I’m weightless again. It’s rare that someone else boosts me more than I do myself. “Thanks. I’ll try again tomorrow then.” I figure he’ll want to do some sort of workout: dead lunges, crunches, sit-ups, pull-ups—
“No.” He fractures my thoughts.
“No?”
“We’re moving on.” He nods to the aerial silk.
My shoulders rise, and I’ve already begun to smile. “But I didn’t—”
“You held your weight with one hand. Even for a millisecond, it was a millisecond more than most can do.” He studies me for a second, and I realize that I’m rocking on the balls of my feet, too excited to stay completely still. “You know the basics?” he asks.
I nod rapidly. “Yeah. I can do a Half-Moon and Back Walk-Over and other…stuff.” He’s trying to contain a smile of his own. “What?”
“Nothing.” He places a hand on my shoulder, but his fingers caress my neck, so subtly that chills prick my arms. “This way.”
My heart beats quicker, curious about what he’ll have me do. We reach the red silk, rigged to the high ceiling. But we don’t immediately start. He makes me stretch my arms first.
After that, I slip off my acro-shoes and Nikolai leaves my side. He pulls the fabric apart, displaying two silks. “I need to see your skill level. Show me the splits, a Back Walk-Over, and a simple single-foot-tie-in.”
Before he passes me the nylon material, he grabs a bottle of resin nearby and approaches, the aerial silk skimming my cheek as a foot of space separates us. The fabric opens up, and we’re almost cocooned within the crimson, wispy material.
His intimate gaze cuts through me for a second. He pauses and soaks in my features.
My breath shallows.
“Hold out your palms,” he whispers lowly, the words sounding like sex.
I flip my hands over, and he sprays resin on them, which’ll help my grip on the silk. When he sprays some on his palms, I realize that he may demonstrate later on.
He passes me the silk. “Show me.”
The material is more elastic than what I used in my garage, a higher difficulty, but I’m determined to perform these few tricks and poses. I climb up the silk with my hands, my muscles burning from the earlier routine. I wrap one foot, recalling the technique.
“Where’d you learn this?” he asks, watching me closely.
“Am I doing it wrong?” I wonder, my eyes popping out. I look at my foot, secured in the fabric, to the point where I can stand up with ease. My heel and toes aren’t covered with the red material.
“No, it’s right. I’m just curious.”
“Don’t laugh when I tell you.” I remember when Shay went through my DVDs in my dorm room and snickered like you can’t be serious? Then he actually said, “At least it’s not pole dancing.” I didn’t have the heart to admit to studying YouTube clips of pole dancers and being envious of their tricks.
Nikolai’s brows pinch in more confusion. “I wouldn’t, Thora.”
“I learned from videos. There were more when I got older though, when YouTube existed.” While he digests this, I grip the top of the silk and extend my body, my spine curving inward and creating a shape like I’m flying. Instead of just dangling my other leg, I bend my knee and point my toe.
“You’re self-taught,” he says. “That’s not something anyone should laugh at you for.”
My cheeks heat. And I climb higher on the silk. Then I break it apart and wrap my foot in each. I let go, dropping upside-down. The blood runs to my head, and I easily do the splits by stretching out my legs. Climbs. Wraps. Drops. It’s the bread and butter of this apparatus. That, I do know.
Nikolai is silent for the rest, and after a few more minutes, I finish and drop down. I can’t read his expression well enough to figure out if I’m better than average. So I just ask. “How’d I do?”
“I thought you’d be worse.”
I nod with my hands on my hips, breathing a bit heavier. “That’s good. I’ll take that.”
He rubs his lips and breaks my gaze.
“What?” I frown.
His hand goes to his eyes—he’s rubbing his eyes in distress.
No. What did you do, Thora?
He says, “I want to kiss you—even more than that. It’s distracting me.” He pinches his eyes. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
My belly flips and somersaults and refuses to stay stationary. “Really…?” I pause, wondering if that sounded rude. “I mean, you really want to kiss me? I wasn’t responding to your second…” statement.
