how adorable Zed is in the morning when he’s worried and anxious and rumpled. His dark hair sticks every which way and his eyes brim with worry. He’s been chewing on his lower lip. Or I was last night.
“So that’s why I’m sore,” I tell him, even though I remember.
Some of the anxiety slips from his eyes and his shoulders drop a little bit. “If I didn’t have to take a cold shower before, I do now.”
I smile and lean forward, slipping a hand through his hair. It’s impossible to tame it like this, dried all wild from the rain and the sex. “Unfair that you look like this after a night like that.” I imagine I look like an albino yeti.
“Why?”
“Because I won’t get this out of my head now.” I mean it honestly. We’re going to have to get out of bed at some point and the rest of the world will come back into focus. We might never get this moment again. I don’t want to lose it, but the inevitable presses down on me, making it hard to breathe.
His voice stumbles drunkenly into the space between us. “Aly...”
I wiggle closer to him on the bed and his eyes flutter closed when I kiss him. I want to stay there, naked and pressed against him, finding all the curves of our bodies and the variations in which we fit together.
“Zed,” I say in return.
He runs his fingers down my ribs and I almost, almost combust against his chest. “I’m going to shower. We’ll talk.”
This is what it’d mean to be with him, I think to myself. To be vulnerable, all the time, day in and day out, and to find ways to be strong when I’m not on the stage. To be strong, despite feeling constantly open, constantly understood. There’d be no more safety in being an enigma.
He rolls out of bed and tugs on pants, starting for the bathroom door. Halfway there, he spins around. He comes back to the bed, blushing, and leans over, brushing his lips against mine. My heart in my mouth is now on his tongue.
“Stop thinking so much,” he whispers. “We’ll figure this out. We have three more weeks of the tour. Let’s just enjoy it.”
I’ve never been good at letting go, at letting myself just enjoy something without feeling I needed to earn it. And I haven’t earned Zed. I might never earn Zed. But I don’t want to lose this, so I nod and promise myself I’ll try.
Chapter Nine
Zed
The tour’s a blur, but our pas de deux isn’t. Every city we land in, we get better and better. Our lines are more electric, our chemistry more palpable, our ferocious hearts left on each stage, beating for the audience to see. We’re left breathless and aching, and we’ve found the cure for that in each other. Sure, the first time that Adrian walked in on us made Aly turn as red as her leotard, but she got over it. It’s nothing the company wasn’t expecting anyway.
I remain enthralled by the way Aly comes to bed. Sex is another stage for her. She leaves her secrets and her walls on the floor with her clothing. She’s demanding and needy, intense and emotional, captivating and elusive. And each time I come back from the bathroom and she’s still there, naked, her hair tousled and knotted, kicking her feet lazily in the air as she checks her phone or reads the ballet blogs, I’m floored.
I wake still smelling like sex, sweat and her. It’s the only way I know this isn’t a dream.
At breakfast before our flight home, Aly slips around the table and sinks into my lap with a sigh, one thin cool arm around my neck and her legs tucked beneath her.
“Hi,” I say, wrapping an arm around her. She’s wearing flip-flops, which means her feet hurt too much to slip into her flats. “You’re cold.”
“And you’re warm,” she says, sounding sleepy. She slept in her own room last night so at least I can’t blame myself for that. I offer her a piece of toast that she takes and munches slowly, getting crumbs all over and down my shirt.
It’s like how we always were, but more. Maybe it was always like this and I never
“So that’s why I’m sore,” I tell him, even though I remember.
Some of the anxiety slips from his eyes and his shoulders drop a little bit. “If I didn’t have to take a cold shower before, I do now.”
I smile and lean forward, slipping a hand through his hair. It’s impossible to tame it like this, dried all wild from the rain and the sex. “Unfair that you look like this after a night like that.” I imagine I look like an albino yeti.
“Why?”
“Because I won’t get this out of my head now.” I mean it honestly. We’re going to have to get out of bed at some point and the rest of the world will come back into focus. We might never get this moment again. I don’t want to lose it, but the inevitable presses down on me, making it hard to breathe.
His voice stumbles drunkenly into the space between us. “Aly...”
I wiggle closer to him on the bed and his eyes flutter closed when I kiss him. I want to stay there, naked and pressed against him, finding all the curves of our bodies and the variations in which we fit together.
“Zed,” I say in return.
He runs his fingers down my ribs and I almost, almost combust against his chest. “I’m going to shower. We’ll talk.”
This is what it’d mean to be with him, I think to myself. To be vulnerable, all the time, day in and day out, and to find ways to be strong when I’m not on the stage. To be strong, despite feeling constantly open, constantly understood. There’d be no more safety in being an enigma.
He rolls out of bed and tugs on pants, starting for the bathroom door. Halfway there, he spins around. He comes back to the bed, blushing, and leans over, brushing his lips against mine. My heart in my mouth is now on his tongue.
“Stop thinking so much,” he whispers. “We’ll figure this out. We have three more weeks of the tour. Let’s just enjoy it.”
I’ve never been good at letting go, at letting myself just enjoy something without feeling I needed to earn it. And I haven’t earned Zed. I might never earn Zed. But I don’t want to lose this, so I nod and promise myself I’ll try.
Chapter Nine
Zed
The tour’s a blur, but our pas de deux isn’t. Every city we land in, we get better and better. Our lines are more electric, our chemistry more palpable, our ferocious hearts left on each stage, beating for the audience to see. We’re left breathless and aching, and we’ve found the cure for that in each other. Sure, the first time that Adrian walked in on us made Aly turn as red as her leotard, but she got over it. It’s nothing the company wasn’t expecting anyway.
I remain enthralled by the way Aly comes to bed. Sex is another stage for her. She leaves her secrets and her walls on the floor with her clothing. She’s demanding and needy, intense and emotional, captivating and elusive. And each time I come back from the bathroom and she’s still there, naked, her hair tousled and knotted, kicking her feet lazily in the air as she checks her phone or reads the ballet blogs, I’m floored.
I wake still smelling like sex, sweat and her. It’s the only way I know this isn’t a dream.
At breakfast before our flight home, Aly slips around the table and sinks into my lap with a sigh, one thin cool arm around my neck and her legs tucked beneath her.
“Hi,” I say, wrapping an arm around her. She’s wearing flip-flops, which means her feet hurt too much to slip into her flats. “You’re cold.”
“And you’re warm,” she says, sounding sleepy. She slept in her own room last night so at least I can’t blame myself for that. I offer her a piece of toast that she takes and munches slowly, getting crumbs all over and down my shirt.
It’s like how we always were, but more. Maybe it was always like this and I never
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