Moving onto all fours, I lean back on my knees, skimming my hands up the upper portion of my body, along my curves while I repeat a series of affirmations in my head.
I am wanted.
I am adored.
I am loved.
I am worthy.
My body is worthy. Always.
It feels like time stands still while I dance to the music track, contorting my body to grind and jiggle, to show offmybody because I can. Because I want to. Because it’s mine and I can do whatever the fuck I please with it.
I’m panting by the time the song finishes, looping back around for the umpteenth time. I could have switched it out, but I want this dance to be perfect before I start teaching it to my next class.
Snapping my legs shut from my final dance position, I crack open my eyes, half lidded with adrenaline and ecstasy coursing through my bloodstream. My skin feels hot, stretched tight over my bones as if somebody is watching me…
I glance up to find a face looking back at me through the small window.
But it’s not a crowd. It’s a single person.
Hudson.
With a familiar fire in my gut, I stand, balancing on the thin heel of my ruby red stilettos as I cross the floor in three long strides and rip open the door.
“Why are you always fucking watching me?”
“Because I can’t help myself,” Hudson replies without missing a beat.
I resist the urge to stamp my foot like a toddler. Barely. “Well… stop it!”
He tilts his head to one side, lips parting to say something else, but I beat him too it.
“What do you want, Hudson?” It hurts, it fucking burns, to look at him, to recall what we did together on that Sunday morning… and the events that occurred after.
“To talk to you.”
Unceremoniously, he pushes past me, locking the door to ensure we’re alone in the small space.
“Excuse me!” I protest. “I have clients due in—”
“They’re not due for another hour, at least.” Hudson shrugs upon seeing my confused expression. “I checked your schedule on the online database.”
“That’s a total invasion of my privacy… but fine,” I fume, feeling the apple of my cheeks grow hot and flushed.
Hudson’s close proximity, which is dominating my space, makes it feel as if the temperature inside my studio has skyrocketed.
Strutting away from him, I head to the back of the room, putting as much space between us as possible. Turning away from Hudson so he can’t see my face, I busy my hands by pretending to straighten up my already tidy boxes of spare plasters and gel toe pads.
“You’ve got ten minutes to say whatever you want to so badly get off your chest,” I say over my shoulder, blinking away the sheen of tears pricking my waterline.
I hate this. Maybe I shouldn’t even hear him out, maybe I should just—
“I’m sorry.”
I pause, my breath catching somewhere in the back of my throat.
“Sorry for what?” I say carefully.