He grimaces as he shuts his eyes tightly, as though I’m making it worse.
I’m gaping, very breathy. I manage to close my mouth, but I imagine my lips on his. His body against mine. Tangled together. I try to wipe away the visuals, but they keep coming.
After Nikolai exhales a deep breath, he tries to mask his feelings. He’s more severe again. “You need to work on your presentation.” Back to business.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re performing for an audience, not for yourself. You’re not trying to master the hardest trick, you’re trying to create the illusion that you’re dancing in the air.” He clasps my hand. “Be graceful. Be lithe and elegant with every move you make. Everything about aerial silk should look seamless.”
He combines the silk with one hand and takes a short running start. His feet lift off the ground. He flies like he lives up high. Like he’s never been grounded before. My ribcage juts in and out, watching as he effortlessly circles around me, as he supports his body with one fist wrapped around the silk. He extends his arm out to me.
Grab his hand.
The next time he nears, I do. I clasp his palm, my soles leaving the safety of the blue mat. My heart has never beat this hard. Or this fast.
“Climb up,” he commands.
I scale his rock hard body, as though he’s the pole I’ve been practicing on, and when I reach his chest, I grasp his shoulders.
“Breathe,” he whispers.
I let one out, his eyes boring through me. We start to slow, the momentum depleting. He wraps the second silk around my hand. We’re going to detach. I strangely, strangely would love to stay right here. Pressed against him.
His eyes flit to my lips.
Business only, I try to read his mind. I think I guess right because he forces those gray gunmetal skies on my almost-black irises.
“Inhale,” he instructs.
I’m forgetting to breathe. How am I forgetting to breathe?
I inhale. Exhale. In. And out. Then he pushes me off his body, with so much power that I go flying. I try not to smile too much. Graceful. With this speed, I can spin. So I do. I twirl with pointed toes, using the power he’s given me to go even faster.
When I near him in my full rotation, I reach my hand out, and he seizes it, slinging my body into his chest, not too hard, but enough that a jolt of energy courses through me. Adrenaline. An intoxicating rush.
He hugs me close, one of his hands rising to my face.
Again—I’d love to do this again and again. With him. Only with him. I can’t say I’m entirely graceful and completely lithe. But I feel weightless once more.
It takes me a moment to realize that we’ve decelerated entirely. We’ve come to a stop. He unwinds my hand as though he’s gently removing lingerie, with the most sensual, slow-burning movement. He keeps me clutched to his chest as he descends, his feet hitting the mat before he sets me down.
It feels like we had aerial sex.
Aerial sex. Now I’m thinking about that—the real act of it. Dear God in heaven. Is that even a thing? Do people do that?
He tosses me my towel, waking me up from my dirty stupor. “You still need lots of work.”
“But I’m not hopeless.” I smile.
“Like you said,” he nods to me, “you’re a work in progress. But landing a contract, there’s luck involved. You need some of that too.”
“I know,” I breathe. He’s not try
ing to elevate my hopes too much.
“That’s it for today. Make sure you wash the resin off your hands and use lotion every night. It’ll dry out your skin if you don’t.”
I dab my sweaty hairline with my towel and just now notice how rigid he is, his shoulders unbending. I slip on my cotton pants and acro-shoes while he puts our water bottles in his gym bag, not saying another word. It spindles more tension in my joints and muscles.
“I’ll walk you out,” he suddenly adds.
He’s never walked me out of the gym before.
The nervous flutters return. I wonder when we leave the gym if business will end. And something else will begin. I’m not sure what happens after we exit the double doors. This is all really new.
Since it’s Sunday and not the morning, there are more than a few people practicing today. We pass a couple doing hand-to-hand tricks, her palm flat on his forehead as she lifts her legs vertically. A handstand. On his head.
Insane.
Nikolai lets out a growl of annoyance. Not at the acrobatic couple. He clasps my hand, tugging me in a new direction before I can even follow his gaze.
