Despite all the sweating, my energy thrums with the increased solstice boost. I need somewhere for the tension to go.
There’ll be no pointe shoes, no frilly tutus or bedazzled costumes. Instead, a dozen of us, six women and six men, showcase our lines in skin-tone, corseted leotards. Stripping down from baroque dresses we wear like armor to nothing but lines and energetic partnering as weduelwith our fellow dancers. We’re meant to look naked, and right now, I wish I was because I’ve already managed to sweat through my second leotard of the day. My body is sticky and gross. I think about my friends enjoying their ice baths while I’m rehearsing and jealousy swims through my veins.
“Petite Mortis meant to be bold, sensual, and, at times, aggressive. It was Kylián’s ode to how in the moment of pleasure, we are reminded that life is ephemeral. Death is never far.” Our artistic director, Luke Fantome, shares with the class. Then he calls up Wren and Rudolph, asking them to demonstrate a few lifts for us to practice.
I sit down, and Vincent extends his arm out to me. His eyes scan over my body. “You feeling okay?”
“Yeah, just working extra hard.” I titter before grabbing his hand and letting him pull me up. I push from the floor, clutching his shoulders for support. He catches the tops of my legs and we hold the position while I brace my core, arching my back, extending through the tips of my toes. All these lifts need to look seamless. Effortless. To get there takes practice, lots of blunders, and loads of muscle control. Partnering forPetite Mort, where it blends modern into the classical ballet style, our bodies must hit every line and then, just as smoothly, transition into a fluid lift or jump.
Outside of the things I can practice and hone on my own, trust is a huge part of whether a pas de deux looks graceful and swoon-worthy or clunky and awkward. Vincent is a seasoned soloist, most likely promoting to principal within the next year. I’ve seen him lift other dancers numerous times, but trustdoesn’t come from repetition. It comes from every time he checks in with me, each moment he’s made me feel welcomed since promoting, the fact that he doesn’t complain about how sweaty I am right now while he’s stuck pressed against me.
An hour and a half later, we break for the day, and I say my goodbyes before quickly shuffling to the dressing room. I’m so ready to peel myself out of these damp clothes. I change into my swimsuit then head for the ice baths. Vincent and Wren join me for about ten minutes before they go about the rest of their recovery. I don’t leave the basin, though. It feels too good. And I miss Jax. I miss his scent breezing over me and the comfort of his chill. Every part of my body burns, and the ice brings me solace.
After thirty minutes, I get out and throw on my clothes to go home.
I’m already sweating again before I reach the metro.
I consider touching base with Jax on the ride back but decide not to. For some reason, I have the feeling as soon as I talk to him, the effects of solstice are only going to get worse. Each step up the stairs to the apartment, my thighs rub together, and I’m already becoming damp again.
As soon as I get to my room, I’m contacting Jax. I can’t have him come here, can’t risk him being punished again on my behalf, but I need to talk to him. Need him in whatever way I can get.
When I enter the apartment, Lark’s standing up at the couch, a basket sitting atop the coffee table.
“What’s this?” I ask as she waves her hand at the basket, taking a dramatic step back.
“Just a little something.” A grin streaks across her cheeks. “Ran some errands on your behalf this afternoon. I put together a solstice survival kit.”
My jaw drops when I spot a big, blue, semi-translucent dildo, its thick veins climbing along its shaft. Nestled beside it is a smaller vibrator to match.
“Someone decided to be an overachiever in the best friend department today.”
There’s a bottle of wine, a pine-scented candle, a box of mint-chocolate cookies, and peppermint patties. When I pull out the mint chip-flavored lube, I’m certain that I’m seven shades of pink.
“I may have had a little fun. More than a little.” Lark chuckles, then comes and gives me a hug. “Hope it helps.” I’m still processing my survival kit when she heads to the wall and grabs her dance bag and her overnight one, looping them both over her shoulder. “I’m going to Delilah’s for the next forty-eight hours so you can have some privacy. I’ll have my phone if you need me for any solstice-related injuries. The thermostat’s been set as low as we can go without getting in trouble with the landlord. There are snacks in the basket, ice packs, and special ice in the freezer I made just for you.”
“Thanks, Lark.” I may have the weirdest best friend on the face of the planet, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Don’t mention it.” She blows me a kiss, then heads for the door, calling over her shoulder, “Say hi to Jax for me.”
“Will do.”
As soon as the door shuts, I run to open the freezer, on the hunt for an ice pack and finding a silicone mold that’s been labeledJojo. Peeling up the top, there are about a dozen life-size dick-shaped ice cubes. If Lark were here, I’d glare, but I have to admit, part of me wants to pop them out and run them along my feverish skin.
Maybe I will…
“Jax,”I call, hand above my glowing mark.“I need you.”
“Are you okay?”His voice is low and frantic, concern hovering over each syllable.
“I will be,”I say, not wanting to concern him.I swallow, trying to think of what to say.“Lark got me a survival kit.”
There’s a beat of silence, then Jax’s smooth voice fills my mind.“A survival kit?”
“Yeah… For solstice.”
“Okay. Color me curious… What did she give you?”I can picture him arching a silver brow at me, and goodness, I miss his face.
I’m suddenly shy, which is funny after the things we’ve shared. But maybe it’s because we haven’t done more than talk and flirt through our bond since I returned from Australia. Sadly, talking and flirting aren’t going to cut it right now.
