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I’ve never seen Mila dance on stage. I saw a glimpse of her dancing at the studio the day I went to meet her there, and if that was even a hint of what it would be like to see her perform, I have no doubt it’s going to be stunning. I don’t have any real knowledge of what a ‘good’ ballet is comprised of, but I’m not sure that matters.
Everything else beyond her is just set dressing. She’s all I want to see tonight.
Dante and Aida are downstairs when I come down, chatting quietly in the living room. Emma is sitting next to Dante, wearing a dark green evening dress that looks a bit too elegant for her usual style. She’s made an effort to clean up nicely—her usually wild, curly brown hair is tamed and slicked back into a neat bun, her light makeup accentuating her pretty features. She’s even wearing high heels, and next to my brother, even I have to admit they make a lovely couple. There’s a gritty quality to Emma that I wouldn’t have expected Dante to be attracted to, but there’s also a softness to her when she looks at him that rounds off all those sharp edges.
I didn’t approve of their relationship, and sometimes I’m still not sure if I do or not. But I can’t deny that the way they look at each other makes it impossible to not see how in love they are.
What would that be like? To ignore all the reasons why something shouldn’t happen, and just…let it?
What would it be like to let myself feel that way about Mila?
Aida is wearing a sleek black gown with gold trim, her dark hair loosely curled around her face and pulled back at the very front. I walk over to her and give her a hug when she stands up. She’s at college more often than she’s at home, and we all miss her when she’s gone. Dante and I can have grim moods, and Aida is always a ray of sunshine.
“Well, Dante and Emma settled down after all, I see,” Aida says, flashing Dante a devilish grin. Emma’s cheeks turn ever so slightly pink. “So when are you bringing someone home, ‘Enzo?”
“Not anytime soon,” I assure her. The thought had been far off for a while, and it feels even more so now, with Mila at the forefront of my mind. Anything else between us is impossible, but it feels equally impossible to want anyone besides her.
My jaw tightens, and Aida raises an eyebrow, but says nothing.
“We’re going to be late.” Emma gets up, reaching for Dante’s hand. “Ready?”
We have a box at the theater, and the four of us settle into it with drinks, the best view of the stage on display in front of us. The orchestra is playing their warmup, the stage curtain is closed, and I feel oddly restless. Anxious, even, to see her.
The last time I spoke to Mila, she was telling me that I couldn’t stay the night. The last time I saw her, she was sitting naked on the edge of her bed, her arms wrapped around herself, her skin streaked with my cum. My muscles tighten at the memory, my cock twitching. The idea of any eyes on her besides mine, of anyone so much as seeing her and thinking that she’s beautiful, desiring her, makes a hot tongue of jealousy lick up my spine, my hands curling inwards. Mine.
Except she offered herself to me, to be bought and paid for, and I rejected her. Again and again.
Because if she were to be mine, I would want her freely. Or, as it turns out—not at all.
When the curtain rises, I look for her immediately. I know nothing about the story of the ballet playing out, or anything about what it all means, but it doesn’t matter. All that seems to matter is the moment I see Mila drift onto the stage.
She’s dressed all in white—a fitted bodice shaped to her small breasts, a flowing tulle skirt down to her ankles, and her feet encased in white pointe shoes. Small bursts of white tulle are on her arms, fluttering with each graceful movement. She looks sleek and elegant, graceful as a swan, her hair pulled back in a bun, and every line of her body arched and stiffened to perfect effect. I’ve seen her dance at the club, and it was arousing. Enticing. Seductive in all the ways it’s meant to be.
This is something else altogether.
I’ve always been a businesslike man. Music, poetry, reading for pleasure—none of that has ever appealed to me. I’ve never found any particular beauty in any of it. But watching Mila dance is like seeing all of that come to life in one person. The music from the orchestra seems to flow through her, shaping her body, her movements, as if she and the notes are one being, becoming something more than she’s ever been off of the stage. There’s liquid poetry in her every step, every twirl, every leap. She’s a work of art made flesh, something ethereal and unknowable, except I have known her in the most intimate way, and the thought makes me feel as if I’ve been gripped by a possessive madness.
Seeing her partner’s hands on her makes that hot jealousy slide through my veins again, thick and choking as oil. I’ve never been a particularly violent man either—willing to get my hands dirty when need be, but never taking pleasure in it until now. The sight of him touching her makes me want to break bones, crack teeth, to pry him off of her, and hide her away until no one else can see what I see at this moment. It’s insane, and I’m well aware of it, an unhinged feeling that is entirely unfamiliar to me, and I’m not so out of control that I can’t keep a leash on it. But it growls underneath my skin, the beauty of Mila’s performance wrapped up with the sudden, driving need to possess her entirely.
To make her mine in reality.
The ballet seems to go on for much too long, and not long enough, all at once. I could watch her all night, and at the same time, I feel as if I can’t wait to see her, to touch her, to find out if she’s thought of me the way I’ve thought of her since I was last inside of her.
This feels out of my control. A reckless desire that, once unleashed, could consume us both.
I can feel Dante and Aida’s eyes on me. They both know I don’t care about the ballet, that my rapt attention must be because of something else. They’ll have questions—and as expected, the stage curtain has barely dropped before Aida turns to me.
“Which ballerina caught your eye?” she asks teasingly, looping her arm through mine as we head for the stairs. I glance in the direction of the backstage area, considering heading back there to find Mila, permission or not. But Aida has a grip on my arm, turning me towards the front of the theater where the afterparty is being held.
“Maybe I’ve developed a taste for the arts.” A taste for a part of them, at least. The thought jolts through my head with a sensory memory of Mila underneath me, her soft skin under my palm as I licked her to a shuddering climax.
Aida snorts, dragging me out of my inappropriate reverie. “I don’t believe that for a minute. You’re more of a brute when it comes to this sort of thing than Dante is—at least he appreciates ballet for itself, and not just the pretty girls.”
“They were very pretty.” I snag a glass of champagne immediately off of a passing tray when we walk in, wishing for something stronger, and spy the bar at the far end of the room. By the time I finish the champagne, I will have gotten there and can order a cognac or a whiskey.
Aida is still giving me an appraising look. “There’s something you’re not telling me,” she says finally, scooping up a glass of champagne for herself. “I’ll get it out of you eventually. But for now, I think I’m going to make some friends of my own.” Her gaze drifts in the direction of one of the male ballerinas, a leanly muscled, handsome, dark-haired man who instantly makes me feel the burn of jealousy again. I have no idea if he was Mila’s dance partner, but it doesn’t matter.
I don’t want any hands on her other than mine.
