“Prove it,” I say, lifting my chin away from his touch.
Half of me braces for impact, as if he might rip the leotard off my body, as if he might slam me into the mats. He has more patience than I gave him credit for. More strategy.
He smiles. “Say no, Bethany.”
He traces the line of my cheek with his forefinger. Sensation suffuses my body. His finger is a heat source, and my body is pure metal. I’m conducting everything he gives me. There’s complete concentration as he draws his finger down to my jaw—and lower, lower, to the tendon in my neck. He takes his time. So much time, as if this is the only thing he ever wanted to do to me, as if his finger pad on my pulse point is the culmination of our entire sexual encounter.
I understand now why I’d never say no—because I’m desperate for more. “Yes,” I whisper.
The back of his hand brushes over my breast, back and forth, back and forth, until my nipple hardens, until it shoves against the fabric, small and sharp. He squeezes the tip, making me moan. Harder. Harder. Hard enough that I let out a squeak of protest. Then he does let me go, and the feeling is enough to make me light-headed. It doesn’t feel good, exactly. This isn’t chocolate milk. It’s a shot of whiskey that burns down my throat and warms low in my belly.
“Should I?” I tug at the shoulder strap of my leotard, ready to take it off. The stretchy fabric has held me like a second skin through hours of practice and performance—suddenly it feels like it’s made of horsehair. Scratchy. Tight. I want it off my body, so he can touch me, the real me.
A flick of his fingers. Sharp pain on the back of my hand. “No,” he says. “I want you to wear it. I want you to keep it on so you always remember this. No matter where you go, you’ll always remember how it felt to be full of me, to be on your knees with my cock in your mouth and my fingers in your cunt, and when you’re onstage in front of a thousand people, the memory will make you wet.”
It’s making me wet right now. I’m slick between my legs. If he felt the strip of fabric, it would already be damp, and I don’t know how I’m going to wear this in front of a thousand people.
He pinches my other nipple, and I shudder against the pain and pleasure. “Say no, Bethany. That’s what you want to say. ‘Leave me alone. Don’t touch me. Keep your filthy hands off my sweet body.’”
A hitch in my breath. “What if you say no?”
Then he does laugh, and the sound has no cynicism. It’s almost boyish with its unguarded joy. “I’m not saying no to you, Bethany. I’ve never said no to you.”
He sobers. I do, too, because he’s right about that. He never said no to me, even when I asked him to put aside his principles to protect my family. He said yes. “I’m sorry,” I whisper because I’ve never said that to him. Even knowing how this ends, I couldn’t have made another choice. I owed my brother my life, but Josh? He didn’t owe me anything.
“If you say no, I still get to come. The same way I’ve come every night since I met you, fucking my fist, imagining your legs spread wide for me, your mouth open as I ride you.”
Josh, present time
I said too much.
She doesn’t need to know how much power she has over me. Bad enough that I’ve been panting over a woman who’s been across the globe for most of these years. The idea struck me as fucking funny. That I would say no to her—to her little tits and her long legs? She could flay my skin open with a hot poker, and I’d be here saying, Yes, Bethany. Anything you want. In some ways the hot poker would be easier than this. Her eyes flay me open, liquid brown and full of undeserved trust.
“On your knees,” I tell her, keeping my voice hard.
The dilemma’s clear on her pretty face. She wants to tell me to go to hell, but she wants to orgasm on my dick even more. I’m sorry, I want to tell her. I’m sorry your biology makes you want stupid fuckers like me. I’m sorry your little vagina wants to be full of hard cock.
That’s not what I actually say, though. “Tick tock.”
A flash of defiance. It’s chased away by glazed desire. She drops to her knees, and the sight of her there is almost enough to make me come. “Now what?” she asks, her hands twisting in her lap. She’s nervous and excited and turned on as fuck, and it’s all I can do not to come in my pants. One pull and I’d be jizzing all over her smooth skin and worn leotard.
I make myself open my pants in a slow, deliberate way. It’s the anticipation that gets her hot. “If I were a gentleman, I’d put you in a bed and lick your pussy until you creamed on my face. If I were a gentleman, I wouldn’t nut until you’d come once, twice, three times.” The cold air feels like knives on my cock. I’m so fucking swollen I have to pinch the end of my dick to hold it in. “I’m not a gentleman, am I?”
She doesn’t answer me. Or maybe she does answer me, by leaning forward to lick the tip of my cock. I suck in a breath, and God, God, her little tongue. If she had sucked me, I might have been able to withstand the onslaught, might have lost myself in physical sensation. Instead she licked me right on the tip, and it was so goddamn adorable.
“Again,” I grunt, pushing my hips toward her.
She licks me again, and I have to grit my teeth against the surge of climax. I hold it back, barely, but there’s no more time for her to drive me insane. I flip her over, so she’s got no choice but to be on her hands and knees. Beautiful ass up. Cheek pressed to the mat. One upside of fucking a dancer—her body is designed to be moved however I want. She can hold the position for hours. I won’t last nearly that long. With two fingers I pull the placket of her leotard aside. Her pussy’s shaven smooth, and I have to fight against the urge to lick her. Patience, patience.
Part of me wants to shove my bare dick inside her. I’ve never fucked a girl raw, and the urge has never been this strong. To feel her secret muscles pulse around me. To come inside her and see the seed dripping out. Christ. Some deeply buried shred of decency forces me to dig in my pocket for a condom. I wrap up and press the head of my cock to her folds.
I brace my hands on her hips, more to steady myself than her. A long, hard thrust finds me inside her body, and I can’t contain the groan of satisfaction. That sound doesn’t hide the whimper she makes. Her whole body’s vibrating like a pulled tendon. Her hands curl into fists against the mats on the floor.
One. Two. Three. I give her the seconds to adjust, but it only seems to get worse. “Bethany,” I mutter, fighting with myself for control. “How long has it been?”
Her body is flexible and strong. I never imagined she’d have trouble taking my cock, even if she hadn’t been with a man in a while. Her muscles feel like a vise.
I slap her hip to force an answer. “How long?”