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Gasping as he remains buried deep inside me, Nicolo keeps me pressed against the glass for several moments. Only then do I realize how fortunate I am that we’re on the top floor of a tall building with no other skyscrapers close enough for someone to see us here. Otherwise, I would have given them quite the show, my naked body pressed against the glass as Nicolo fucked me.
As my heart rate begins to calm, Nicolo eases out of me, slowly transitioning my weight back onto my feet now that we’re done. A hollow ache follows my momentary bliss as I come back to reality. I’m addicted to Nicolo’s touch. I know it, and I hate it because he’s done nothing to deserve my attraction. When he does tire of me eventually, I’m the one who will suffer once again.
28
ANYA
We get dressed in silence, but I note a distinct difference in the set of Nicolo’s shoulders now. While he still looks troubled, the underlying tension that made him feel like a loaded spring before seems to have eased. As I straighten the velvet fabric of my dress, Nicolo rolls the sleeves of his dressy button-down and then studies me.
“Would you like a drink?” he offers, his tone softer than usual.
“Um, sure. Yes, please,” I amend to ensure I don’t escalate his anger.
“Go ahead and take a seat.” He gestures to the living room couch with his chin.
I do as he instructs, heading to the chic gray couch that sits in the shape of an L, angled to focus on the impressive view while at the same time not excluding the elaborate gas fireplace along the inner wall that meets the glass.
“How long have you lived here. This apartment, I mean?” I ask, settling onto the couch as I turn my attention back to the awe-inspiring view of the city.Apartmentdoesn’t even do it justice. The deep purples and blues take over the previous gold and pink sky as the sun creeps further behind the horizon.
“A few years now,” he says from the kitchen over the sound of ice clinking followed by liquid pouring. “I moved in the summer after high school.”
“Mmm,” I respond, though my heart kicks up a notch at the mention of a history I don’t want to revisit. “I imagine this is easy to come home to.”
Nicolo chuckles, the deep rumble of it sending thrills up my spine. I shouldn’t respond to him like that, I chastise myself. It won’t lead to anything good for me. And still, as Nicolo rounds the corner of his high-top counter holding two dirty martinis with comfortable ease, my heart flutters. I pinch my thigh as I silently scold my body, commanding it to behave.
“Tell me something, Anya,” Nicolo says, his face growing more serious as he hands me my drink and settles onto the couch beside me.
“Yes?” I sip the chilled concoction and find the bite of the alcohol is impressively softened by the olive juice and something that tastes more acidic, almost citric. It’s enticingly delicious.
“Where were you before you came to Rosehill?”
“Um, Wilbur Wright College,” I provide, trying not to squirm as he asks me something personal.
We haven’t spoken like this since the night he took my virginity in high school, but this time, I have so much to hide–that he has a four-year-old daughter is the biggest one. But so many other more minor details could lead to that revelation–that we went to high school together, that he took my virginity and got me pregnant, and that I haven’t had sex with anyone but him since that night.
His hazel eyes burn into mine with a curiosity that warms me, and it might just be that his question has made me think about Clara, but suddenly, I’m intensely aware of how much they look alike. She’s always reminded me of him, with the same dark hair and hazel eyes. But the intelligence behind her eyes is his as well, and the mischievous curve of her lips.
“And then why did you transfer to Rosehill then?” he asks.
“Well, they have one of the best dance programs in the country,” I explain, surprised he wouldn’t know that when his family is one of the program’s main sponsors. “Plus, Wilbur Wright only offers an associate’s degree in dance. If I want to pursue a performance career–rather than teaching–I need a higher level of education. Production companies only look for the best of the best when it comes to ballerinas, and a good number of them graduate from Rosehill. When I received a scholarship into the dance program, I couldn’t refuse.”
The irony of it hits me in that instance. No matter how much I have fought to keep Nicolo from being a part of my life and my daughter’s, somehow, I have still become the benefactor of his family’s money. They are, after all, the ones who cover the scholarship money that’s putting me through Rosehill by virtue of their patronage of the school.
“Have you always wanted to be a dancer?” he asks, seemingly oblivious to the thoughts churning inside my mind.
I almost choke on my sip of martini as his question lands dangerously close to the same conversation as we had in high school. I cough, forcing the liquid down my throat and flinching as it burns. Nicolo watches me with mild amusement, seeming more patient to hear my answer than I think he’s ever been about anything.
I clear my throat and set my martini down on the coffee table before answering. “Yes, my parents inspired my love of dancing. I’ve always known I wanted to be a ballerina. When I was young, no more than five, they took me to a ballet. I remember being mesmerized by the way the ballerinas glided across the stage–like they were flying rather than dancing.” I smile creeps onto my lips as I recall the way I’d stood from my theater chair, riveted by the sugarplum fairies.
“My father’s always had an appreciation for the arts, my sister too,” he says, and I’m aware of the fact that he doesn’t include himself in that group. “I think that’s why he puts so much money into Rosehill’s performing arts program.”
“What do you have an appreciation for?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.
Nicolo sips his martini, his eyes never leaving mine. “The way you dance,” he confesses matter-of-factly. But the intensity of his gaze makes my body heat rise.
I blush profusely and snatch up my martini once more to distract myself from the way his compliment makes my stomach do summersaults. “Thank you,” I murmur before taking a large gulp of my drink.
Nicolo chuckles, finding amusement in how flustered I feel. Even that makes my insides quiver.What is he doing to me?The thought bursts through my consciousness with a sharp edge. I’ve only just started to acclimate to his irrational temper and his sadistic means of seeking pleasure. Now I feel like he’s ripped the rug out from under me once again. Only this time, he’s doing it by showing interest in me andcomplimentingme. I don’t understand.
