His smile is wicked as he settles between my thighs.
What follows is both torture and worship. He uses his tongue with the same precision he brings to dance steps, building me up with measured strokes until I’m writhing and begging and utterly shameless. When I finally break apart, he holds me through the aftershocks, murmuring praise against my sensitized skin.
“Beautiful. Perfect. Mine.”
That last word sends a fresh thrill through me. “Possessive.”
“Very.” He crawls back up my body, settling his weight over me in a way that feels protective rather than oppressive. “Is that a problem?”
“Ask me again when I can think clearly.”
“I’ll take that as a no.”
I pull him down for a kiss that tastes like me and him and something indefinably us. When we finally break apart, his expression has shifted—wonder mixed with something that looks almost like fear.
“What is it?”
“I just...” He shakes his head. “I never expected this. Any of this. The contract was supposed to be a business arrangement. A means to an end. And instead, I found...”
“Found what?”
“You.” The word is simple and impossibly weighted. “I found you.”
We make love again, face to face, eyes open, with whispered confessions and shaky breaths and a rhythm that feels less like choreography and more like conversation. His tail wraps around my waist, his horns gleam in the strengthening morning light, and I’ve never felt more alive.
When we finally collapse together, exhausted and sated and tangled in sweaty sheets, the clock on my nightstand reads 7:42 AM.
“I’m going to be late for class,” I murmur against his chest.
“Cancel it.”
“I never cancel.”
“Start.” His arms tighten around me. “Just this once. Start canceling.”
It’s tempting. God, it’s tempting. The thought of leaving this bed, this moment, this impossible feeling of wholeness seems almost criminal. But I’ve also spent my entire life prioritizing responsibility over desire, and old habits don’t die easily.
“What if I compromise?” I lift my head to look at him. “I’ll be twenty minutes late. Bianca can handle warm-ups.”
“Thirty minutes.”
“Twenty-five.”
“Done.” He seals the bargain with a kiss. “Twenty-five more minutes. And then you can go be the responsible, dedicated, slightly terrifying dance instructor the world expects.”
“Slightly terrifying?”
“In the best possible way.”
I settle back against his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart. My body aches in ways that will make teaching interesting, my mind is fuzzy with exhaustion and endorphins, and for the first time in years—maybe ever—I feel completely at peace.
“This is real,” I say quietly. “Isn’t it?”
“As real as anything I’ve ever known.”
“Even with the contract? The showcase? Everything that’s still uncertain?”
“Especially then.” His fingers trace lazy patterns on my back. “The uncertainty is what makes it matter. If the outcome were guaranteed, there would be no choice involved. No risk. No courage.” He presses a kiss to my hair. “You’re choosing me knowing it might not work out. That means more than any infernal bargain.”
