They continue to talk as I wander off. Jogging out the front door, I head towards the track that circles our property. Flick doesn't understand the exercise thing. Konnor and I have been running since we were children, and when I don't run in the mornings, I dance or do Pilates. Exercise has always been a part of my morning ritual.
After a light run, I take a shower in the studio and get ready to practise Sugar Plum's choreography. To really get in the mood, I put on some music by Tchaikovsky. I pull on my favourite white leotard and my pink knee-high legwarmers.
It's a warm day, but I always wear legwarmers. They're essential for minimising the chance of future injuries. My torn ligament last year reminded me of that and I've never forgotten them since.
Barefoot, I go to warm up at the barre. My eyes are focused on my form in the mirror when the door to my studio swings open to the stopper. Max's tall, broad form appears as a reflection. He has something in his fist, but he's staring at me in the mirror, his eyes caressing every inch of my exposed body. My lips part to allow for bigger breaths. The door bounces off the stopper and swings shut, leaving me alone and secluded with his piercing gaze. As I turn to acknowledge him, he turns from my reflection to meet myeyes.
"What's this?" He raises the newspaper rolled up in his grip.
"You tell me," I say with a nervous chuckle, but he just stares at me. "Okay... I got a very special role and they printed an article about me." My heart skips in time with each of his steps toward me. I lower my leg from the barre and pivot towards him just as he stops an arm's length away.
He smirks. "Golden Girl?"
The corners of my cheeks pinch as I try not to smile. "Apparently."
"Congratulations."
"Thank you." The word comes out breathlessly as his consuming stare wraps me up in warmth and tingles. I swallow and look towards the unlocked studio door. "You can't be here at the moment, Max. My brother is home for the weekend and you're not his favourite person." Max's narrow grey eyes start to strip me of sanity. He drops the paper before closing the space between us. Stepping backwards, the barre presses against my lower back and I gasp. "You should probably go."
His fingertips meet my hand before brushing up the full length of my arm and enveloping the arch of my neck. "I should probably go... say hi."
"You're a menace," I whisper as he tilts my chin up with his thumb.
His face is suddenly filled with amusement. "A menace?"
I giggle shakily. "Yeah."
He suddenly lifts me onto the barre and wraps my legs around his waist. Feeding his hand through my hair, he kisses me passionately. He presses his pelvis between my thighs and rubs against the thin fabric of my leotard. I moan and tighten my legs around him. His tongue enters my mouth. His hands begin to move around my body, strokingme with a tender, yet demanding level of pressure. I slide my fingers under his shirt, break our kiss to help him tug it over his head, and then desperately find his lips again. His cheeks have that perfect level of roughness. His mouth and tongue are all over my chin. My neck. My ear. The warmth of his heavy breathing caresses my skin.
Wrapping his fingers around the straps of my leotard, he begins to peel it down my body. My breasts bounce free, squishing against his toned abdomen.
"Max," I beg as his lips leave mine and circle my chin and neck again. "Max, we can't. The door."
He groans. Pushing himself away from me, he walks over to the door and locks it tight. I glance at myself in the mirror. I'm sitting on the barre, shoulders rising and falling with each big breath. My leotard is bunched below my navel. My nipples are pointed, and I actually look as sexy as Max is making me feel.
My eyes dart back to him. He's stalking toward me, his torso wrapped in taut, flexing muscles. The inked design under his skin ripples as he moves. His face is completely emotionless.
He pulls a foil packet from his back pocket. Stopping inches in front of me, he unbuttons his jeans, slowly pulls them off, and stands with his thick, toned thighs between my knees. I grip the barre until my knuckles feel tingly. He reaches into his boxers and pulls his erection out, fisting the root and giving himself long, slow strokes to the tip and back. Precum forms as a glistening bead on its head.
Peeling my fingers off the barre, he moulds my hand around his penis. It's so thick, my fingers are unable to circle it fully. While he holds my gaze, he begins to show me how to stroke him.
I peer down at his long, heavy penis, which looks evenbigger in my tiny hand. I'm overawed by how rock-hard his erection is, how I can squeeze him with all my strength and yet, that doesn't stop him from throbbing against me.
As Max pants beside my forehead, his lips brush against me, breath fanning my arousal. He squeezes the barre on either side of my thighs; the dramatic music of Tchaikovsky flowing through the speakers intensifies the moment.
Taking him in both hands, I lick my lips, wondering what he tastes like. As I massage his penis up and down, his hands move between my legs. He circles the buttons at the crotch of my leotard with his fingers for a while, slowly, as if he's unsure about what he's touching. But then it clicks and he's snapping them open in quick succession. And he's pulling it off, leaving me with only my pink legwarmers on.
A soft kiss meets my earlobe. Another graces my jawline. His lips take mine again when he grabs my hands and pulls them off his erection.
I hear the foil from the condom wrapper crinkling, and then he's positioning me on top of his erection. Using the tip of his penis, he stimulates my clit. Arching on a spasm, my legs tighten around his waist. My arms begin to tremble around his neck. Our kisses now mingle with whimpers and deep, longing groans.
"Don't worry, Little One. I'll try to go slow."
A tear escapes my eye, but I'm not sad. "Please, Max."
"Tell me you want this." He's almost growling. "I need to hear you say it."
"I want this."
