He nears me and I back up into the sink counter, aware of my littleness to his largeness. It’s not just the fact that he’s taller than me. It’s his broad build, his muscular frame. If he was Timo’s size—lean, less muscle mass, a bit wiry—I would feel like we went together better.
But I’m very attracted to this, right here. In front of me. My speeding pulse, the tingles that prick along my arms, down my legs—it tells me so.
He begins to unbutton
his
shirt that’s on
my
body. He’s already examined my movements, reading me. “It’s in the past,” he says, realizing what I’m speaking of.
The gush of hot water, filling the tub, cuts through some of the silence. I press my palms flat on his hard chest. “But you know my past.”
He consumes me with those grays eyes. “I’m older than you, myshka.”
I believe it. I see it. But I don’t want that to matter, on any account. “And…?”
“And I have five years of history on you. I’m not discounting your own experiences. I know for a fact that your first couple of times in bed left a mark on you.” He lifts my chin, so that my eyes rise off the bathroom tiles. He is full of warmth. And light. “There’s just more in my past.”
“More,” I whisper.
What more?
I ask through my soft eyes.
His chest rises and falls.
We’re quiet for a moment, and I watch him unbutton the last of my shirt. He takes a couple steps back from me, my spine digging into the sink’s lip.
Standing still, my black shirt is partially open, revealing the sides of my breasts and my wet orange panties. He has trouble focusing on my face and not my body, his concentration on more pleasurable things than this talk.
I have to know. I’m afraid I’ll never grow the courage to ask again. “Why is she so complicated?”
He combs both hands through his hair, pushing the longer strands back. “Because…” He holds my gaze. “She was my partner.”
“What?” My face falls.
“Tatyana Ulanova.”
My mind rotates a million miles per hour, tilting, back-peddling, and out of all thoughts, the first I land on is so insignificant. “I thought it was Tatyana Ulanov, not Ulanova?” Maybe I begin with this because it’s the easiest to touch.
“It’s Ulanova. Whoever told you Ulanov was wrong.” He rubs his jaw. “In Russian, surnames change according to whether you’re male or female.”
My face twists as I process this. “But Katya and you are both Kotova…wait, is that even your real last name?”
He tries hard not to smile.
“It’s not funny,” I say. “I don’t even
know your name
.”
“Yes you do, myshka. Tatyana is a Russian citizen, but I’m not. Those of us born in the United States had to take the same family name, by law. For whatever reason, they agreed on Kotova, not Kotov.” He casually adds, “It’s a sore subject with my father, considering he speaks very little English and holds Russian customs to a high standard. To the rest of us, it’s just a name.”
I bet Tatyana knew all of this about him.
Of course she did, Thora. She’s Russian.
I’m at a disadvantage with a girl that I’ve never met. What’d he say about her? She’s the best in her discipline. At aerial silk. She can communicate with him, in any language. And she probably fits better with him. Physically.
I tremble, cold sweeping my limbs, my wet shirt like ice.
“Thora…” He nears again, about to undress me. To warm me.
I press my palms on his chest again to stop him. “Just let me think…”
“She’s out of the picture.”
“She was injured,” I remember. “She
got hurt
, Nikolai.” I shield my wince with my hands and groan. “Is that why you broke up?”
Girl sustains a career-ending injury.
Girl no longer works with Guy.
Guy breaks up with Girl.
Girl leaves Vegas.
It seems callous on Nikolai’s part, to desert a girl after something traumatic. Who am I really with?
He rubs his eyes like the memory is still raw. It shouldn’t still be raw, right? That makes me the…
“Rebound,” I whisper. “I’m your rebound.”
Nikolai drops his hand and cocks his head like
you’re so wrong.
“No. We broke up two months before she was injured. I was with her for three years romantically, longer professionally, but the feelings I have for her now are…” As he tries to find the right word, his face slowly contorts in a cringe, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. And then shakes his head.
“Your feelings seem to be strong,” I breathe, crossing my arms for warmth. I shake some.
Stop shaking, Thora.
“Not in the way you think.” His voice is harder, more powerful. He shuts off the bath and then walks over to me, wanting so badly to take me out of the wet clothes. “You’re freezing.”