Katya lies on top of a giant rolled mat, earbuds in and reading One Last Kiss, Please. The paranormal romance I loaned her. Nikolai drops my hand and yanks out the cord to her iPod.
She gawks at him and sits up. “Hey.” When she notices me, her eyes seem to light up. “Hi, Thora. I just got to the best part—”
“You’re supposed to be practicing,” he cuts her off, and a wave of guilt washes over me. My book has inadvertently become a distraction, but in my defense, that is one hell of a good werewolf-vampire novel.
“I am,” she says. “In my mind.” She’s about to put her earbuds back in and lie down again.
He steals her iPod and the book out of her hands.
“Nik—”
“You almost didn’t land a tucked back somersault on Friday.”
I remember Nikolai mentioning that she works with the Russian bar, as the flyer apparently. It’s dangerous, an elevated balance beam held by two people at each end. She springs into the air and has to land straight back down. But I guess, what isn’t dangerous here.
Her mouth falls. “Luka told you that?”
“He’s one of your porters, Katya. If you fall and break your leg, he’s going to blame himself.” Her older brother must help support the bar, I deduce.
“I wasn’t going to fall,” she mutters, the remorse pulling her lips down.
“If you want to try out for Noctis, you need a full-in, full-out or a triple sault, and you’re not going to get there by sitting on your ass, reading…” He scrutinizes the paperback’s title and cover (legs intertwined on a blue silk sheet) with confusion and then gives me a weird look.
“It’s a good book,” I assure him. Though I start to wonder whether it’s age appropriate. I mean, I was reading explicit adult books at twelve—but I didn’t really understand some of the graphic sex scenes. Sixteen can’t be that bad.
“I love it,” Katya adds, reaching out to snatch it back.
He stuffs it in his black gym bag with her iPod. “It’s mine until your practice is over.”
“You’re so mean,” she says, sliding off the rolled mat and thudding to her feet. “It’s not like I’m ever going to land a full-in, full-out.”
It dawns on me. That’s why she doesn’t even want to try. “Who says you can’t do it?” I ask.
“The universe,” she tells me dramatically. “I was born a girl.”
I don’t understand. “So?”
“So my brothers are always better than me. I do everything slower than them, so there’s no point.” To live in the shadow of the male Kotovas, of every sibling and cousin—it must be hard.
“Don’t you want to at least try to show them up?”
“I have tried,” she refutes. “It’s impossible.”
Nikolai cocks his head. “You’ve never even stayed late after practice.”
She crosses her arms over her white tank top. “It’s not that easy.”
I don’t want to gang up on her. So I say, “I know the feeling. I spent most of my days in gymnastics, trying to be better than my best friend. And I never was. Not once. He always won. But every time I tried to beat him, I actually ended up improving anyway. So there were some positives in there.” I realize I might be rambling, so I add quickly, “I just like to look on the bright side of things, I guess.”
She’s quiet for a moment, mulling over her thoughts. Then she turns to her brother. “You better give that book back to me. I’m at the part where Rafael fights Derek.”
That’s the climax. “It’s a good part,” I tell Nikolai.
His lips almost tic into a smile. Then he nods to his sister, agreeing to return the book later. “You’re going to practice.” It’s an assumption.
“Yeah.”
It’s a right assumption.
She leaves with a wave, and Nikolai guides me back towards the double doors. He doesn’t speak. The conversation with Katya seems to flit away, left behind us.
His arm brushes my shoulders and my pulse kicks up, even more so when he rests it there, drawing me closer to his side. The no talking has my mind on a freefall, unable to pick apart what’ll happen soon. I just descend.
Quick. Fast.
Act Twenty-Two
Maybe it’s only a minute before we reach the exit, but the trek is the longest of my life, with my stomach tossing, my muscles constricting, my heart speeding—there is no reprieve when you’re falling for a guy. It’s the worst and best carnival ride.
