Six months changes the shape of everything.
The estate feels lived in now, not just occupied. Emma’s presence has softened the edges without dulling them, the way water reshapes stone persistently over time. The converted barn,Ozero, as we named it feels different, somehow. Realer.
I sit where I always do when she dances for me, in the chair pulled back far enough to give her the space she needs, close enough that she can feel my attention on her skin. She likes knowing exactly where my eyes are. Enjoys the certainty of it.
She moves carefully at first, easing into the floor, testing her ankle the way she was taught to do here, not the way the company demanded. Just control, patience and unwavering trust in her own abilities.
Her body has changed. Not much but enough to be noticeable in the best way. A softness at her hips. A fullness in her thighs that makes my hands itch when I look at her too long. She’s fuller now. Healthier in a way she never was when she lived on discipline alone.
She catches me watching and smiles, slow and knowing.
That smile belongs to me.
She finishes the sequence without strain, holding the final position a little longer than needed because she wants to. Because she likes the way it feels to end where she chooses. When she straightens, breath warm, skin flushed, the room feels suddenly smaller.
She doesn’t wait for me to speak.
She never does anymore.
Emma crosses the studio with deliberate confidence and comes to stand in front of my knees. Then she straddles me, settling into my lap like this is exactly where she belongs, which it is. Her hands slide into my hair, her forehead resting briefly against mine, and the need in her body is unmistakable.
She dances for me, and then she comes to be claimed by me, again and again, because that is the rhythm we’ve built together.
My hands rest on her hips, feeling the strength there, the warmth, the life she’s no longer grinding out of herself. My mouth brushes her temple, her jaw, her neck. She shivers, already responsive, already undone in the way only familiarity allows.
“You look at peace,” she murmurs.
“I am,” I answer truthfully.
Yury knows I won’t meet the deadline he originally set. He also knows why. He’s seen Emma in this space, seen the way she fits beside me without shrinking or posturing. Some matches don’t need justification beyond longevity.
They’ll wait for the heir we will produce in time.
I tighten my hold on her, grounding her as her breath turns uneven, as her body seeks mine without hesitation. Marriage to me didn’t cage her. It didn’t diminish her. It gave her something ballet never did.
Purpose without pain.
She presses a kiss to my mouth, greedy and unashamed, and I meet it gladly, letting the rest of the world fall away. Whatever comes next, I’ll meet it the same way I always have.
With intention and devotion and my perfect wife by my side.
She pulls the straps of her leotard down over her shoulders, her breasts, a little larger than before, swell before me. Her nipples stiffen beneath my touch. She wriggles it down, lifting herself only briefly to slide it and her tights down over her hips.
Within seconds, she is naked on my lap, dragging my hand to her smooth mound. As soon as I part her lips with my fingers, her pupils blow and she reaches for my belt, opening my trousers and freeing my cock with quick precision.
She drags her fist over it in slow, tight strokes, watching a bead of pre-cum form at the tip.
We know what each other likes, what each other needs. She knows I’ve been saving myself for days, letting myself get to the edge when I make her come with my fingers or my mouth, but never taking my release until she says so.
Excitement ripples through me when she lifts herself and slides onto me in one smooth motion. She lifts one leg up, resting it against my shoulder, as she jerks her pelvis back and forth, increasing in speed with each pass.
When I drop my gaze to her flushed chest, her tits, her nipples, my balls lift and tighten, my mouth goes slack.
“Who owns my pussy?” she pants breathlessly, and the thrill that bolts through my chest threatens to tip me over the edge. “Tell me!” she demands.
“I own your pussy,” I grunt, gritting my teeth together against the swell of pleasure that threatens to tip me over the edge.
“Who is the only person to fuck this pussy? To fill it with his cum?”
