Part of me wondered if this was always what sex was like for him, and the other part knew it couldn’t be. It had never felt like this. Never felt like someone wanted me so desperately, or that I needed them just as much. I held on while he brought us to the brink of ecstasy. This time he pushed in and out with slow strokes. But strokes that tortured me with pleasure.
“Sam, oh, Sam.” It was happening slower than it ever had. The coiling in my belly started to expand and float through my limbs, but not with the fire and intensity I was used to with him. It was exquisite how everything slowed to his rhythm.
I kissed him as my body began to shake and jolt. My legs felt like jelly and my core was burning with the blistering orgasm.
He pressed his forehead against mine. “I love it when you do that.”
I licked my lips from the shower water. I touched the corners of his face as the trickles of water beaded over the sharp lines of his jaw.
Then I saw the lust in his eyes. His speed picked up and a look of determination crossed his gorgeous face. I held up while he pumped in and out of me. His chest heaved rapidly and his hips thrust forward.
“Fuck, Natalia.” He sank into me again and his body stiffened as he wrapped both arms around me, shaking as his came inside.
Slowly, he lowered me to the ground. I looked into his eyes, already missing our bodies being connected.
“You said something about dinner?” he joked.
“Funny.” I grabbed a bottle of body wash for him.
“I’m starving. The practice. The drive. The sex.”
“Poor thing.” I lathered my hands and began rubbing them over his chest. His shoulders were wide and I needed two hands to wash one arm.
He was a lot to handle.
We decided on ordering Italian and sat in the living room once the driver dropped off our dinner. I lit a few candles and opened a bottle of wine. I poured a glass for each of us.
“I think we should toast to something, don’t you?”
Sam held the glass. “To more nights in your studio.” He winked.
I tapped my glass to his.
“I want to hear more about your audition. When is it?” he asked.
“For the ballet?” I picked up my fork.
“Yes. When do you start preparing? Are you ready?”
“It’s not until March. And I hope that by January my leg will be strong enough that I can complete my routine.” I took a bite of salad.
“What did you injure? Maybe I could help.” He waggled his eyebrows and I didn’t know whether to take him seriously or not.
“It’s my hamstring. It’s not bad enough that I can’t jump around for a few hours cheering. It’s actually gotten much stronger since last year. But I’m worried it won’t support me on my pointe shoes.”
“And those are?”
“You know the shoes ballerinas wear? The ones with the flat toes so we can stand up on our feet. It’s a lot of pressure on the foot, but it takes a tremendous amount of strength in the supporting leg. I’m afraid to try.” I couldn’t believe I had told him that. I hadn’t shared it with anyone.
“I think I know what shoes you’re talking about. Why haven’t you tried it yet if you’re out dancing for the Warriors every week? Your legs seem in good shape to me.”
I was tempted to poke him with my fork. “Because if I put on those shoes and I’m not ready then what was all this for?” I took a deep breath. “Why have I joined a dance squad? Why did I try to get my strength back if it was all going to be for nothing?”
“Hey, you don’t know that.” He put his plate on the coffee table. “You need to put the shoes on and see where you are. That’s the only way you can plan the rest of your rehab.”
I blinked. “You’re talking like you know how I’m going to get back on stage.”
“I don’t know shit about ballet, but I know injuries and I know hamstrings. Do you have a trainer? Are you working with a therapist to get you where you need to be?”