“I just need to process this with clothes on.”
“I don’t see what it matters if you’re naked.”
I exhale a tense breath. “Because I’ll be distracted.”
“By your own body?”
I scowl.
“You said it.”
“By
you
staring at my naked body.”
His lips curve upward, in a charming smile. “I’m not going to tell you that I’ll look away because that’d be a lie.” He tucks a piece of my hair behind my ear. “Can you hurry with your thoughts?”
My jumbled, tangled, helplessly confused thoughts.
Ask something important.
Everything feels important, so that really does not help my case. “Where is she now?” I manage to say.
Good one. You’re doing good. Or well. Whatever.
I kind of want to shut off my brain now.
“Yekaterinburg. It’s where she grew up.”
So she’s most likely with her family, at least those who aren’t in the circus. “Is she coming back ever?” I ask.
“No. She wants to live in Russia.” He watches my arms vibrate with the chill, concern narrowing his eyes.
Stay strong, Thora.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if she has a boyfriend or a fiancé. Or even a husband by now.” He doesn’t pale or cringe or recoil by these facts.
“It doesn’t bother you—”
“Why would it? I’m with you.” Intensity still permanently latched to me, he removes his boxer-briefs, the last article of clothing. I breathe shallowly and seem to tremble more.
This is such a weird conversation to be undressing to. And I’m really to blame for that.
It needed to be said.
True. It’s better with this knowledge.
He steps closer to me, until his body pins mine against the sink. “Anymore thoughts?”
With that one action, they’ve all escaped. I strain my neck just to see his hard, masculine face, flooded with desire. My arms are still crossed, pulling my shirt closed, despite being unbuttoned. He can’t kiss me in this position. He’d need to back up so he can lean down, and it’s frustrating on all accounts. I should’ve left my high heels on.
But he waits. For me. To say that I have no more thoughts.
“Why are you so patient with me?” I whisper.
“Because every part of me wants to take care of you.” One of his hands drifts to the back of my neck, the other beneath my wet shirt, around my hip. “And to do that, I’d slow down to your speed.”
“And what’s your speed?” I ask.
“Much faster.” He watches my reaction as he dips his hand beneath the band of my panties. My mouth opens in a heady breath. “Harder,” he says lowly. His fingers brush the inside of my thigh before he pulls off the fabric. “Deeper.” He peels the wet shirt off my arms, my lungs expanding in a strong breath.
The inhale lifts my chest, both barbells prominent, both pierced by him. It makes the throb in the hard bud feel more like pleasure than pain. He soaks in my body, every inch of skin with the most consuming gaze. After the sopping shirt hits the ground, we’re both left bare against each other.
He makes the two guys that I was with seem like boys. Nothing as sexual, as arousing, as this. And all he did was undress me.
I tremble. This time, not from the cold.
Very swiftly, he lifts me around his waist, and his lips and tongue make skilled work on my neck, sucking the most sensitive part. I grind forward, my nerves lighting and dizzying me. I clutch him tightly, my arms not even close to wrapping around his frame. I bury my head into his muscular chest, protected, small.
“Just…no sex tonight,” I whisper.
Not after that conversation.
I don’t want to equate the first time to
her.
He kisses my lips and then says, “Okay.”
For a brief moment I wonder if he’s really okay with it. Then he dominates every movement, doing whatever he pleases while I relax into the moment. And I realize, he’s going to make it okay by doing so many other things.
His fingers slip inside of me. God. The fullness blinds me, and I cry into skin. We’re in the middle of the bathroom. Not even against the wall. He easily holds me, driving his two fingers deeper, finding a spot that—
“Nik…” I gasp into another cry, spidering him with the hardest grip. It collapses his breath for a second. Then he lowers his head to suck my neck again, like I’m his play toy that he wants to pleasure. I throb. I pulse. I ache. Actually craving for his cock—actually wondering what he’d feel like.
While he screws me deep with his fingers, he carries me to the ledge of the marbled tub, setting me down. He remains standing, and using his free hand, he grips the shaft of his erection, which is much larger than anything I’ve seen up close.
