Page 64 of One Last Encore

Her hips bucked, her body betraying her again, chasing his mouth. Beck rewarded her with a few rough, focused strokes over her clit, just enough to push her right to the very brink. He felt her tighten, her whole body coiling, seconds away from snapping and then he pulled back, just far enough to deny her.

Ingrid let out a shattered whimper, sagging against the barre, her thighs trembling, her pussy clenching around nothing.

A dark laugh rumbled from Beck’s chest. "Not yet, Baby," he rasped, pressing a single finger inside her slick heat, shallow, teasing.

She gasped, clenching around him immediately, so fucking tight it made him dizzy. He thrust his finger slowly, shallowly, dragging it out until she was squirming, begging silently for more.

He lifted her leg higher, resting it over his shoulder, positioning her exactly where he wanted, pinned and helpless.

Then he shoved a second finger into her without warning, curling them deep, and flicked his tongue over her clit in fast, brutal strokes.

She shattered almost immediately, screaming his name, her whole body locking up around him, trembling, sobbing out broken cries. He held her open, fucking her with his fingers as he licked her through it, relentless.

But he didn’t stop.

He kept his fingers buried inside her, pressing right against that perfect spot inside, dragging out every last spasm, until she was shaking uncontrollably.

She let out the prettiest moan Beck had ever heard. He wanted to hear that sound again and again, imprint it in his mind until it was his alone. A sound he could pull from her whenever he wanted.

She finally collapsed against the barre, Beck pulled back just enough to take her in. Trembling thighs, glassy eyes, sweat glistening across her flushed skin. She was devastatingly beautiful like this. Utterly ruined.

He licked his lips, savoring the taste of her still heavy on his tongue, the slick shine of her arousal coating his fingers.

Beck watched the aftershocks of her orgasm ripple through her body as she clung to the barre for support, chest heaving, breath coming in uneven gasps. Every shudder, every ragged sound she made, carved itself into his mind. This was not just lust anymore. It was a need to know her, every hidden piece.

He pressed soft kisses to her sensitive center, savoring the way she twitched under his mouth, his hands tracing slow, feather-light paths up her trembling thighs.

His fingers slid up along her hips, brushing under the fabric of her leotard. Under his fingertips, he felt the faint, raised lines running vertically across her skin.

The dim light caught them just enough, thin, silvery, uniform. They were scars. His stomach dropped.

Beneath him, Ingrid tensed, every muscle in her body locking tight. A beat later, she jerked away from his touch like she had been burned.

Before he could react, she shoved his hand aside, yanked her leg down, and hastily adjusted her leotard, her movements frantic.

"Ingrid," he rasped, voice rough and aching. His hands fell helplessly to his sides, every instinct screaming at him to pull her close, but he didn’t move. She wouldn't even look at him.

She turned sharply, heading straight for her bag on the floor, snatching it up quickly. Her hands shook as she pulled on sweatpants, hiding herself.

"It’s nothing. I have to go," she said stiffly, voice brittle. She slung the bag over her shoulder, still refusing to meet his gaze.

Beck stayed on his knees, frozen, watching her run. His hands shook as he raked them through his hair, gripping tight at the roots, frustration knotting inside his chest.

She always looked so perfect, so composed. Controlled. But now, he couldn’t unsee it, the raw, vulnerable truth hiding beneath the surface. Those scars weren’t just old marks. They were proof she’d been through something. Maybe still was.

And fuck, the realization gutted him.

Was it the pressure? Ballet, with all its nonstop push for perfection? Had it pushed her past the point of breaking?

The questions gnawed at him, ruthless and raw. He wanted to know. He needed to know. He wanted to rip the whole goddamn world apart if it meant making her safe. But she’d slammed the door in his face before he even had the chance.

He knew how fiercely she guarded herself, how much she hated exposing any sign of weakness. But this wasn’t weakness. It was survival. And it made his chest ache in a way he couldn’t quite breathe through.

She could run. She could vanish behind walls thicker than steel and pretend she was fine. But Beck had already made up his mind. He wasn’t going anywhere. Not when she needed someone to stay even if she’d never ask.

CHAPTER 18

INGRID. EARLY NOVEMBER, FIVE YEARS AGO

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