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There are a thousand reasons why you’re all alone, I think, glaring at my reflection.
You’re.
So.
Fucking.
Weak.
Look at you. You’re broken. You’ll always be alone.
I’m not even making a half-hearted attempt at paying attention to the girl. My eyes are laser-locked on my reflection, sneering.
“I think I’m going to—“ the brunette husks out. Then her pussy spasms around my cock. She lets out a strangled scream as she comes.
I’m nowhere near finishing. And yet, I pull out of her body, stepping back. It’s a matter of seconds before I get the condom off my dick.
“I fucking hate condoms,” I mutter.
The brunette, whose name at this point I can’t even vaguely recall, blushes. “Well, I’m clean if you?—“
Disgusted, I toss the condom in the trash and start zipping up. “That’s vile.”
Her eyes widen as I leave, banging the door open. “Wait?—“
But I’m done.
Done with condoms, done with sketchy bathroom fucks. I exit the back way and walk through the echoing marble lobby, my mouth a grimace.
I need to see Cerise again.
I know that she has the right combination of tits and ass and hazel eyes. She’ll make me come without even touching me.
And until I can fucking blow my load, I’m going to be an absolute fucking terror…
Chapter44
Kaia
As I step out onto the stage of the New York Ballet, my feet and legs tingle. I can’t keep the grin off my face. Ella is right behind me, finding a spot and sitting down to put on her toe pads and pointe shoes.
I bend down, putting my own toe pad and shoes on. Mine are in terrible shape; I definitely should’ve worn a newer pair of shoes. But a new pair of shoes wasn’t in the budget this week.
These have to last four more wears.
I straighten, looking at the empty theatre. From where I’m standing, it’s easy to imagine the roar of excited applause, the hot lights, the other ballerinas watching from the wings.
I blow out a breath. Ella looks up at me. “Are you okay, Kaia?”
I wrinkle my nose. “Honestly, I never thought I would make it this far. My goal this whole year has just been to get to this moment.”
“Sit down and put your shoes on, boo. You look like a ghost. Get your shit together.”
I wince, but she is right.
She seems to be murmuring something to herself. I plunk down beside her and retape my third and fourth toes, pulling a face as I look at my feet.
All dancers have calluses on their feet. But ballet dancers have it the worst, especially ballerinas. I slip on my toe pads and put my pointe shoes on, fastening them.
