Ballet Master by Cassie Mint

Four

Raphael

God, I am a fool. I’ve arranged my own torture: watching Paige in the arms of another man. She dances the steps perfectly, her movements lithe and primal, a secret extra swivel to her hips and smile curling her lips.

She’s the perfect black swan. Half the men in this room are panting just watching her, and I tuck my fists behind my back to hide the whitened knuckles.

The way she dances… it’s more erotic than a strip tease. More tantalizing than any burlesque. She dips into a backbend, and a groan rumbles through my chest.

Paige. Fuck. I’d give anything to touch her.

“What do you think, Monsieur?” Madame drifts up to my elbow. “Have you found your star pair?” Her eyebrow twitches, like it’s a nonsense question. Like it’s already clear who I’ll choose.

I don’t care.

“Yes. Paige and… that boy.”

“David,” Madame supplies.

Whatever. It’s not like anyone will be watching him. The only thing he brings to the dance is his supporting arms, lifting Paige, and the shocking contrast of his big hands on her tiny waist.

My grip on her would be bigger still. I could perch her on my shoulder like a canary. I scrub a hand over my face, like I might erase such an image. As if I could stop myself picturing it—the slight weight of her, the warmth of her skin, the scent of her arousal, so close to my nose. Spinning her around until her legs spread around my head, and I could bury my face in that damp strip of leotard—

“David has wonderful technique,” Madame puts in. “Truly, he is the stronger of the pair.”

“If you value technique above soul,” I mutter.

As if to demonstrate my point, David picks up Paige with such robotic motion, with so little feeling, that I stifle a snarl. Before I know what I’m doing, I stride across the studio, barking for the dancers to get out of my way.

“Stop.” David’s eyes widen as I reach them, and the pair stumble to a halt. Paige is breathing hard, her small tits heaving beneath her leotard, and I drag my eyes back to David with effort. “You are lifting a beautiful woman. Making love to her through dance. Why do you seem half asleep?”

David splutters, cheeks flaming, but I nudge him out of the way.

“I will show you.”

The pianist begins again, fumbling the keys in his haste, but we pick up the rhythm quickly. Dancing with Paige is as easy as breathing—as easy as speaking to one another. Easier than that, in fact. Because when we speak through words, there is room for misunderstanding. For saying the wrong thing or taking offense.

When we dance together, our bodies cannot lie. There is no hiding the truth of our searing attraction for each other, our bodies twining and spinning and grasping like this is our one chance to express how we feel.

I break away from the choreography without thinking, grasping Paige by the ass and lifting her to wrap her legs around my waist. These are not the steps, this is not even ballet, but I could not put her down or unwrap her legs if I were held at gunpoint. We keep dancing, following our own secret steps, wrapped so tightly around each other that we almost blur into one.

A throat clears. Paige jerks in my arms, her eyes widening as though she is waking from a dream. She pushes at my chest, suddenly frantic, and I set her down, gut clenching.

Taking my hands off her warm, lithe body is the hardest thing I have ever done.

“You see,” I rasp, turning to David. “Put some feeling into it.”

He nods, as dazed as the rest of the class. Even Madame leans against the piano, a gnarled hand fanning her cheeks.

Paige scowls at me. “Is that the new choreography?”

I tilt my head. “Do you prefer it?”

Heat crawls up her neck, and I fight the urge to bend down and lick its path. But her voice is steady. “No. I don’t like your version.”

She’s lying, the words ringing false through the studio, but I know why she says it—to protect herself from rumor. From my careless actions.

“Quite right.” I force a smile. “Continue with the original steps.”

Whispers break out as I walk back to the center of the class, and only my thunderous expression when I turn makes them scurry back to work.

I should not have done that. Should not have danced with her like that in front of everyone—as though our thin layers of clothing were the only thing keeping our bodies from joining.

Paige can lie to them but not to me. I heard the hitch in her breath; I saw her pulse tapping frantically against her throat.

I felt the damp heat between her legs.

She wants me too.

* * *

“You shouldn’t have done that. You shouldn’t have danced with me that way in front of everyone.”

Her voice is quiet in the empty studio. It’s risky for her to sneak back after class, and I scan the windows quickly before striding to shut the door. Paige stands in the center of the studio, her arms wrapped around her middle as her satchel hangs limp off her shoulder. A full day’s dancing has made her skin flushed and dewy, and her poor muscles must ache.

I remember that. The pain of a day’s training.

I miss it badly sometimes, but not right now.

Right now, I’m too busy devouring Paige with my eyes. Taking in every flushed, trembling inch of her.

“What about alone?”

“Huh?” She blinks, confused. Gives her head a little shake, like she got caught up daydreaming the same way I did. “What do you mean?”

“You said I shouldn’t dance with you that way in front of everyone. What about alone, angel?”

Her chest heaves under her baggy sweatshirt. All ballerinas do this—swamp their delicate frames in big, chunky layers.

