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Natalia Obelensky, broken and entirely at my mercy.
She throws me one more defiant glare as she lowers herself to the gleaming floor, once more entirely bare for my gaze, and I watch as she begins to stretch.
She’s long and pale and lithe, and I watch fascinated as her lean muscles stretch and flex beneath her delicate skin, her well-honed body on display for me. She reaches up as she leans forward over one leg, her fingers undoing the long black braid hanging down her back, and I feel desire heat my blood as she pulls the wavy pieces apart, winding them into a bun atop her head and securing it.
I can see her falling into the old, familiar patterns of what she’d done before, and I understand entirely why she’d fought against it. There’s an intimacy to what I’m seeing, and it gives me the same feeling that I’d had when I stood in her apartment, as if I’m now privy to parts of her that I shouldn’t be. I feel like a voyeur, like I had when I watched her from outside her apartment, and a thrill works its way through me.
There is nothing else now. There’s only her and I, and this moment where everything I’ve worked for comes down to this–the ballerina preparing to dance one last time forme, before I take everything away from her.
Before I make certain she feels every ounce of the pain and fear that she’s been responsible for.
I’m throbbing with desire by the time she finally gets to her feet, lithe and graceful, the picture of utter perfection. She looks as if she’s stepped out of a painting, a perfect work of art, and the way she looks at me from across the room, her eyes full of defiance, infuriates and arouses me in equal measure.
I want to destroy her–and I simply want her.
The two can’t exist together.
She reaches for the package, taking the dance outfit out of the tissue without looking at me. Slowly, she slips on the tights that outline the smooth muscles of her calves and thighs, then the pale pink leotard, the fabric clinging to her skin as she clasps it. Her small, stiff nipples press against it in a way that makes my mouth dry, the indent of her navel apparent, and my fingers itch to touch her, to grab her, to spread her open for my pleasure.
The way she makes me feel is almost unbearable.
She slips on the skirt, a light, folding, silky material. It isn’t the style I’ve seen that sticks out around her hips, rather it falls lightly around them, clinging to the slender shape of her hips, and I stand there motionless, watching, as she sinks to the floor again and reaches for one of the pointe shoes.
It feels as if I’m seeing into her very soul. I’d thought I’d cracked her open before, touched her body in ways that no other man ever had, explored the very depths of it. I’d marked her with my mouth and fucked her with my cock and filled her with my cum, and yet nothing has ever made me feel as if I’m seeing Natalia Obelensky so intimately as this moment, as I watch her slowly slip her foot into a stiff pink satin shoe, and begin to wind the ribbons around her ankle.
This truly feels as if I’ve forced her to bare herself entirely for me. I’d balked at nothing else that I’ve done to her. But in this moment, as she slips on the other shoe, refusing to look at me, I feel suddenly as if I’ve done something wrong.
As if I’ve violated her in a way that crosses a line.
What the fuck is wrong with you, Kasilov? You make her dance for you, and you feel that’s wrong? You, whose past is littered with the body parts of a hundred men? Two hundred? Hands so covered in blood that you couldn’t wash it away, couldn’tburnit away if you drenched them in acid and peeled away the skin?
This can’t be what breaksme. This can’t be the moment I falter. It infuriates me, and I stride towards her as she stands, my hands going to her waist as I step behind her.
Her waist feels taut beneath the smooth pink fabric, and my cock lurches, even as I feel her stiffen at my touch. I lean in, my lips very close to her ear, and my entire body shudders with how close she is. With how badly I want her.
I’m seized with the sudden urge to push her against the wall. To forget all of this and rip open her clothing, her tights, and thrust into her from behind. To fuck her instead of forcing her to dance for me, to make her mine yet again, and throw all of this away.
To take pleasure in her, and nothing else.
You’re losing your fucking mind.
“Dance for me,” I whisper in her ear, before I let the urge take over, beforeI’mthe one who loses control. “Your mouth can lie,krastoka, but your body can’t.”
I feel her shiver, because she knows it’s true–in more ways than one. Her body has never been able to lie to me. No matter how much she’s hated me, no matter what she’s said, no matter how she’s pleaded for me to stop, her body has always told me the truth.
She craves my violence as much as I crave her softness, and until her dying breath and mine, that will never change.
In this moment, that truth becomes apparent to me. I might be able to be rid of her in flesh, but I will never be able to be rid of her entirely.
It needles at me, makes me want to torment her further, just a little more.
“If you’re not who I think you are,” I whisper against her ear, my fingers still brushing against her waist. “You won’t be able to dance for me. So prove it, if you’re really not Natalia. I might even let you go, if you dance so poorly that it convinces me.”
She laughs, a cold, sharp bark of a sound, and I can hear the anger in it. “What does it matter?” She tilts her head back, nearly touching my shoulder, her gaze sliding to meet mine. “You found Natalia’s passport. You heard Elina. What possible reason could you have for wondering now? You’ve gotten what you wanted.”
“I still haven’t heard you admit it aloud.” My hands tighten on her waist, her nearness, her scent driving me mad. She smells of warm skin and soft powder, the sweetness of her natural scent heating my blood until it’s all I can do not to pull her against me, let her feel the hardness of my cock grinding against her ass–but if I do, I’ll be lost. She won’t dance for me, because I’ll fuck her until we’re both spent, and the night won’t go at all as I’ve planned.
“That’s what I want,” I breathe against her ear, her throat, my lips almost touching her. “I want to hear you admit it. I want to see you dance, and see your body betray what your lips won’t–the truth of who and what you are.”
