Page 15 of The Virgin's Dance
Pilot chuckled. “It really is. See what I mean? You’re a goddess.”
They were standing close, very close, Boh’s left breast against his chest as she leaned over him to look in his camera. She looked up into his eyes and their gazes locked. For a long moment, they stared at each other, then Pilot gave a small smile.
“We could slow things down now, do some more fluid movements.”
Her heart beating fast, she willed herself to move away from him. “I’ve been working on something,” she told him, a little nervousness creeping into her voice. “No one’s seen it yet, but if you’d like to?”
“I’d be honored.”
Trembling, Boh changed the music on the stereo. “You know Olafur Arnalds?”
“The Icelandic composer? I do.”
She smiled, pleased. “He has this song, “Reminiscence” that I love and as soon as I heard it, I wanted to dance to it. It’s very rough but—”
She began to move to the music, using a combination of ballet and freestyle dancing to twist and curve her into shapes to the somber, delicate music, pouring all of her emotions into the dance, closing her eyes, letting all of her pain at her family, her love for her art, and her hidden sensuality flow through her. She heard the click of Pilot’s camera at first but when it stopped, she opened her eyes and saw him.
He was no longer taking shots, but watching her, his green eyes full of … what? She continued the dance but kept returning to his gaze, dancing for him now alone, letting her attraction to him radiate through her body, a yearning, a need.
As the music came to a close, she stepped to him, drawing her fingertips down his cheek. She heard his ragged breathing and smiled. Very slowly and deliberately, she pulled the shoulder of her leotard down and exposed her naked breast. For a moment, she thought he might pull away, then with a groan, he bent his head and his mouth closed around her nipple.
Boh swayed a little, not expecting the rush of pleasure that flooded her system. She tangled her fingers in his curls as his tongue flicked around the nipple, and his mouth sucked hungrily at her. His arms snaked around her waist and pulled her against him and she could feel his cock, thick and long against his blue jeans, and how much he wanted her.
He looked up, and she nodded at the question in his eyes. Her body was screaming for his touch. His hands went to the bun of her hair and released it so it flowed down her back.
“Boh … are you sure?”
She nodded again, not trusting herself to speak in case she broke the spell. Pilot swept her up unto his arms and carried her to the couch against the far wall of the studio. She let her head drop onto his shoulder, her lips against his neck, and when he laid her down, he covered her body with his. He swept the hair away from her face, his eyes full of desire.
She kissed him, her mouth seeking his lips as her hands went under his T-shirt to stroke his stomach, the muscles hard and quivering under her touch. Pilot reached over his head and pulled his T-shirt off in one easy motion.
Boh sighed at the broad shoulders, hard pecs, and traced the small tattoo on his arm. “What is it?”
“Sorry to be prosaic,” he grinned, kissing her throat, “but it’s just the family crest.”
“No, I like it.” She was trembling now as he gently peeled her leotard down, exposing both her breasts and her belly. He bent down to kiss the soft curve of it, his tongue rimming around her navel.
“Christ, you’re beautiful,” he murmured as slowly, his fingers worked around to the fastening on her skirt.”
Then they both froze as someone banged on the studio door. “Pilot!”
“Fuck.” Pilot rolled off Boh and tugged his shirt on. He handed Boheme her sweatshirt. “I’m sorry, baby. I’ll get rid of her.”
He darted to the door and pulled it open. Boh was shell-shocked, but she slid into her sweatshirt and pretended to be tying her ballet shoe ribbons.
“Eugenie … what the hell are you doing here?” Pilot sounded pissed—and exhausted.
A pin-thin blonde woman pushed past him. “You were supposed to call me back, Pilot. I left messages. What—” She stopped when she saw Boh. Boh stared back at the other woman, keeping her face bland.
“Hello,” she said politely. The blonde woman—Eugenie—stared back at her.
“And who the hell is this?”
“Not,” Pilot said with a voice like ice, “that it’s any of your business, but this is Boh. She’s posing for me for my exhibition. Boh is a principal with the NYSMBC. I know you’ve heard of them—didn’t you fuck Wally after their last benefit?”
Boh winced but Eugenie ignored the jibe. She walked to inspect Boh more closely. Boh stood her ground but she could smell liquor on the other woman’s breath, see the faint dusting of coke on her upper lip.
Eugenie looked her up and down. “Youare the principal?”
