“That was a mistake.”
“Was it?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting.” He doesn’t sound convinced. He doesn’t sound anything other than amused, which is somehow worse. “Because from my perspective, it was one of the few things we’ve done together that wasn’t a mistake. No miscounted steps. No dropped frames. No arguing about hip angles. Just two people doing what they clearly wanted to do since the moment I walked into your beginner class.”
“I did not want?—”
“Isadora.”
The way he says my name stops me cold. Low and warm and intimate, like we’re not standing in a mirrored studio at ten in the morning with fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.
“We kissed,” he says. “We more than kissed. And unless I’ve drastically misread the situation, you enjoyed it.”
“That’s not?—”
“You made sounds.”
“I did not?—”
“Very specific sounds. Shall I describe them?”
“No.”
“They were flattering. To my ego, I mean. I’m told I have a fragile ego.”
“Your ego could survive a nuclear blast.”
“Perhaps.” He pushes off the barre, moving toward me with that predatory grace I’ve noticed in his dancing. “But my ego also noticed that you kissed me back. Multiple times. With enthusiasm.”
Enthusiasm is putting it mildly. I’d been ravenous. Desperate. Some feral creature I barely recognized, scraping her nails down his back and biting his lip and making those sounds he’s threatening to describe.
“We need to focus on the showcase.”
“We can do both.”
“We absolutely cannot do both.”
“Why not?” He’s too close again. Always too close, taking up space, making the studio feel smaller than it is. “I’m perfectly capable of compartmentalizing. Are you saying you’re not?”
“I’m saying that complication serves no one.”
“Ah.” His head tilts, studying me like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve. “So it’s about control. Of course it is. Everything with you is about control.”
“That’s not?—”
“You’ve built your entire life around it. Controlled practice schedules. Controlled emotional responses. Controlled everything, especially anything that might make you feel vulnerable.”
“You don’t know?—”
“I know that you kiss like a woman who’s been starving for years and finally found a meal.” His voice drops. “I know that the sounds you made weren’t controlled. I know that somewhereunderneath all that discipline, there’s someone who wants more than trophies and perfect technique.”
My throat tightens.
“We should practice.”
“We are practicing.”
