“They don’t like you on the stage?”
“No. They think it’s silly. They think I’m silly. Nothing I do seems good enough for them.” I bite my lip, wondering if he thinks I’m being whiny. He can’t want to listen to all of this.
But he just says, “Do you think you’re silly?”
I shake my head.
“Use your words,” he says sternly.
“No, I don’t. I love what I do, and I think I’m a good dancer. I wish they could see that.”
“I think you are, too.
I lift my head and look up at him, feeling a smile curve my lips. “You do?”
“Of course. You move beautifully and you have excellent poise and style. That’s why it upsets me when you make mistakes or break my rules. You’re better than that. I want to make you see that.”
His face is close to mine. Being praised as a dancer is so rare that I know I’ll be thinking about his words for days.
“Now, will you come to me if you’re upset or worried about something in the future? That way we can ensure together that you don’t make mistakes.”
My eyebrows lift with surprise. “I...suppose so?” He wants to hear about my parents trying to give me university brochures and taking my stuffed animals away? I can’t believe that.
“Not suppose. Promise.”
I bite my lip. This is all too strange. Fearsome Mr. Kingsolver has just spanked me, and now he’s holding me and asking me to tell him about my worries. What’s strangest is I’m enjoying every second of it.
Could he be enjoying it, too? There’s still a dull ache between my legs, an ache of need, and I find myself wondering what it would feel like if Mr. Kingsolver’s large fingers moved between my thighs and started touching me there. My cheeks blaze with red and I look down. “I promise.”
We lapse into silence and his fingers rub slow circles at the tops of my thighs, just where the burn from his hand begins.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into my hair, and his words surprise me enough for me to look at him once more. His gaze is gentle. “I shouldn’t have threatened to fire you the other day. I upset you and made you afraid. I don’t want you to be afraid. I want you to want to not make mistakes. For me. I want you to want to please me.” He holds my chin lightly between his thumb and forefinger. “Do you want to please me, Abby?”
My throat catches, because his words echo so perfectly the feeling I had when I was submitting to his discipline: that I was hoping it was pleasing him. “Yes,” I breathe.
“Good girl,” he says, and those words send a warm thrill through me again. “When I saw you dance the other night after I spoke to you in the wings, and I saw that you were perfect, I knew what you needed. I’m sorry I didn’t realize sooner.”
I frown, puzzled. “What I needed?”
But he only gives me a half smile and sits up. “You’d better get your train. It’s late.”
Reluctantly, I peel myself from his lap and stand up. My legs are still a little shaky and he steadies me with a strong hand on my waist.
“Will you stay on the main streets where there’re plenty of streetlights?” he asks.
I nod.
“Good. I want to know that you’re safe. Good night, Abby. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
As I close the door to his office I see that he’s already picked up his pen and started writing again.
Chapter Three
I don’t know why, but the next morning when I thumb through the college brochures under my mother’s watchful eye I feel none of the anxiety and pressure I thought I’d feel.
I look up at her when I’m done, then smile. “They all look wonderful. But I think I’m going to give the theater a proper go of it, then look at where I am in a year’s time.”
“Oh—okay,” she says, taking the brochures back, her expression puzzled.