Spiral (Off the Ice, #2) (73)
I didn’t know until this very second that it bothered me. Realistically, I’m not his girlfriend and I have no right to question his reasons, but damn does it feel like a punch in the face when he knows nearly everything about me. Sex life included.
This all feels too risky now. My feelings. His. Whatever they are. It would be enough to throw me in a white-walled room with no windows and a straitjacket. Riding his thigh the other night, then begging for him last night only brings the heat of embarrassment back to my face.
Suddenly my confidence evaporates, and I turn to get the hell out of his vicinity. Elias pushes forward, backing me right up against the fridge and causing a magnet to fall to the floor. A picture of all the guys at this year’s Frozen Four falls by my feet.
His calloused hands skim the bare skin of my thighs, then he slides upward, lifting the thin fabric of my dress. Even if I wanted to say something, I wouldn’t.
“I don’t lie,” he rasps. “And I’m not being dishonest.”
My voice comes out as a whisper. “Your nose is growing, Elias.”
He chuckles, the warm breath hitting my skin like the lash of a belt. “You wanna hear a lie, Sage?” His wandering hand moves to my hip bone, right to the string of my thong.
I trap a whimper, unwilling to embarrass myself any more than I already have.
“Seeing you walk around in this fucking dress doesn’t make me want to tear it off.”
I swallow.
“Your lips haven’t been stuck in my mind since I tasted them the first time.”
My breaths are shallow.
“And I didn’t jerk off to the thought of you last night.”
Holy shit.
Talking to him is like playing with the red and blue wires on a bomb and not knowing which one is going to knock you on your ass and burn every inch of your skin.
“Satisfied?” he asks.
“Never,” I say.
He snaps the string of my thong, and I squeak. The sting on my skin feels like he’s spanked me. “What if I think you’re the one who’s lying?” Elias says.
I’m at the mercy of his hands, but I feign offense. “I’m not.”
“No? So, you’re not frustrated because I didn’t fuck you last night?”
My throat feels heavy.
“Come on, Sage. I thought you were an open book,” he goads.
I narrow my eyes. “You don’t know me.”
“Maybe.” His hand leaves the tingling skin of my bare thigh and clasps my wrist, and he runs his thumb over my thundering pulse. “But your body is saying something different.”
“My body says a lot of things, but I don’t suppose you’d know how to read it.” I’m hoping my words slash at that cocky look on his face.
“You think because I haven’t touched you, I don’t know what will make you come?”
Reading between the lines is pretty damn easy when his eyes flash with a look that says, My thigh can get you off in under thirty seconds.
As annoying as the smirk is, he’s beautiful, and so is the hand that snakes under my dress to toy with the scrap of fabric between my ass cheeks. Then he pulls it, and the tightness almost makes me keel forward, but I lock my knees.
“Careful, Eli, that’s a lot of sex talk for your vow of celibacy.”
He tuts. He actually fucking tuts at me. “I’m not afraid to talk about sex, Sage, but I think you’re nervous just thinking about it.”
My thoughts scatter. Like rats running out of an alley at the sound of footsteps.
My laugh is unconvincing. It’s cut short when the oven timer sounds and slices through our stare-down. Elias backs away, and so do I.
I spend the next two hours sewing my pointe shoes to perfection, giving him only a small nod when he tells me he’ll be back in a few days.
THE FINAL SHOWCASE of A Midsummer Night’s Dream makes me feel like a celebrity. It even makes me forget about the earlier call from my landlord. My apartment is clean and should be ready for me to move in again. But thinking about that makes the pit in my stomach grow deeper than an abyss.
Amy Laurent, my former teacher, thanks me profusely when she spots me backstage. I don’t understand why at first, but apparently my post about tonight’s show with links to the tickets helped sell out the house.
Electric energy buzzes backstage as act two begins and the curtains draw open. You’d think performing the same dance would feel mundane, but it only makes me feel excited. Every time I perform my solo as Titania the fairy queen, I know I’ve gotten better.
The dreamy notes of the nocturne by Mendelssohn play when I’m onstage, and I don’t think. I don’t let myself get lost in my head.
This time, I don’t search the crowd, because my uncle is away with the team, but he did make sure to hound me for the link to the live performance. When the curtains close, I’m off the stage and talking with the families up front. A woman taps my shoulder.
“My son is a huge hockey fan,” she begins. “And ever since we saw you at the Thunder games, my daughter has been ecstatic. She’s obsessed with all your performances.”
She points to her daughter, who’s wearing a tiara atop her head, her curly hair fashioned into a bun. The young girl hugs me and hands me a handwritten letter. It’s just like Elias said about being an inspiration to them. It makes me wish he was here to see it.