Page 59 of Deceitful Promises

Sitting down again, I wait, my dick rock-solid, as she gets into her ballet gear. Her entire demeanor changes when she’s in her gear. She looks ready for war.

“Shall we?”

“I’m ready if you are,” I tell her.

She walks ahead of me, her steps suddenly more measured. Appreciation for her craft fills me up as I follow her into the studio. She’s never been here before but seems to know her way. Maybe it’s the ballet calling to her.

In the studio, she pauses, taking in a long, contented breath as she looks up and down the shiny floor, the ballet bar, the mirrors, the spaciousness. “I love the smell of hardwood floors,” she says, turning to me. “Is that crazy?”

I smirk. “If the last couple of days have taught us anything, it’s that we’re both a little crazy.”

“Alittle?”

She starts bouncing on the balls of her feet, highlighting the muscles in her calves. It stuns me that she thinks her body is attractive because of how thin she is. It has nothing to do with that. It’s howcapableshe is. It’s the fact her body has a purpose. It’s the way her muscles flex with each movement. It’s the concentration knitting her eyebrows.

“What music would you like?” I ask as she continues her warmup.

“I don’t usually practice with music,” she tells me.

“Oh, really?” I say, smirking.

She performs a spin and then turns to me, her eyebrow raised. It’s like she’s become a different person in her natural habitat, as though all her intuitive enthusiasm has free rein to bubble to the surface. “Why do I feel like you’ve got something planned?”

“This is your special day,” I tell her. “I’d consider myself a disappointment if I didn’t.”

Just like usual, Ania can laugh despite everything that’s happened. She doesn’t let the pain hold her down. “I feel like you’re trying to makesleepwalking Aniacome out.”

My body stirs when I hear the playfulness in her tone. We both know what sleepwalking Ania means—lust, her wet, youthful body, her core getting ready for my hard dick. I have to tame that part of myself, for now. This isn’t about lust yet.

Moving to the corner of the room, I take out the CD from my pocket and slot it into the sound system.

“Molly never sings for people,” I tell Ania, “except for you. Shedefinitelynever dreamed of recording herself singing until you came back into her life.”

The squeaking of Ania’s ballet shoes comes to a stop.

“Are you okay?” I ask, turning. “The shoes aren’t broken in.”

She’s standing funny, more weighted on one leg. Then I realize it’s not physical. It’s like the weight of my words is dragging her down. “Mom recorded a song for me?”

I nod. “I told her what I had planned, and she thought it’d be a good idea.”

Ania swallows. “Okay, and the shoes are fine. I mean, broken in is better, but I’d do ballet in fricking boots right now.”

The music begins to play. It’s soft and slow strings, with a subtle piano in the background. Molly sings slowly, making her voice sound like part of the music. There are no words at first, just her voice rising. “Ooooh-oooooh …”

Ania moves slowly, swaying from side to side. She doesn’t seem to perform any specific techniques. It’s more like she’s lettingthe music take hold of her and move her in whatever direction it chooses. She spins to one side of the room, then begins to bound, deer-like, her arms counterbalancing her with precision.

I sit on a stool in the corner of the room, watching with awe, stunned at her ability. She looks so beautiful, not just physically. It’s her clear passion in every movement. It’s the instinctual way she shifts from foot to foot. It’sher.

Ania stops when the song ends. “That was beautiful. No words, but justbeautiful. I can’t believe my mom is so talented.”

“I can’t believe how talented her daughter is. Actually, I can because you’ve undeniably put in the work.”

“Shall I show you the performance I was practicing … before?”

“Show me anything you want. Show me everything.”

A blush touches her gorgeous cheeks when I say this last part. She knows I’m speaking about more than ballet.

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