"Process, my ass," I mutter, hitting play on the first song.
The music crashes through the speakers, and I start to move. No warm-up, no technique, just raw fucking emotion. My body knows what to do even if my brain is short-circuiting. I spin and leap, throwing my weight into each movement like I'm trying to break through the floor.
My reflection glares back at me as I drop into a deep lunge, back arched, sweat already beading on my skin. The music pounds through me, each beat matching the throb between my legs that hasn't gone away since that night.
And now I’m mad at him for another reason because he was right. I did need to process, and he knew it. Again, thinking about me first and himself last and I just was too wound up to see through that.
I execute a series of fouettés, each turn sharper than the last, my right leg whipping around my body like a weapon. One, two, three…I keep going until I lose count, until my thighs burn and my lungs scream for air.
When I finally stop, chest heaving, I catch my reflection again. My hair is plastered to my forehead with sweat, my crop top clinging to my skin. My nipples are hard, visible through the thin fabric, and I know it's not from the cold.
Then it hits me—that feeling. That prickle at the back of my neck like I'm being watched. I freeze, my body going still while my heart hammers against my ribs.
I can feel him. I can feel his eyes on me, watching me.
The sensation is so strong it makes the hair on my arms stand up. My breathing quickens as I scan the empty studio, looking for any sign of him.
"Ramsey?" I call out, my voice echoing in the empty space.
Nothing. Just the sound of my own heavy breathing and the music still pounding through the speakers.
I turn left, then right, peering into the shadows of the studio. There's no one here—at least no one I can see. But that feeling doesn't go away. That sensation of being watched, of being seen.
"This isn't fucking funny," I say to the empty room, my voice sharper than I intended.
Still nothing.
I walk to the front window, pressing my face against the glass to look out into the parking lot. The Tahoe sits alone in its spot. No truck or bike. No Ramsey. No one at all.
But I know he's watching. He's always watching; he fucking knows everything. It's like he's got some sixth sense when it comes to me.
My eyes land on the small black dome in the corner of the ceiling. The security camera that Ms. Leighton uses to record our sessions, to go over technique with each dancer.
Of course. That's how he's doing it.
I walk directly beneath the camera, tilting my head up to stare directly into its lens. A slow smile spreads across my face as I realize what this means. He's watching me. Right now. Seeing every bead of sweat, every heaving breath, every curve of my body as I dance.
"You probably hacked it," I say to the camera, my voice full of accusation and amusement. I raise my middle finger to my mouth, rubbing it slowly around my lips like I'm applying lipstick, making sure to make it wet and shiny. Then I blow him a kiss, winking at the lens. "Fucking phantom."
I stand there for a moment, imagining him on the other end of that feed. Is he at home? At the rink? Wherever he is, I picture his eyes darkening as he watches me, that muscle in his jaw jumping the way it does when he's turned on but trying to control himself.
Well, fuck his control.
I walk over to my phone and switch the playlist. The heavy, angry beats fade away, replaced by something slower, more sensual. The kind of music you fuck to, not fight to.
"You want a show?" I ask the camera, running my hands down my sides. "Let me give you one."
I start to move again, but this time it's different.
This time, every movement is deliberate, designed to tease. I roll my hips slowly, letting my hands trace up my body, fingers skimming over my ribs, brushing the underside of my breasts. I arch my back, pushing my chest out, knowing exactly what I'm doing.
I turn around, bending forward at the waist, my ass on full display in these tight leggings. I straighten up slowly, letting my hands drag up my thighs, over my ass, up my spine. The music pulses through me, and I surrender to it, letting it guide my body in ways that would get me in trouble with Ms. Leighton if kids were around.
Sweat drips down between my breasts as I dance, my crop top sticking to my skin. I can feel the heat building inside me, that delicious tension coiling tight. The thought of Ramsey watching me, getting hard for me again makes me fucking dizzy.
"You should be here," I tell the camera, running my tongue across my bottom lip.
I hook my fingers under the hem of my crop top, slowly inching it upward, revealing more of my stomach, the underside of my breasts. Just as I'm about to pull it over my head?—
