Break

Gross.

“Son of a bitch,” Dash says loud enough to draw their attention.

He steps away from me and hands me my pants, which I drape in front of my body to hide my nudity and the searing red flushing my entire being with shame.

“Mother,” I stutter.

She looks up and unwinds herself from Lance’s treacly arms. Her eyes dart from my naked but covered form to Dashiell’s naked form. His humungous erection isn’t camera shy and stands at attention, waiting for the ceremony to resume. Slowly, she peels her eyes from Dash to take in her beloved room, and her eyes narrow in some overload of emotion. Is it anger? Bewilderment? Pain?

“This never happened,” Dash says as he points at her. “You didn’t see us, and we didn’t see you,” he commands, taking charge.

He tosses Mother my elevator card, which she drops her purse to catch. Dash grabs his backpack and my dance bag while stepping into his grey sweatpants with the grace of a gentleman. He leaves the dessert toppings in their respective graveyards and wraps his big sweatshirt around me, grabbing my arm.

“Lance,” Dashiell nods as we step around them and enter the same elevator from which they exited.

“But…” Katerina protests.

I wince at the sound of her voice.

“Hire a decorator. You’ve got the cash. Tell him it’s an anniversary surprise,” Dashiell suggests as the doors ding closed, leaving Mother sputtering in disbelief and Lance gawking open-mouthed like he can’t process the chaotic scene in front of them.

“That’s disgusting,” I breathe as the doors close and we descend. “I wonder how long they’ve been—”

Dashiell cuts me off by sealing his mouth over mine. He stops the elevator pushing a single button behind him and we come to a bouncy stop somewhere between the Penthouse and the ground floor. Dash yanks down the elastic of his sweats to reveal his erection that hasn’t given up hope and is still throbbing in his palm. His magic fingers find my center and he slips them inside me, recharging my waning orgasm right back to the precipice by ruthlessly finger fucking me.

“I want you to suck and swallow, Princess,” he commands. “Drink it all down.”

His fingers leave me aching and he grabs my jaw, shoving the few already drenched with my own arousal into my mouth. His other hand finds my shoulder and pushes me to my knees. He caresses my jaw, cheek, and the length of my neck as I lick the precum from the engorged helmeted head of his huge cock.

“Drink it, Taye. I want to fill you up,” he says, shoving himself into my mouth and cradling my throat in his palm as I strain to accommodate him.

He thrusts deep into the recesses of my mouth three times before he spills his load. His semen, so abundant, leaks from the seam of my mouth as I swallow it down. He catches the trails with his thumb and loops them back into my mouth. I consume him greedily, hungrily, because no matter how poisonous we are, our love is the antidote.

Back at Penthouse B, Dashiell bathes me in his tub, rubbing my back with a hotwash cloth. After drying me, he massages liniment into my aching feet and sore calf muscles.

Wrapping me in fluffy towels, he leaves me in the center of his huge bed while he orders a pizza with the works. He tosses a pair of new boxers and a clean folded t-shirt my way before disappearing into the kitchen. I slip into his clothes, loving the way the soft fabric feels against my skin.

When Dashiell returns, he’s got a pizza box, a bottle of wine, and two large Pellegrino’s. He’s clad in nothing but boxers. Every inch of his strong dancer’s body is ideal, perfect, a vision of defined muscle like it was sculpted to anatomical precision.

He grabs a slice and bites it aggressively while turning on the gas fireplace.

“Eat, Sam. I want to watch you eat. It’s the sexist goddamned thing in the universe when you forget the punishment and eat like you love to.”

I smile at him and help myself to a slice. I take a bite of the steaming, cheese-pulling goodness and cover my mouth with my fingertips while I speak. “I feel so bad for my dad—”

Dash hushes me immediately. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. That didn’t happen.” He chews his pizza like it did him dirty, tossing the crust back in the box before selecting another.

“I wonder how long—”

“Tayla,” he cuts me off again. “We’re having delicious pizza, and you’re talking about crazy things. Let me erase your mind.” He hands me a glass of white wine. “Tonight, we had rehearsal. Went fine. We came back to my place, showered, and ordered a pizza. All in all, it was a great night.”

“We didn’t have sex?” I ask him.