Page 126 of Dance of Devils
She wasn’t lying, either. She knowseverystep, hits every single mark, and by the time the piece is done, I’m genuinely not sure I have any feedback for her other than “magnificent.”
I hit stop when the music finishes. Brooklyn stands panting in the middle of the ballroom, her chest rising and falling as she holds the final position, blonde tendrils clinging to her forehead.
She relaxes, her cheeks flushed as she turns to me. “Well?”
WELL it was perfect and I have nothing to say.
But that’s not what she’s looking for. And if I ignore the part of me that is utterly captivated by this woman, I’m sure I can find the asshole lurking beneath.
“You were late with theretiré. That's why you struggled with the abrupt stop.”
Ahh, there he is.
Brooklyn shoots me a look. She fuckingknowsshe just nailed the shit out of that, which means she knows I’m letting my inner dickhead out. But we bothalsoknow she asked for my feedback.
“What else?”
When I hesitate, she shakes her head. “No holding back. I want brutal honesty. Ivan won’t know I’m your…” She flushes, clamping her mouth shut. “That we?—”
“No, he won’t,” I mutter.
She nods. “So, let me have it. I want you to be an asshole.” She grins. “Overlook the fact that you came in my mouth yesterday.”
I groan, my dick twitching in my pants. She giggles. “Ooh, I think I just made you blush.”
“Keep it up and I’ll make that ass blush with this hand,” I growl.
Brooklyn grins at me, andgoddammit, my heart twists and flexes.
“You came out of the lastdéveloppéa touch too soon. You need to nail the balancesen pointebetter.Yourmanègeneeds tightening, and your arabesques were uninspiring.”
Brooklyn’s lips purse, fire sparking in her eyes.
“Uninspiring?”
I lift a shoulder.
I watch her drink in the franklyassholecritique before swallowing it down.
“Fine,” she mutters. “Thanks for the feedback.”
I grin at her. She purses her lips, but it slowly turns more into her holding a smile back in return as her eyes sparkle.
“Again,” I say. “From the top, when you’re?—”
“I’m ready,” she says quickly.
This time, when she starts to dance, I’m no longer a smitten bystander. I move around her as she pirouettes and balances; appraising, assessing.
“More lift!” I say sharply. “Into the—yes.Good. Perfect.”
Her body twists and glides, her feet flying over the floor and her ankles snapping to attention as she goes upen pointe. I move closer to her, guiding her as if pulling invisible strings from less than a foot away.
She twirls, and my hands land on her hips. She elegantly unfurls her hand to the ceiling, letting her gaze follow it up, and I’m right behind her, my hand ghosting up her arm to lift her fingers just a touch higher.
When she does the first diagonal, I'm there too, tracing a finger down the back of her thigh, lifting her knee just a hair to perfect the line of theattitude.
Brooklyn hits the final position and comes to a panting, gasping stop, her back against my chest, one of my hands on her hip, the other on her gracefully upturned wrist.
