Amour Amour (Aerial Ethereal #1)(43)

He saunters across it like a tightrope, and his gaze—it never leaves my body. As though he’s performing for me. As though the music is mine.

And then he drops straight down, my stomach plummets like he just fell from a forty-foot-height, but he catches one of the bars, channeling the power to do a double between the rungs. It’s effortless, like he’s slicing through air. He comes to an abrupt stop on top of a bar, squatting.

He slowly stands, power radiating in this one action, and his stormy eyes bear down. He walks closer on the bar. So swiftly, he drops again. He clasps another beam, and I soak in his dominant, precise movements—that fill with life and…something greater.

When he finally lands on his feet, beside me, the song is near its end. He’s trounced my mind with carnal, euphoric things. He pulls me strongly to his chest. Like whiplash, my head floats off my body. My lips part, and his hands cup the back of my head, his muscular body welding against my small frame.

I melt in ways I never have before. Beneath that look.

Beneath his passion.

“That,” he says lowly, his eyes dancing across me, “is what I feel.” As soon as the music shuts off, he drops his hands from me, steps back. Demonstration over. He just balled my emotions and fucked them, hard.

I can’t even speak. I just shake my head like I’m not sure I can ever be like that. And I wonder if he’s able to do this with any girl. Every girl. Not just me. I don’t want to picture it.

“You have to leave your heart and soul here,” he tells me. “Every night. Every time. It’s your job to make the audience feel something.”

I definitely felt something. Mission accomplished—for him at least. “How?” I ask. I’m used to being instructed on my technicality, not the sentiments behind my movements.

He rests an elbow on a metal rung, and his deep gray eyes penetrate me, a mystery behind them. The kind that leaves me unprepared for what’s to come. “The easiest way is to draw upon personal experiences,” he says. “Think about the times you were in love.”

I sway uneasily and unglue my eyes from his. I wait for it…

“You’ve never been in love,” he states. There it is.

“I’m only twenty-one,” I defend. “I still have plenty of time to fall in love after I pursue my career.”

He nears me, only a couple steps closer, but his body heat radiates and warms my skin. “Then evoke the same passion you feel when you have sex.”

I internally cringe.

As if the times I had sex were filled with wild, hot fervor. “I’ll try,” I say under my breath. That’s all I can do.

Awkward silence gathers between us, and I sense him reading my features. I just wonder how outwardly I’m cringing. I attempt to relax my facial muscles, but it’s too late.

“You’ve never had sex,” he deduces.

“No,” I say with the shake of my head. “No, I’ve had sex. Twice, actually.”

“Twice?” His brows rise like that’s it?

Why did I give him a number? I would face-palm myself if I wasn’t frozen solid. “They weren’t memorable.” Just lame stabs at crossing off “to-do” lists. It took me some time to realize the list shouldn’t have existed in the first place.

He remains quiet, mulling this over, maybe. His lips in a thin line, his eyes more narrowed.

It dawns on me. “You’ve never had terrible sex, have you?” My heart pounds, and a light bulb triggers. “Is that why they call you the God of Russia?”

His expression morphs into an unamused, don’t be ridiculous one. “If your past relationships aren’t enough to help you, then you’ll need to find something that will. An image that’s moved you, a book, a song—anything that you can focus on while you perform. If you’re too concentrated on your actions, on the next move, that’s all the audience will see.”

I have passion for the circus. It’s my greatest, life-long love. Even if it’s a figment, a dream—more than reality. I still feel from it.

I’m just not sure how to show what’s in my heart.

And I can’t take forever to learn this skill. I have a deadline.

“We’ll work on it,” he tells me.

My pulse jumpstarts, and I watch him watching me. “You…want to help me feel passion?”

“I want to help you express passion. I’m sure you feel it. You’re here, aren’t you?” It’s strange how one person can see the hidden parts of you in a short amount of time that others don’t even understand in years.

He rests his warm hand on the back of my neck. “This way, myshka.” As he says it, he’s looking straight through me. This way. To him.

His hand slides to my spine, and he redirects me to a new apparatus, as though nothing really transpired. But my body is tight. My muscles bound together.

Be professional, Thora, I tell myself.

I think back to our first few encounters. When he said, “Our relationship is unprofessional.” Even though he’s training me, I have a feeling that still stands. There is a line that cannot be uncrossed. We’ve leapt over it from day one, and now I just have to bury this tension.

Or draw upon it.





Act Sixteen