Page 52 of Rebound

Iglance at the map on my phone, suddenly nervous. “Yeah. I bought you a pony, and we’re going to keep him in a stable in New Jersey and visit on weekends.”

“Yay! Just what I always wanted.”

Does she mean that? Like most girls with her background, she had riding lessons when she was a kid, and she loves animals. I’ve never known her to express a real interest in horses though. But fuck it—if she wants a pony, I’ll get her a goddamn pony. There’s just no way I can arrange that in the next five minutes.

By the time we reach our destination, I’m half worried she will be disappointed. I pause near the building we’re headed for and hold both her hands in mine. “Look, it’s not a pony.”

She tips her head back and laughs. “I didn’t think it was.”

I nod, trying to keep the relief from my expression. “Right. Well, I’m going to blindfold you now.”

“It’s going to be that kind of night, is it?” Her lips curve seductively. “I’m game if you are.”

Fuck. My dick is hard again. I’m going to develop some kind of medical condition if this keeps happening. “Maybe later.” I pull a blindfold from my coat pocket. “For now, it’s so the surprise isn’t ruined.”

She lets me tie the fabric around her eyes, and I inhale her shampoo as I lift her hair from her shoulders. Even that smells different, subtle with a hint of coconut. I lead her inside the building, telling her when there are steps and guiding her along the corridor. The room is shadowed when I open the door, and I remove the blindfold.

She keeps a tight hold of my hand and blinks a little as I flick a switch. The overhead lights buzz into action, and her eyes go wide when she sees where we are. Her hand goes over her mouth, and she spins around, taking it all in. I’m not interested in the room—I only have eyes for her. I want her to be happy, to see delight on her face. I want her to have everything she needs in life and more. This might not be a pony, but she looks pretty fucking thrilled with it anyway.

“Oh my god, Elijah! This is gorgeous.” She immediately slips off her high heels and coat and runs around the room, seeming to float across the blond wood floor. Stopping suddenly, she points at me. “You didn’t buy this, did you? Because I really don’t need my own dance studio.”

“No,” I assure her. “I just booked it for tonight. Thought you could get some practice in.”

She races back to me and throws her arms around my shoulders. “Thank you. I love it.”

I lift her up and give her a twirl, overjoyed at how excited she is.

As soon as I put her down, she gallops away. She spins and swirls and jumps, laughing like a little girl on Christmas morning. My heart cracks wide open, and I wish I could hit pause on this one perfect moment. There is nothing more miraculous than watching my beautiful wife act like the carefree young woman she was when I first met her. Before life dragged us both down like wounded animals.

She skips over to the barre, runs her hands along the polished wood, and immediately takes up a ballet position. Her toes point outward, and she drops down low, one arm gracefully stretching out beside her. She continues through a range of moves, and I’m content to look on as she flows and flexes from one position to the next. I pull up a classical music playlist on my phone, and she nods at me in thanks before putting her hands up high and performing a pirouette. She pauses and pulls the soft blue sweater over her head, revealing a strappy white tank underneath.

“I haven’t been in a place like this for years.” She does a little run and then leaps into the air, legs splayed and toes pointed. “It’s amazing how my body remembers all this stuff. I’ve done dance exercise classes and kept up with Pilates, but nothing beats this. Even if I look like a baby elephant, it feels wonderful.”

She looks absolutely fucking incredible—long, lean, and luscious as she dances around the room, reflected versions of her following every move like backup dancers. Her hair flies around her face in a golden tornado as she builds up speed in a spin, and she laughs as she rotates faster and faster. She does a spirited circuit of the whole room, takes another leap, then slides down onto the floor, landing in a split. Jesus. That should be illegal.

When I applaud, she looks up, face flushed, blond strands sticking to the sheen of sweat on her forehead. She climbs to her feet and gives me a little bow. The long silver necklace dips and touches the floor. Ballet is an art form, but looking at her like that, bent pretty much in half, her ass reflected in the mirror… Well, let’s just say that my mind doesn’t turn to culture.

“Come on, your turn.” She comes over and grabs my hands, then pulls me to my feet and drags me toward the barre.

“Uh, no way,” I say firmly, shaking my head. “Ballet’s not for me.”

“Oh. Too much of a chicken, are you?” She flaps her arms at her sides and makes squawking noises. “I suppose ballet is only for the strongest of men.”

“Stop goading me. I grew up with four brothers. I’m ungoadable.”

“Okay, but are you unconvincible? Because I’d really love it if you gave it a go. I’m doing all these new things for the first time. You should try one too. Or don’t you think you can lift me?”

I know exactly what she’s doing. She’s getting her own way, something she’s very good at. Her big eyes maintain their innocence, and her chest heaves a little as she recovers from her exertions. The white cotton top clings to her breasts, her erect nipples clearly visible through the flimsy fabric. She isn’t wearing a bra, for fuck’s sake. That should also be illegal. She sees me staring and gives me a flirtatious smile. “What can I say? Ballet makes me horny.”

“Okay. I’ll give it a go.” There’s a rasp to my voice that has nothing to do with wanting to dance.

“Fabulous. Warm up a little first, though. I don’t want you to pull a muscle. Try to copy what I do, but don’t worry if you can’t. Do your best, and if anything hurts, stop.”

She runs through a few basic dips and stretches, nothing I wouldn’t do at the gym or during a sparring session, then leads me to the barre. I try to mirror her movements with limited success. There’s no way I can get my leg as high or as straight as her, and she knows it. I swear, she is on the verge of laughter all the way through.

“You know,” I say as she effortlessly swoops her hands down to the floor and I only make it part of the way there, “this isn’t fair. I should get you in the boxing ring and see how you cope with that.”

She slowly rolls upright again, her arms reaching high, and I do the same. My back tweaks and spasms, but I ignore it. “I’d love that,” she says enthusiastically. “Name the date and I’ll be there. Okay, are you ready for a lift?”

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