I whisper, realizing we are in his room.
“I told them to get the fuck out,” Zed says, shutting the door behind him with a solid click.
“Oh my God, everyone knows.” Of course they did. They’ve seen the way we’ve danced the last three days. They probably didn’t miss the way he kissed me before each performance and held me after, different from the way we used to lean against each other.
The post-performance high used to be enough for me. Not anymore. I lean against the wall, covering my mouth and smothering the laughter threatening to bubble from my chest. I twist my ponytail, watching the water splash on the carpet.
“Is that bad?” The anxiety in his voice tugs me from the reverie, and I look up at him.
I don’t have to think when I say, “Not at all.”
From here, I can’t see his pupils but I know they are wide, swallowing me, eating me up. He used to be so curious and careful. And in the wings of the stage, the darkness hid his expression. In the harsh light of the hotel room, the lust fills his face.
“You’re staring,” I say, smiling.
Sometimes, it can bring me to my knees how vulnerable he can look. How vulnerable he isn’t afraid to look. His head rolls a bit against the door and then he says, “I can’t help it.”
A part of me can still hold back. A part of me knows that this is the point of no return. But when I let go of my hair, I know without a doubt that even if I could go back, I don’t want to. I want this. I want it to be us alone without the world tonight. I can’t walk away, because if I have one chance to make this work between us, I have to seize this moment. Right here. Carpe momentum. I’m making up Latin.
So of course, the dumbest question, the one that’s always been there, as much as this feeling’s always been there, slips out. “Why?”
His laugh is harsh, almost startling, and he turns his face away from me, fingers sliding through his hair. He shakes raindrops off his head. “God, Aly, that’s the wrong question.” His voice hungers for the answer.
“What’s a better one?”
I am in love with the way his head lifts up, the way his lips part. I am in love with the way he steps toward me, backing me up and against the wall. I am in love with his height, the way he towers above me, and I am in love with his hand, slipping up the side of my neck, holding me steady. Holding me. He smells like whiskey and rain and I am in love for the first time since I found ballet.
We’ve walked a fine line for so many years that here, with his thumb pressing into my hairline, my equilibrium is tossed out the window. I settle my hand on his hip, feeling the fierce muscle beneath my fingers, and I’m not sure if I’m tempering his movement toward me, or encouraging it. He steps close enough that the knuckle of my thumb brushes back against my side. The last time we stood this close, we were interrupted. There’d be no interrupting tonight. Not now. It’s just him and me, and nothing. It’s glorious.
“When.” His voice breaks through the mist in my mind. “When, is the question. Aly—” and I shiver at his voice, dropping lower, like his hand traveling knuckles-first down my neck, “—yes or no?”
“Yes,” I say without any hesitation. Yes.
* * *
He takes the lead like he’s been waiting for my invitation all this time. I’ve barely finished the word before his mouth closes against mine and his hips press me against the wall. He kisses me with the force of a storm, catching me off guard. One of his hands slides up my side and his fingers leave traces of fire on my skin. His tongue slides against mine, and when I gasp, he grins ferociously. My fingers find the edge of his shirt and I barely know what I’m asking for when I grip it, pull at it, but he lets me go, lets me take a breath just long enough for him to strip the wet shirt from his body and toss it somewhere behind him, for someone else to find.
My mind mentally catalogs the room: the
“I told them to get the fuck out,” Zed says, shutting the door behind him with a solid click.
“Oh my God, everyone knows.” Of course they did. They’ve seen the way we’ve danced the last three days. They probably didn’t miss the way he kissed me before each performance and held me after, different from the way we used to lean against each other.
The post-performance high used to be enough for me. Not anymore. I lean against the wall, covering my mouth and smothering the laughter threatening to bubble from my chest. I twist my ponytail, watching the water splash on the carpet.
“Is that bad?” The anxiety in his voice tugs me from the reverie, and I look up at him.
I don’t have to think when I say, “Not at all.”
From here, I can’t see his pupils but I know they are wide, swallowing me, eating me up. He used to be so curious and careful. And in the wings of the stage, the darkness hid his expression. In the harsh light of the hotel room, the lust fills his face.
“You’re staring,” I say, smiling.
Sometimes, it can bring me to my knees how vulnerable he can look. How vulnerable he isn’t afraid to look. His head rolls a bit against the door and then he says, “I can’t help it.”
A part of me can still hold back. A part of me knows that this is the point of no return. But when I let go of my hair, I know without a doubt that even if I could go back, I don’t want to. I want this. I want it to be us alone without the world tonight. I can’t walk away, because if I have one chance to make this work between us, I have to seize this moment. Right here. Carpe momentum. I’m making up Latin.
So of course, the dumbest question, the one that’s always been there, as much as this feeling’s always been there, slips out. “Why?”
His laugh is harsh, almost startling, and he turns his face away from me, fingers sliding through his hair. He shakes raindrops off his head. “God, Aly, that’s the wrong question.” His voice hungers for the answer.
“What’s a better one?”
I am in love with the way his head lifts up, the way his lips part. I am in love with the way he steps toward me, backing me up and against the wall. I am in love with his height, the way he towers above me, and I am in love with his hand, slipping up the side of my neck, holding me steady. Holding me. He smells like whiskey and rain and I am in love for the first time since I found ballet.
We’ve walked a fine line for so many years that here, with his thumb pressing into my hairline, my equilibrium is tossed out the window. I settle my hand on his hip, feeling the fierce muscle beneath my fingers, and I’m not sure if I’m tempering his movement toward me, or encouraging it. He steps close enough that the knuckle of my thumb brushes back against my side. The last time we stood this close, we were interrupted. There’d be no interrupting tonight. Not now. It’s just him and me, and nothing. It’s glorious.
“When.” His voice breaks through the mist in my mind. “When, is the question. Aly—” and I shiver at his voice, dropping lower, like his hand traveling knuckles-first down my neck, “—yes or no?”
“Yes,” I say without any hesitation. Yes.
* * *
He takes the lead like he’s been waiting for my invitation all this time. I’ve barely finished the word before his mouth closes against mine and his hips press me against the wall. He kisses me with the force of a storm, catching me off guard. One of his hands slides up my side and his fingers leave traces of fire on my skin. His tongue slides against mine, and when I gasp, he grins ferociously. My fingers find the edge of his shirt and I barely know what I’m asking for when I grip it, pull at it, but he lets me go, lets me take a breath just long enough for him to strip the wet shirt from his body and toss it somewhere behind him, for someone else to find.
My mind mentally catalogs the room: the
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