Break

A fucking stupid strand of diamonds that has the symbolic weight of lead.

As I walk down our stunning marble-walled hallway, Mom says, “I saw you dance with her, Dash. I’ve watched you partner your whole life and—”

I raise a hand to stop her. I love my mother, but nobody tells me how I feel. And psychoanalyzing my partnering isn’t some window into my true self. A large part of dancing is acting, and just because I want to get close to Natayla Koslova doesn’t mean I’ve gone soft. Quite the opposite.

My room is decorated in dark hues with hidden recessed lighting. A giant mirror with an ornate ebony frame takes up a whole wall where I stretch and dress at the start of every day. At night, I strip down and sleep in silk boxers. I’m a man of precise execution, and that’s what has taken me so far in the dance world without traditional training.

Some believe that switching styles is easy—it’s not. We’re paid to make it look that way, but not everyone is capable. Half of these top-tier ballerinas can’t catch a beat to save their lives, can’t loosen their hips, can’t break the line. Once you encroach on their territory and show them up at their own game, you quickly go from friend to threat.

Once I shuck my suit, I drop to the floor and do fifty quick push-ups, the last set with one hand. Then comes half the amount of pull-ups on a bar my mother insisted on having installed. I’m not picky. For years, my gym was city scaffolding, public playground equipment, and whatever I could get my hands on.

After brushing my teeth and washing my face, I slip into bed. Sam’s scent still lingers even after I wash up, and it’s almost like I can feel her hunger. Unfortunately, I now know how good it feels to sate it.

I roll over and crush my erection into the satiny sheets. My desire to fill her up and drain her over and over again strikes through me like a cleaver. Fill, drain, fill, drain until she begs me. I fist my shaft as I remember her hard nipple in my teeth, her taut small breasts, her chest heaving with the need for release.

I squeeze and tug at my cock and writhe in the sheets wishing I’d torn her dress from her petite frame and rode her in the pantry until she was raw from my need, coming and saying my name. Then my phone pings.

I roll onto my back and retrieve it from my bedside table. Opening a text from an unknown number, I wonder if it could be her. Maybe she’s in her bed mere footsteps from my front door, or perhaps she’s still at her parents’…or worse.

Caller: Why do you hate me so much?

I contemplate the question as I jerk the last few strokes from my rock-hard erection and ejaculate into my palm. I imagine dragging my tongue down the subtle curve of her hip, dipping into her navel, feeding her my palmful of cum.

Once I clean up my mess, I jack up some pillows, throw myself down and stare at her text.

Dash: You ruined my life.

Caller: Do you really believe that?

Dash: How the hell did you get my number?

Caller: Answer my question.

Dash: You people (plural) ruined my life.

Caller: From my vantage point, you’re on top of the world.

Dash: That’s how it looks when someone’s on top of you.

Caller: I can’t live like this. We have to call a truce.

Dash: It’s funny all the things you find you’re capable of when you don’t have a choice. Take it from someone who knows.

With that, I chuck my phone across the room, where it lands by the door with a thud. I’ve got too many soft spots when it comes to Sam fucking Koslova, so I’m going to have to draw on all my reserves not to get sucked in.

Chapter Sixteen

Natayla

I can usually get through rehearsal on a single meal, but when I eat erratically, it throws my whole game off. I’m hungry and dizzy because I can no longer spot my turns. My blood sugar has been all over the place since Dash waltzed back into my life. I can’t concentrate, not like I should be. The man throws me off. And now I’m late to my pas de deux rehearsal because I had to run by the deli and grab myself a snack. But I’m so off that I must have stood at the cooler for ten minutes deciding between the edamame and the seaweed salad. It wasn’t calorie counting or the normal bullshit psychosis I suffer around food. It was more of a sensory thing. I wondered how each would feel on my lips, my tongue, even my teeth. How it would slide down my throat and sit in my stomach.