As if Paige could hide the perfect slope of her hip. Her delicate limbs and strong muscles.

“I… I…” Paige wets her bottom lip, glancing at the door. Then, so quietly I almost miss it: “I guess that would be okay.”

I’m already striding to meet her. Tugging her bag strap off her shoulder and setting her things carefully on the floor.

“But there’s no music…”

“We don’t need music.”

“Someone might see—”

“Let them,” I growl. She’s offered me this, and now I can’t bear it if she takes it back. But my Paige doesn’t torment me. She lifts her arms, welcoming my embrace.

We dance the steps from earlier. But slower. More teasing. Paige’s sneakers squeak on the floor, her sweater bunching at her shoulders, but it is perfection. Perfection.

I don’t change anything this time—I’ve pushed her enough—so my heart almost stops when she breaks away from the steps. Paige dances closer, rougher, her hips cleaving to mine. She gazes up at me, her pupils blown and lips parted.

“What do you want from me, angel?” I rasp, following her lead into this new, dangerous territory. I grip her tightly, freely, my hands roaming over her tiny body. She is so small, a strong breeze could whip her away. “Do you need something?”

She whimpers. “Yes, Monsieur.”

“Call me Raphael.”

“Raphael. Please.”

I keep dancing even as my heart slams against my ribcage, loud enough to set our beat. I dip her back, her long legs stretched and pointed, and hover my lips an inch above her quivering breast bone.

“Tell me, angel. You have to say the words.”

She huffs, frustrated as I swoop her back upright. “I don’t know the words.”

I grin, savage, as I scoop her up and crush her to my chest. Her legs wrap around my waist, our hips slotting together.

It’s just like earlier, but now we’re alone. There’s no one to stop us. It’s a heady feeling, and if I didn’t have the weight of her in my hands, I’d think I was dreaming. The studio is silent, filled only with our breaths and the distant rumble of traffic that drifts through the walls.

“I thought you didn’t like this version.” I can’t resist prodding her.

She rolls her eyes, and that show of spirit thrills me to my bones.

“You are cocky, Monsieur.”

“Not with you.” My smile dims. “You have knocked me off kilter, angel. But here are the words you need: I want you to touch me, Raphael.”

She wets her lip and repeats in a whisper. “I want you to t-touch me, Raphael.”

“I want your hands on my pussy.”

“I want your h-hands on my pussy.”

“I want you to lick me until I scream.”

“I want you to—” She breaks off, cheeks flaming. Clears her delicate throat. “I want that too.”

Triumph flares inside me, so bright that beams of light should burst from my eyes. But I am only a man, so there are no godly beams of light—only my satisfied grunt and my quick steps to the studio wall. I rest Paige’s ass on the wooden barre, smirking as her gaze snags on the mirrors behind us.

“That’s right, angel. Watch me make you squirm.”

She’s swaddled herself in a thousand layers, the little tease, and for a split second I consider tearing them down the middle. But she’d have to leave the studio exposed and vulnerable, and I dismiss the thought quickly.

I will unwrap her like the gift she is.

“Wait.” She tugs my shirt at the shoulder once I’ve peeled her leggings down and draped them over the barre. “You forgot something, Monsieur. You haven’t kissed me yet.”

My heart twists inside my chest, painful and wrenching, and I almost stagger to the side.

“Of course. Forgive me, angel.”

I did not forget. It was the first fantasy that crossed my mind yesterday when I saw her in the studio. Tipping her pointed chin back and bringing my mouth down on hers; sliding my tongue between those pink lips.

But I never dreamed that she would want this from me. Comfort as well as physical relief. And my heart is in danger of shattering to pieces as I step between her spread thighs and cradle her face in my hands.

“I have more words for you to repeat.”

Another eye roll, but a smile too.

“Oh?”

“Yes. Repeat after me: I have ruined the ballet master. I have broken his old, tired heart.”

She opens her mouth, then closes it again.

“I don’t think I can say that,” she whispers.

“No?” I duck my head, pressing a kiss below her ear. “Then I will say it for you.” My lips blaze a trail up her flushed throat. Along her fine jaw until they meet her plump lips. Paige sucks in a sharp breath, moaning into my kiss and scrabbling at my shoulders.

I can’t help myself—I nip her bottom lip between my teeth. I slide my tongue into her wet heat. But Paige welcomes me, kissing me back just as hard, her small body swaying in my grip.

“These layers,” I growl, reaching down to find her leotard and tights still between us. I tug her sweatshirt over her raised arms, stripping her quickly. “They will drive me insane.”

Paige lifts her hips as I pull her leotard and tights down her body, settling her ass back on the barre with only a pink thong left. The scrap of fabric taunts me, a damp patch spreading between her thighs.

I look up and find goosebumps rippling over her bare skin. With a rueful glance at her pert nipples, I settle the chunky sweatshirt back over her arms.

“It’s cold,” I grunt when she smiles at me softly.

“Warm me up then, Monsieur.”