Page 15 of Off Balance

Whatever it is, he has no right to look at me like that. To judge me. And for what?

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Just wondering why someone like you is with someone like him.”

Is he kidding me?I might not be the most accomplished or the most talented, but that doesn’t mean I’m not worthy of the attention of a great man. Emile sees something in me that no one else does.

“That’s not what I meant,” Dom says, softening his expression. Even without his cold glare, his features are harsh. Almost menacing.

"I didn’t say anything.”

“Your face said it for you,” he retorts, and I scowl back at him. He thinks he knows me, that he can read me, after only meeting me twice?

"That guy is a pretentious douchebag.”

"Excuse you? Thatdouchebagis one of the most accomplished dancers and producers in this country. He's world renowned. He’s insanely talented and driven and?—”

“And pretentious.”

“He’s not pretentious. He’s just… French.”

Dom scoffs. “So being famous and French means he gets an excuse to talk down to you like that?”

“He doesn’t mean it in a derogatory way. He’s helping me improve.”

“You let him treat you like you’re a pet he’s training.”

I spin on him, pointing my finger into his chest. “You don’t know me. Don’t you dare presume to know anything about me, my boyfriend, or my relationship. Because you don’t know shit.”

“I know you deserve better,” he says to my back as I march away from him.

I fume the entire drive to Emile's house. I'm following behind his car, so I won't have to rely on anyone else to get back home. As usual, Emile has me park around the back of his house while his driver drops him at the front door. Ever since I nearly got towed when one of his snooty neighbors assumed my car was broken down, I don't park on the street anymore. In a neighborhood of luxury vehicles and sports cars that cost ten times what I makein a year, I suppose my ten-year-old Honda Civic stands out like a sore thumb.

The back door is locked, so I walk around to the front. I leave my shoes inside the small cabinet in the entryway and look around. Emile is already upstairs, judging by the trail of lights he left on for me. I turn them off as I head towards his room.

Emile's room is the definition of opulence. The carpet is so plush, it would rival some mattresses. There's a gas fireplace surrounded by a small sitting area when you first walk inside. Expensive furnishings and art hang on the walls. To the right of the room is a massive fourposter bed that is so tall I have to climb to get on it. There are two doors on either side of the bed. One leads to a walk-in closet the size of a bedroom, and the other to a bathroom that’s more like a luxury spa. The most eye-catching feature, however, are the floor to ceiling windows on the opposite side of the room. I find a small remote on Emile's end table next to the bed and press the button that opens the shades and blackout curtains to reveal a stunning view of the city below. It's a gorgeous night, and I'm here. Actually staying the night for once. It feels like a pivotal moment in our relationship.

A sliver of steam escapes from under the bathroom door, tinged with the floral smell of Emile's expensive body wash. I move around the room quickly, turning the fireplace on and dimming the lights. I'm not sure what to do with my bag. Emile can be particular about where things go. He doesn't like clothes or other belongings to be strewn about. I decide to stow it underneath the bed for now.

Emile is still in the shower. I stare at the door for a while, wondering if I should join him. He knew I'd need a shower, too. I usually take one when I visit him at home, before we do anything else. So maybe he's expecting me to come in there with him?If he'd left the door open, I wouldn't hesitate. But he's taking a while and waiting like this is getting awkward.

I'm going for it. Relationships are trial and error, right? We can't know what our partner will and won't like until we try sometimes.

The shower cuts off just as I tap on the door and open it.

"I thought I might join you," I say coyly as Emile wraps a towel around his slim waist. He hasn't danced professionally in years. A tragic injury took him out of the spotlight almost ten years ago, but he keeps a stringent workout schedule and still has the lithe body of a dancer. He's slimmer than me, especially since he doesn't need as much muscle anymore, and a good bit taller than my five-foot-eight frame. The muscles in his abdomen flex. He's noticed me checking him out.Good.

"I've just finished, but I still have my skin care to do. You can shower while I get ready for bed."

I keep my eyes on him as I strip out of my clothes, letting them fall to my feet. My lips quirk, fighting to hide a smile, when I notice his gaze flit to the small pile of clothes on the floor. I like to tease him about his neat freak ways, but now isn't the time to play brat. Instead, I pick them up and drop them into his hamper on the way to the shower. He turns around to face the sink, but I know he's watching me through the reflection of the large mirror.

The shower is the size of my entire bathroom at home, taking up an entire corner of the expansive room. Letting the glass door slide shut behind me, I play with the settings on the assortment of showerheads until hot water is falling straight out of the ceiling like rain.

When I turn around, I make eye contact with Emile in the reflection of the mirror, but I hold back my smirk. I don't let him know how much I want his eyes on me, how much I want him to like what he sees. I want him desperate for me, and I'm not afraid to put on a show.

I use some of Emile's shampoo, rivulets of lather flowing down my spine and over my ass. When I rinse, I place my hands against the wall and lean into the water, letting it sluice over my back. I smooth conditioner into my hair, turning to the side so he can see the profile of my growing erection. By the time I've lathered my body with his fragrant body wash, I'm fully hard and facing him, but don't acknowledge his attention yet. Instead, I run my hands over my body, making a show of washing myself, before my hand wraps around my cock. Slowly, I work the lather up and down my shaft, while my other hand soaps my smooth balls and slips lower to tease over my taint.

My eyes open to find Emile facing me head on, leaning back on the counter. His towel is tented in front.

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