Page 19 of One Last Encore

"Dick," she muttered.

Beck’s eyebrows lifted, eyes glinting with mischief. "Yes, I do have one. Any interest?"

And just like that, her brain betrayed her. Because now she was imagining it. And worse, she knew it wasbig.

A horrifying, rogue thought that she could not unthink no matter how hard she tried. Because of course it was. Beck had that ridiculous, cocky,I know exactly what I’m doing energy,the kind that practically screamed insufferably good in bed.

She could picture it too vividly–the lazy smirk, the deliberate slowness, the teasing, the way he’d probably make a show of withholding just to drive someone insane before finally, finally giving in at the very last second. Heat flared across her cheeks, mortification spreading through her body like a wildfire fueled by sheer shame.

She never thought about sex.Ever. Not seriously, at least. It was a distraction, an obstacle between her and her success, a messy, time-consuming inconvenience she had never found allthat compelling. But now? Thanks to one intolerable musician with a stupidly perfect smirk, her brain had been hijacked.

His smirk stretched into something downright victorious, his sharp blue eyes flicking over her face, cataloging every single tell like he was mentally filing it away for future torture. He wasn’t just amused. He was thriving off this, standing there like a cat who had not only caught the mouse but was now toying with it just for fun.

Her grip on her pointe shoe tightened, fingers curling into the satin as if she could squeeze the embarrassment out of her system.

"In your dreams," she snapped, before hurling her pointe shoe straight at his smug head.

To her endless frustration, Beck caught it one-handed. He twirled it between his fingers with a thoughtful hum.

"That’s called projection. It’s okay if you dream about me. You don’t have to be embarrassed," he remarked, pointing to himself with the shoe as if he were the pinnacle of human desire.

"You think you're a gift to the world." Ingrid shook her head. "You honestly think I would dream about you?"

"What can I say? I'm all about making dreams a reality," his response was delivered with a teasing grin, his eyes holding a playful glint.

"Truly inspiring," she muttered under her breath as she pulled on her toe pad and then quickly slid her foot into the pointe shoe, wrapping the ribbon around her ankle.

Beck sauntered over, crouching until his increasingly punchable face was level with hers. Ingrid refused to look up, but she could feel his gaze on her, hot and persistent, like an itch she couldn’t scratch.

She focused on her ribbons, looping them around her ankle with the mechanical precision of someone pretending very hardthat an annoying man was not currently breathing the same air as her.

Wordlessly, she extended her hand, palm open, a clear demand for him to surrender her hostage pointe shoe.

Instead of placing it in her waiting palm like a normal human being, Beck grabbed her ankle.Her ankle.

A squeak escaped her as he effortlessly lifted her leg until her foot hovered at his bent knees. The position was almost graceful, like a pas de deux except she was very much not a willing participant, and he was very much an insufferable asshole.

Heat flared up her neck as she registered the absolute horror of the situation. Her foot. His hands. His face, dangerously close to her foot.

Panic flared in her chest. She had spent her entire life avoiding situations exactly like this. Ballet had given her many things: an iron will, an ever-present sense of impending doom, and hideous feet. Crooked toes, battered nails, calluses so thick they could probably be classified as armor. The idea of anyone seeing them up close made her want to crawl into a hole and disappear.

Thank Tchaikovsky for her toe pads.

Beck, totally unaware of the internal meltdown happening right in front of him, slid the shoe onto her foot. His fingers skimmed over her tights, settling the shoe against her heel like he’d done it a hundred times. He handled her foot like he did everything else, like he owned it, like it was just another extension of his own capable hands.

She was definitely not thinking about what else those hands could do. Nope. Not at all.

Still, the warmth of his palm seeped through her tights, sending a shiver up her leg. Her stomach certainly wasn't fluttering with butterflies–those were bats, wicked and malevolent, summoned by Satan himself.

And then, as if she weren’t already halfway to losing it, Beck’s gaze drifted up her leg, slow and deliberate, before landing on hers. A wicked glint sparked in his eyes, the kind that promised nothing but trouble.

Ingrid forgot how to breathe.

Every rational thought in her brain started glitching, short-circuiting like a corrupted file. She despised him. She knew she despised him. But her body? Oh, her body was a traitor of the highest order. Heat curled in her stomach, the kind she wanted to stomp out with sheer force of will. Because no. There would be no tension here. No dangerous, unspeakable thoughts.

This man was the enemy.

He had tried to sabotage Eden. He was ruthless. Cocky. An absolute threat to her peace of mind. She had to snap out of this.

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