Page 155 of The Breaking Pointe
“You don’t feel well.It doesn’t have to be a physical thing for you to not go, right?Can you like—call in sick or something?” He shrugs.
One corner of my lips rises higher than the other, listening to his suggestion. It’s sweet, but he has no idea the conse- quences of missing even an hour rehearsal.
“It doesn’t exactly work that way.”I shake my head.“Every rehearsal counts. I have to be there,” I explain.
He nods back at me, lowering his head with each bob until he’s looking at our legs.
Taking one finger, I bring his head back to eye level with mine, pecking his lips before softly speaking.“Show me how to do it?” I ask, nodding toward the wheel.
The darkness in the brown of his eyes suddenly becomes brighter and livelier as he perks up and swings us around. Abruptly, he moves me between his legs, placing me per-
fectly in front of the machine with ease.With his chest pressed against my back, and his arms cradled around mine—his messy hands find their home on mine.
“Press your foot on the petal. Like driving a car, it doesn’t need to be hard. The lightest tap is just enough,” he directs me.
Glancing at the petal, I squint one eye shut, fearing the outcome of my foot against the metal platform.My toes push against it, ever so slightly, and immediately the wheel begins moving, startling me back into his torso. Quickly, I realize how serious he was about the sensitivity of the petal, and a snicker slips out.
“Sorry—don’t think I’m stupid, please,” I blurt.
“You aren’t stupid, stop that,” he commands, quickly kissing my neck and scooting us closer. “Keep holding your foot there. Leave it at that speed. Now we just need to mold our clay,” he says, advancing our lesson by moving my hands onto the rotating clay, lightly.
The more he pushes my hands into it, the more I can see the shape of a pot growing between our hands.But more importantly, I can feel him breathing onto my neck and discreetly stealing whiffs of my lingering perfume.He’s not even good at hiding it anymore. There isn’t one lick of shame in his yearning at all.
“Am I doing it right?”I timidly ask.
“Mhm,” he hums against my skin, holding his lips against the space below my ear.
The tension between us makes all my focus walk out of the room. My eyes fall shut as I lean back against him, feeling his embrace all around me—almost pulsating through my body the longer he holds me.
His touch knows exactly how to make me tremble and conform to his every advance.
“Just relax with it. Don’t be afraid of it.” His words capture me, making me look at him.
Right as I turn my head, his lips are waiting for mine, and catch them, connecting like a magnet as he leans his head in more, begging for me to kiss back.
And of course, I do, forcing a breathy moan to slip out of him. Constantly, he’s sending me reminders. Every time he gets the chance to intricately slip his charm into something, he will—all for another attempt to shower some form of affection over me. That is why I am in love with him. This moment is why I am in love with him.He’s transformed me into someone who’s wondered why people love to be in love—to wanting to be the subject of some romantic science project. Spoiler alert: he’s the scientist.
Needing a chance to catch my breath, I take his bliss away by pulling back to fully look at his face, lifting my foot from the wheel.
“I’m so happy the woman before me gave me a chance to experience you.How could someone be so ignorant and give all of this up?” I quietly rile.
His eyes batter around, checking out my face while still stunned by the loss of my lips against his.
“I know that I’m not for everyone. But you stayed. You’re more than special to me.” He squeezes his arms around me, mimicking a tight hug.
“You make it hard to walk away,” I murmur, squishing the clay between our fingers and watching it lump up.
His body grows limp and his hands slips away from mine, resting on his legs.The tension between us alters with his
body language.It’s discomfiting, and both of us can tell. Straining at the leash of his lingering silence, I wait for him to say anything at all, just to ease the feeling.
“If I don’t ask you this, I’ll just keep thinking about it.” He talks at his lap.
I know where this is going.“Just say it,” I respond, quickly.
He brings his head up and focuses his eyes on me.“Are we…gonna talk about last night?” he asks, unsure.
The tension is now so thick, I can barely move. “No. I want to. But I can’t,” I answer.