Boys. You were with boys, Thora James.
“Open,” he commands.
I am so wet. My back arches some, but I manage to part my lips. He fills my mouth, and I breathe through my nose, the erotic image like a trigger for my body. I nearly lose it, my toes curling and a raspy noise vibrates along his hardness. In my mouth. He places his hand on the back of my head, controlling how deeply I go. The movement. That mixed with his fingers in me.
I… almost fall backwards. Into the water.
He keeps me upright. And my hands slide onto his toned ass—Dear Lord. In heaven. It’s the way he’s looking at me too. His heavy breath, his arousal growing. He’s getting off watching me get off.
I pop him out of my mouth, right as he hits a spot that sends me over. I cry, so loud that he instantly covers my lips with his large hand, drowning the noise. I haven’t even caught my breath before he picks me up, as though I weigh nothing to him. And brings me into the tub.
My eyes are closed, but the hot water soothes my skin as soon as I’m lowered in it. He splays me against his chest. While he leans against the porcelain. His lips are on mine, but I can barely breathe still.
“You’re going to come again, little mouse.” His breath tickles my ear. “Until I decide to come with you.” Fact: he loves watching me orgasm. I just can’t imagine doing it again and again. And again.
“Not…possible,” I pant.
He squeezes my ass, and then his fingers dive back between my legs, pressing against my swollen clit from a new angle. I tighten around him, pulsating. “Nik.” I can’t see straight. I can’t even form another word. I am in his care, his possession. For the rest of the night.
“Anything is possible.”
And I think,
only with my devil
.
Act Thirty-Two
Four months at Phantom and I finally have a better routine for the aerial hoop. My training with Nikolai is thanks for that. My strength has improved, no more hoop burns. Top that with more sensual tricks, and I usually earn a warm applause at the end.
I even changed the music, no more emotional Broadway ballads. I go straight for mixes with sultry undertones.
“My Song 5”
by Haim blares through the amps and propels me forward. After weeks of Roger underpaying me for my “average performances” I caved—and it wasn’t soul-crushing.
I’m still me.
Focusing on my routine, I do the splits, not just any though. I grasp the lower rung of the hoop, my legs outstretched, and then I channel my strength, lifting my body upside-down. I blow out breaths through my nose, making it look as effortless as possible.
Blood rushes to my head, but I keep my legs extended. This is the part where I have to ignore all the whistling and hollers.
Concentrate on the music, Thora.
And I do.
I breathe out, and I point my legs straight, releasing a hand and supporting my weight with one single grip. As the music escalates, I lower onto the hoop, straddling the metal. I move more often than I hold shapes.
They enjoy watching me spin and twist and basically gyrate along the apparatus.
Gyrate.
Not my favorite word when I describe my profession.
No worries.
I exhale strongly.
January. I have to wait for January and then I’ll be auditioning for Aerial Ethereal.
You can do this.
When my act finally ends, I receive that warm applause, and the hoop descends to the stage.
“Show us your tits next time!” Someone yells out.
My stomach lurches. That’s a new one. My feet hit the stage, and I swallow the rising lump in my throat. They’ll always want more, won’t they? The fact is hard to digest.
On my way backstage, a man at a high-top table slaps my ass and then grabs it in a firm clutch. Fuck. The force is so hard that I wince, stinging, and the sound of the whack rings in my ears.
I spin around to shove him off. My heart races and pumps with adrenaline, but security already slips between me and him, separating his grip on my ass.
Let it go, Thora.
My eyes burn.
Stop burning.
I lift my shoulders.
You’re still you.
And I redirect my course. Away from the man, heading backstage. I avoid eye contact with everyone.
Safely in the employee’s only area, I open my locker. Not far away, Roger is in a serious discussion with one of the veteran girls. She nods, her brown curls bobbing with her head. I step into sweat pants over my rouge lingerie and then tug on a baggy maroon shirt.
When I untie my hair from the loose braid, I notice faint bruises on my forearm from training with Nikolai. I’m not even sure how I acquired it—a mystery bruise. And not the first one. Nor the last. As long as I stick with it.