Perfect.
The climax builds with devastating inevitability—pleasure coiling tight in my core, spreading through my limbs, making my whole body tense in anticipation of the release.
Kai's rhythm doesn't falter.
Doesn't change.
Just continues that perfect, punishing pace that's pushing me higher, faster, toward the edge I'm about to fall over.
"Now," he orders, and the command in his voice—the pure Alpha dominance—is what tips me over.
I come with a cry that might be his name, might be gibberish, might be some combination of both. My body convulses around him, inner walls clamping down with enough force to make him curse, and I feel the rush of slick coating us both.
Kai follows seconds later—his control finally breaking, his cock pulsing inside me as he fills me with his release. Thewarmth spreads through my core, mixing with everything else, marking me as thoroughly his.
He collapses onto his forearms—careful not to crush me, even in the aftermath—breathing hard against my neck.
We lie there.
Connected.
Catching our breath.
Coming back to ourselves slowly.
"How fast you think we can shower?" he finally asks, voice rough.
The question makes me giggle—exhausted, satisfied, completely wrung out.
"If I shower with you, I'm never getting ready." I push at his chest weakly. "So shoo."
He huffs.
Pulls out slowly—both of us groaning at the sensation—and stands beside the bed, tucking himself back into his pants.
"Fine."
The word is pure reluctant acceptance.
I watch him leave, then force my thoroughly exhausted body to move toward the attached bathroom.
Shower.
Quick.
Efficient.
No time for the luxury of enjoying it.
The shower is brutally efficient—three minutes of scalding water, soap, and the particular kind of cleaning that happens when you're running late and covered in the evidence of a very productive morning.
I emerge clean but still thoroughly exhausted, muscles protesting every movement as I dress in my dance recital attire—black leggings that hug my legs like a second skin, a fitted burgundy crop top that shows just enough midriff to be artistic without being inappropriate, and my favorite ballet shoes with ribbons that wrap around my ankles in perfect figure-eights.
Even numbers.
Always even numbers.
My hair is still damp, hanging in pink waves down my back, but there's no time to properly dry it. I twist it into a quick bun—securing it with four pins, because two would be too few and six would be too many—and check my reflection one final time.
