I catch a glimpse of us in a mirror she has set up near the door—her bent over, the pink of her leotard bright against my skin, my cock driving into her over and over, harder each time.
I don't know how I'm going to survive this. I don't even care if I do. I just want to keep fucking her like this until the world stops spinning.
"You want to come for me, baby?" I ask, my teeth at her ear.
She shudders so hard it nearly throws us both off the podium. "Please," she chokes out. "Please, Harlan."
I reach around her, finding her clit slippery and swollen. I rub it in tight, hard circles, loving the way she goes still—a dancer's stillness, all muscle and control—so she can feel every second of it.
"Don't you dare come without my say-so," I tell her, tightening my grip in her hair. "You hold it. You fucking hold it, ballerina."
She makes a guttural, desperate sound. Her thighs quake against the podium, and I can feel her pussy fluttering, desperatefor permission. I slow down, grinding deep, making her feel every vein, every inch.
She sobs, biting her own arm to keep from screaming.
"Fuck, you feel that?" I groan, thrusting slow and hard as she arches and writhes. "Your cunt is milking my cock, Sophie. You're so ready for it. You want to come, baby?"
She tries to nod, but I hold her still.
"Not yet. You hold it for me. Just like that. Don't you fucking dare finish until I say."
She's shaking, her hands clutching the edge of the podium so tight her knuckles are white. I keep the pressure on her clit constant, never letting her lose the edge.
She's a mess, moaning my name, her hips stuttering as she tries to obey.
"Good girl," I whisper, biting her ear. "Now."
She detonates, her whole body bucking as she screams my name, coming so hard she nearly throws us both to the floor.
The force of it rips me in half. I slam into her, losing every ounce of control, and let myself go, pumping her full.
We collapse onto the podium, her face pressed to the cool wood, my chest covering her back, both of us panting like we just ran a marathon.
I love her.
I want to say it, right now, with her body still trembling in my arms. But I don't. She's not ready. Not yet.
Instead, I kiss the frantic, racing pulse in her throat. "You're perfect, Sophie. Absolutely fucking perfect."
She laughs, a breathless, wrecked sound, and twists her head to look up at me with those wild eyes. "Flattery and orgasms will not get you out of practice, Harlan."
She isn't kidding. Once we're able to move again, she puts me to work. And if I ever thought hockey practice was grueling, I was a delusional jackass.
There is nothing more physically challenging than trying to keep up with a professionally trained ballerina. We're barely finished stretching, and my legs are already trembling.
"You giving up already?" she taunts, smirking at me as she goes en pointe in a series of dizzying turns that send her whipping down the length of the ballroom before she catapults herself into the air.
"I'm fine right here," I groan, leaning back against the wall to watch her. "Carry on, ballerina."
She grins at me again, her entire face soft in the way it always is when she's dancing, like this is where she belongs.
"Can you start the next song?" she asks.
I reach for her phone, hitting the button to skip to the next song on her playlist.
I expect her to do another round of turns, maybe show off, but instead she goes very still, her chin lifted, her shoulders melting down as the music swells around us. It's a song I've never heard before, minor and slow.
She doesn't look at me. She just moves, her arms floating up like her bones are made of air, each step a story. I've watched her do all kinds of things—slap a grown man, curse a mountain, take a fall that would break most people in half, and then laugh about it—but I've never seen her like this.