Amour Amour (Aerial Ethereal #1)(22)

Helen nods a couple times and murmurs to the other directors at the table.

Nikolai briskly grabs me around the waist, spinning me. My chest melds against his, his eyes pierced through me, and my breathing heavies again, panting like my endurance has depleted with one swift move. We don’t break eye contact. It’s more intrusive than anything I’ve ever felt before. Like someone tugging at things deep, deep inside your soul, stripping that bed again. This time, it’s like he’s trying to cut open the mattress.

It’s a look that defeats all other looks.

And I’m not sure what I express back either, other than breathiness, just dazed. I slide down his muscular build, the tension pricking every nerve.

Then he clutches both of my legs, parting them around his torso. He releases my hands from his biceps. “Use your core,” he instructs, his palm on my abdomen to illustrate. I swallow hard.

And I fall backwards, my head dipped towards the mat, but instead of descending like a limp noodle—I tighten my abs. And I become a flat board, hanging off him in a neat horizontal line. I extend my arms above my head to lengthen the shape.

My thigh muscles burn, especially as he retracts his hands, letting me show off my strength. I blow out breaths from my nose. And then his palm slides from my lower abdomen up to my chest. The black fabric of my leotard has never felt thinner—and I swear, his thumb glides over my barbell piercing.

I skip a breath.

His hand reaches my neck, and I find myself shutting my eyes, losing myself for a moment to his touch. His fingers sensually disappear into my hair, massaging the tense muscles. I force my eyelids open, and he languidly kneels, causing my shoulders to gently hit the mat. Like he’s resting me on a bed.

This is a position that leads straight to sex, my legs still broken apart around him. He leans over me, our lips in kissing distance. We’re working, as he once said. That’s why he carries such severity in his movements. Authoritative, in control. But as the silence pools between us, I only become aware of the person above me.

He is power. Man. And strength. He is charm and desire and indestructible things.

I want to emit an equivalent passion. I want to be strength and desire. But I’m not sure how to match him and still move. It’s easy to be confident in the face of average-standing competition. It’s hard to pretend you’re something greater in the face of someone who’s already beyond great.

He combs pieces of my flyaway fluffy hairs from my forehead. “I’m going to swing you on my shoulders again.” He stays in character, his words dripping with sex. His eyes flit along me like he’s not even giving chaste instructions. “Stand on them. Then step onto my palm. I’ll hold you upright.” He pauses. “And Thora?”

I let out a breath, one of his hands traveling to the outside of my thigh. “Yes?”

He looks right into me. “You’re doing well.”

I cling to that honesty. Just as he makes a move to sit up, gruff Russian words chill my bones.

That’s Ivan. I crane my neck and see him charging the blue mats from the table with Helen. I’m not even sure when he ditched teaching Elena. I was focused on the lifts with Nikolai, as he said to do.

Nikolai sits up and replies to Ivan with as much aggravation. He holds up a finger like one more. One more lift maybe?

One more minute?

One more shot.

My stomach clenches at Ivan’s reaction. He storms closer, and from this vantage, it almost looks like he’s going to kick me. A bout of panic surges through me, my heart lodging. Before I can react, Nikolai swiftly picks me up, spins me around—his back now facing Ivan. He stands between me and the choreographer, setting me safely on my feet.

And his unusually softened and apologetic eyes speak before he does. “I’m sorry.”

It takes a moment for those words to sink in. And I can feel the color drain from my face. This is the end of my audition.

I can barely breathe “normally” as I restrain these sentiments that crash and attempt to pull me under. Maybe it’s still uncertain. I grapple with false hope. I can fool myself until every girl tries out. I can stay positive. I can do something… “It’s not over,” I whisper to him.

His features twist before they harden, his jaw tightening. And he shakes his head once. “Maybe another year.”

It’s not over yet, I pretend still.

“You should go,” Nikolai says deeply. I know he means to the mat and not home. But his voice basically tells me: move on and forget this. You tried your best.

I don’t want Shay and my parents to be right. I wanted, so desperately, to prove them wrong. That I’m worth success. That I can do more than they think I’m capable of.

I don’t wait for Nikolai to guide me or push me away. I unglue my feet and dazedly wander to the other girls while another is called to audition.

It’s not over yet. Something hot and wet rolls down my cheek.

I wipe the one tear and take a seat.





Act Seven



I haven’t been able to tell anyone back home the news. It’s been three hours since reality decided to sucker punch me. In retrospect, I should’ve seen the failure coming like everyone else did. But I didn’t want to. So maybe I deserve the onslaught of tears in The Masquerade’s public bathroom, cramped in a tiny stall.