Ballet Master by Cassie Mint

Five

Paige

Who is this man, treasuring me and wrecking me in equal measure? It’s not the legendary dancer I watched on so many video clips, nor the gruff master who taught class today. He smiles at me, eyes crinkling at the corners, even as he runs his palms over me with the kind of ownership that steals the breath from my lungs.

He is commanding. Sure of himself. And his touch—it breaks me apart.

First, he slides his hands inside my baggy sweatshirt. His palms are warm and dry, dwarfing my ribcage, and I shiver as his fingertips graze the underside of my breasts.

“These tell me everything, don’t they angel?” He rubs the pad of his thumbs over the hard beads of my nipples. I whimper, my forehead dropping into his shoulder, and he growls in approval. “Every time you look over at me in class, these gorgeous little tits strain against your leotard.”

I should be embarrassed about that, but I can’t think straight right now. Not with Monsieur Dupont’s commanding touch on my skin, and his hips moving to slot against mine.

There it is again: the hard length in his dark pants. The thing I felt pressing against me secretly in class.

I bite my lip, face still buried in his shoulder, and roll my hips against him. Just to see how it feels.

Monsieur Dupont hisses between his teeth. “Careful, angel. This is about you. Don’t try to distract me, now.”

He steps away again, and my back stiffens. I want him flush against me, like he promised with his dance. I want the pulsing feeling below my navel to get stronger again. But I barely have time to lift my head and scowl before he’s kissing me again, groaning against my lips.

“Don’t frown at me, Paige.” A broad fingertip traces the seam of my thong. I whimper and shift on the barre. “Not when I’m touching your pretty pussy.”

He’s not touching it yet, and now who’s the tease? But before I can point that out, he slips his fingertip under the fabric.

The barest touch. That’s what he gives me. And I guess it makes sense—the man is a ballet legend, and this dance is all about restraint. Iron-clad control. He teases me, the whisper of his touch along my slit enough to make heat explode over my skin.

I’d like to make him lose control. I’d like to make him messy.

The thought slips away as quickly as it came. Because Monsieur Dupont—Raphael—he finds the most sensitive spot. The tight bud of nerves at the top of my slit. And he rubs me there, firm and demanding, barking out a laugh when I groan and bite down on his shoulder.

“Rough little dancer. Look at you, scratching and biting the ballet master.” I bite down harder, my teeth digging into his shoulder muscle, and he chuckles as he slides one knuckle deep into my pussy. “I knew you were a fighter, Paige. Not so shy at all.”

My hips jerk, forcing him deeper, and he works his finger, rubbing at my walls. Two knuckles become three; one finger becomes two, until he’s plunging both deep inside me. I lean my temple on his shoulder, watching our reflection in the mirror. The shameless rock of my hips, and the bulging tendon in his neck.

“Do you feel good, angel?”

I moan and nod, my vision blurring. I’m far past words.

“Then it’s time.”

He kneels so quickly, I’d topple off the barre if it weren’t for his grip on my thigh. And he doesn’t even bother to pull my thong down—just yanks it to the side and buries his face between my thighs.

His groan vibrates through my pussy. His tongue is searching, delving, rough. He laps at me like I am the most delicious treat—like I am dripping with the finest of champagnes. His eyes track up my body slowly until they fix onto mine, and my mouth rounds in a silent ‘O’ as he plunges his tongue deep inside me.

“M-Monsieur—”

“Raphael,” he growls against my core.

“Raphael. I… I’m going to…”

I don’t have time to finish my warning. Pleasure flashes hot through my body, searing and bright, and I twist my hands in his dark hair.

My wail echoes through the empty studio, bouncing off the mirrors. All around me, reflections of myself tip their heads back, mouth parted at the ceiling, and Monsieur Dupont’s broad back flexes between the reflections’ legs, his muscles shifting as he pushes me harder, deeper, more.

His fingers grip my thigh hard enough to bruise.

Distantly, I hope they do.

And when Monsieur Dupont stands again, long after my twitching subsides, he’s breathing even harder than me. He lifts me down gently, settling me on wobbly legs, and fixes my sweatshirt so that it lays straight.

Only then does he wipe his chin, his mouth slick from my pussy.

“Perfect,” he grits out, his voice like gravel. “I knew you would be. Like something from a dream.”

A pleased blush adds to the inferno on my cheeks, but when I reach for the length still pushing against his pants, he bats me gently away.

“No, angel. This was about you.” He steps back, scrubbing a hand over his face, and his rabid hunger fades. His face becomes cooler again, pleasant and controlled—he is the ballet master once more. No more Raphael.

Monsieur Dupont hands me the pile of my clothes.

“Now get dressed before you catch a chill.”

* * *

“Before you catch a chill? Seriously, how old is this guy?” My roommate Leona wrinkles her nose at me from her seat on the kitchen counter. An open pizza box rests in her lap, the hot slices lying forgotten.

“Your pizza is going cold.”

She rolls her eyes but picks up a slice. The molten cheese stretches, pulling away in strings, and my stomach growls loudly.

“Want some?”

“No, thank you.”

I cannot afford a cheesy pizza. Not even a single slice. For ballet, I must be strict about what I let inside my body.

An image flits across my brain: Raphael Dupont’s tongue sliding between my folds. My breath catches.

Leona whistles. “What the hell did you just think of?”

“Nothing. Shut up.” She cackles as I tug the refrigerator open, unoffended by my harsh words. Leona and I have lived here with our friend Avery for nearly two years. They know me better than anyone.

I frown at the tubs of chopped salad I prepared yesterday.

That pizza smells so good. Like hot dough and melted cheese and oregano.

“Come on.” Something pushes into my hand—the pizza box. “One piece won’t hurt. Then you can have your rabbit food.”

I hesitate before choosing a small piece. Nibbling a tiny bite. Flavor bursts over my tongue, savory and delicious, and I stifle a groan.

It’s my second forbidden pleasure of the day.

“Thank you.”

Leona grunts, tearing off a bite of her crust. Her dark wavy hair hangs over her shoulders in two loose bunches, and her sketchpad rests on the counter by her hip. Leona understands my obsession with ballet, because she’s the same way with drawing—she needs it like she needs air to breathe.

“He’s in his thirties,” I tell her, answering her question from earlier. “So, older than us. But not old old.”

“Old enough to be sexy.” Leona waggles her eyebrows. “Old enough to know what he’s doing.”

I think of his proprietary grip on me. The way he arranged me on the barre, so sure of himself, and brought me to such shimmering pleasure that I thought the mirrors might shatter.

“Yes.” God, I sound strangled. “Old enough for that. But…” I trail off, embarrassed. How am I supposed to admit this? That I must have done something wrong; that he didn’t want me enough to take his pleasure in turn?

“But?” Leona prompts.

I open my mouth but the words don’t come. There’s only creeping shame, spreading through my gut, settling heavy in my stomach.

What did I do wrong?

Did I disgust him somehow?

Could he read my inexperience in the way I touched him?

Even if he did—my shoulders stiffen—that should not have made a difference. I can’t exactly help my inexperience, and everyone must learn at some point. Right?

“Nothing,” I grumble, pausing to gnaw at my pizza again. “It doesn’t matter.”

Leona watches me carefully, concern spreading through her brown eyes. She may seem pricklier than Avery and I, but Leona cares so much, I think she almost can’t stand it.

“If he doesn’t want you, he’s an idiot.” Her words are soft. Reassuring. But they still sting somewhere deep in my chest.

I shrug, forcing a rueful smile.

“It doesn’t matter. He’s the ballet master. I’m a student dancer. It couldn’t work anyway.”