After he pushes through the door, we enter the narrow hallway, walls lined with framed Aerial Ethereal posters. The elevators are in sight which’ll bring us to the lobby of The Masquerade. Make it to the elevator without stumbling, Thora.
I can do this. Share the company with a six-foot-five Russian-American man. Muscular, brawn—all power. Five years older, who’s a perfect flirt and an even better kisser. I imagine all of him possessing me, controlling most movements, leading the charge—pushing into me.
Thora.
I can almost hear my own breath. Stop panting.
Five steps into the carpeted hallway, I’m about to try my hand at small talk again, just to break the quiet. He drops his gym bag though. And he clasps my hips, his gaze peeling off every thin article of clothing, stroking my skin.
I keep him at a foot’s distance, even though I can tell he wants me closer. “I’m…sweaty,” I throw it out there.
He tilts my chin. “So am I, myshka.”
I let him tug me to his chest, one of his hands warming the back of my neck. The longer he just stares through me, the heavier my breathing becomes. He’s eye fucking me. My legs tremble, the spot between my thighs pulsing for a harder pressure. For him. I’ve never ached for that this much.
I lick my lips. “Why do you call me myshka?” I’ve known, but I want to hear him say it.
“Because to me, you’re little.” His hand drifts from my hip to my lower back, pushing me right up along his body. No room between us. He’s not even hard and the bulge in his shorts presses against my abdomen. He looks at me knowingly—knowing that I can feel him, knowing that he’s outsized me, knowing that his dominance is beginning to melt my bones.
With his height and size, compared to mine, I can’t even begin to fantasize how big he is fully erect. How small I’ll be.
He lowers his head to kiss me, pausing a breath away. I unconsciously buck against him, and his chest collapses in arousal. When his lips touch mine, the intensity bursts, and he grips me hard, pressure building everywhere as his tongue dances. As his hands roam. His thumb skims my nipple, the leotard thin, and he continues the back and forth rhythm over the barbell piercing.
My nerves prick, and I stand on the tips of my toes, aching to be even closer.
He hears my silent plea, lifting me up around his waist, my legs split. He’s right. Every part of me is little to him. My limbs, my size, m
y lips, my eyes—and every part of him is large to me. His arms, his shoulders, his jaw, his thighs.
I feel myself become wet.
My lips swell behind the force of his aggressive, non-stop kiss, the kind that blinds me. I want his hands everywhere. All at once. He explores the bareness of my arms, of my neck. My mind is combusting into a million thousand shards. I can’t…I break the kiss and rest my forehead on his shoulder, panting for breath.
“I just…” I try to collect myself.
He holds the back of my head protectively, caringly. His breathing is as heavy and staggered as mine. I feel him studying my movements, fluent in body language. I’m still a novice, but if anyone is going to teach me, I’d want it to be him.
I can’t stop thinking about our size difference. “We’re not going to fit together,” I say aloud.
He cups my face to look at me. By his strong, unshaven jaw, I’m deeply aware of his age again. “Physically or metaphorically?” he asks with raised brows.
My lips part, slightly wishing I kept my thoughts to myself.
“Physically,” he answers off my expression. “I’ll be able to fit deep inside you. And when I do, you’re going to be entirely full of me.” Sex. His voice is sex. Everything is liquid sex. He kisses my forehead, my body shuddering one last time before he gently sets me on my feet.
I’m rethinking my “slow” proclamation, but I remember the last time I had sex. After the fourth date. It was lackluster, and while I doubt that word belongs to the attraction I have for Nikolai, I want to solidify something more permanent before we take that step. I want this to be different. Better than that.
He leads me to the elevators, arm around my shoulders. “Can you be back here around seven?” he asks me.
“Yeah. Are we practicing again?” I frown as he pushes the button on the wall. It lights up while we wait.
“No,” he says. “I’m taking you out.”
My body responds with those anxious flutters and tightened muscles again. A date, I realize. I’m going on a date with the devil.
Amour Amour Page 19
