cubby by the door and the AV equipment, the studio is empty from mats, furniture, and any other items that would make for a suitable surface.

“I don’t think I should get back on the bar. I’ll be too high, and it won’t—”

Before she can finish, Julian’s dragging her to the polished wood floor, right there in the corner by the barre and mirror.

“It’s okay, Sugar. We’re good right here,” he says between kisses. “You’re gonna be good for me right here. Isn’t that right?”

Julian is splayed out on the studio floor, all strong, elegant limbs, brown curls, and playful hazel eyes. The floor of Renaissance Ballet—where they work and dance together every day. And after they finish debauching it, they’ll go home. To Julian’s townhouse— their home. Where Vivian gets to hear his toe-curling comments and ache from his delicious fingers whenever she wants. Where she’s found a home beyond ballet in the person she’d least expected.

So she nods eagerly, desperate to be the good girl that she is and lets Julian pull her on top of him.

“Are you ready? I don’t wanna rush you, but there is a community class booked in here soon.”

“There’s wha—” she tries to choke out, but Julian’s swiping thick fingers against her.

“Oh, you’re definitely ready. Will you ride me, sweetheart?”

He doesn’t wait for her reply, taking his cock in hand to draw tight circles against her entrance, spreading her wetness. Julian lines them up and then Vivian’s sinking down, down, down. Until she’s so full that she might be more of him than she is of herself. More him than her. But then he’ll be more her than him too.

He feels so stupidly perfect inside her that as soon as their hips are flush, she can’t help but clench around him.

“Fuck, Viv. Sugar Plum, shit.” Julian’s babbling, firm hands supporting her hips as she writhes atop him, ever the accommodating throne. “You’re perfect, sweetheart. I love when you ride me.”

They’re both panting, sweat slicking their palms and hips. It always seems impossible that Julian can get her there so quickly, and yet the way he always studies her with keen and careful eyes speaks of a man committed to memorizing her every desire.

“You’re so perfect, sweetheart,” he says again. “But we do have to make this quick. Ella will kill me if class starts late again.”

It wouldn’t be the first time they held up someone’s schedule.

Vivian simply moans. Coherent words are deemed too much work.

“I’m sorry. I love you, Sugar Plum,” Julian apologizes, and Vivian immediately knows what’s coming.

“Oh, fuck, please. Love you too. Pleasepleaseplease ,” she slurs out, breathless.

Pain soars through her body as Julian’s hand lands on her clit with a swift smack. She cries out something resembling his name when pain is quickly replaced by pleasure. Three more strikes and she’s coming, clenching and grinding against him involuntarily.

They only spare five minutes to sprawl on the studio floor in sated exhaustion before dragging themselves into their clothes for the short drive home that would undoubtedly feel excruciatingly long.

And if the students of the community class arrive to find that a corner of the studio’s mirror is covered in handprints and smudges . . . well, at least they locked the door.