“Yes,” he pants.
“Then you may touch.”
He pops up and pulls me up, smashing his mouth against mine. He sighs against my lips like I relieved his suffering. Removing my hands from my body, he replaces them with his.
His hand around my neck is gentle, barely applying pressure, while the way he slides his fingers in and out is wild and reckless.
“Harder,” I say, pressing down on his grip. He tightens, but still not enough.
“Harder.”
He closes his hand, his fingers gripping my throat and his palm pressing down. It’s now difficult to breathe, and that’s what I like. It’s all heightened by the fact that it’s him. I finally trust him to do this to me when I never thought I would. There’s no fear, no apprehension. Just us in this moment as I give in to our love.
When he sees that I’m satisfied, he slides his fingers out and moves me onto his dick. Sitting up, he lifts and lowers me by my neck, choking me as he slams me up and down.
His grunts and moans echo my gasping as he loosens and tightens his hand. He bites down on my nipples, pulling them back with a suck.
“Just like that,” I whisper, my voice barely capable of making a sound. He slaps my ass so roughly I know it will leave a mark.
The sound of his moaning, my labored breathing, and our bodies slapping together is the symphony of our pleasure. It plays for minutes that feel like hours as he forces me to ride his bucking hips.
“Callahan,” I hiss out. He grunts a low growl in the back of his throat as sweat burrows on his brow. “Faster.”
He picks up the speed until I’m bouncing on it, his body basically vibrating against mine. When he flips and slams me down on the bed, his hand still around my throat, I cry out. My legs fall open, and he thrusts in deeper than he was before, still keeping the same pace. Myhead keeps hitting the headboard as he fucks me into the mattress so roughly that it feels like we are going to leave an indent. I don’t want him to stop, the pain and pleasure is mixing so well.
“Good boy,” I praise, “I’m so proud of the way you are fucking me.”
I want to make this last, but I can’t hold back any longer. I arch up so forcefully I push him into a kneeling position. He keeps fucking me through my orgasm. When I deflate again, exhausted, he keeps going, searching for his own release. Throwing my legs over his shoulders, he puts me at an angle where he can hit every sweet spot . I spasm as shockwave after shockwave shoots through my body at the non-stop coming.
The way my pussy tightens around him finally has him coming as well. With one primal yell he pumps his release into me, collapsing on top of my body.
After a few moments to catch our breath, he lifts himself onto his elbows and looks down at me.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Mhm, are you?”
His fingers trail a path down my throat, to in-between my boobs, before resting on my hip.
“I’m fantastic.”
Rolling me on my side, he wraps his arms around me and strokes up and down my body. We just lie quietly until the soreness eases, and the sandman starts to put us under his spell.
Chapter 34
Theeleganceofdanceis that it’s art in the human form. We have so many ways to tell stories, but the ones we show with our movements require no words. When my dad took me to my first ballet, he said he didn’t understand what was happening, but I did. It was like reading a book, watching them Pas de Bourrée across the stage. Their movement spelled out the words of love, heartbreak, and jealousy. I watched the rise and fall of the plot with each lift and turn. The music’s thrum in the background was the undertone of the theme.
Even now, as I watch five-year-olds try to follow my steps, I see the journey they are taking me on. The journey that I am leading them to. Their tiny little feet show who they are, and where they want to go.
Teaching this workshop is like seeing the start of my own path, and somehow, the idea of coming back to it doesn’t feel like it’s ending.
“Good job, guys,” I call out, running around giving them high fives. They jump up and giggle, breaking free from the discipline they just showed the last hour. Their parents come and thank me, gushing about how well the kids did. Hearing myself being called Madame Monty shifts something inside of me.
“Well done,” Madame Genvieve says while clapping.
She watched the whole thing from the back of the room, her eyes on me instead of the kids.
“Thank you.” I wipe the sweat from my brow, still adjusting to the effort of moving again. She walks me out, and we discuss meeting up in the new year to talk. The whole time, I can’t stop smiling.
