Amour Amour (Aerial Ethereal #1)(70)

I need something hard—

His finger slips inside of me while his thumb creates circular, rhythmic motions over my clit. I shut my eyes, blinded by a new fullness. A sheen of sweat builds across my skin.

He presses his body harder, pinning me more to the wall. I reach down to feel his hand between my legs, and he kisses me again, my head floating away.

He pulses his finger inside of me, and he pauses for a brief second to fit another. I lean my head back. “I don’t…” know. If this will hurt.

He kisses me like trust me. “You’re wet enough,” he says lowly, his arousal clipping his deep words.

I inhale and lean back towards him, resting my cheek on his chest. I wrap my arms around his ribs, as far as they’ll go (which is not far at all). And he slips another finger in me, tight but not painful.

His pace begins again, deeper.

I’m going to come soon. I climb up the tallest pole, towards the peak. I tremble, my mouth open against his flesh. I cry into his chest, the noise muffled there. And then I feel myself clench around his fingers, my eyes almost rolling back.

While I ride the descent, he holds me still, his thumb caressing the skin on my neck. In my ear, he whispers, “Get used to this. It’s going to happen more often.”

I don’t see how I can ever get used to that. It’ll always be a rush. But I’m not complaining at all. I’m definitely an advocate of experiencing this again.

I pull back some, registering where we are. In the middle of the day. A dressing room. “I think…I’m going to just buy those…” I say with a nod at the lingerie hangers.

His intense eyes are fixed on me. “Good idea.” He licks his lips. “Exhale for me.”

I do. And he slowly retracts his fingers, a slight pinch of pain down below. I stifle a wince and inhale sharply. “We’re not going to fit together.”

“We are,” he says lowly. “In all ways.”

I hope he’s right. Because I don’t want this to end here.





Act Twenty-Five



Three and a half months in Vegas and summer is gone, but today is still the hottest day of the year, which is cause for celebration in this city. The Masquerade’s Wet & Wild Bash is one of the biggest pool parties I’ve ever been to, and I’d revel in the DJ, masses of bikini-clad girls, six-pack guys, open bar (for Masquerade employees only) and decently cold water if I didn’t feel like a semi-truck rolled over me this morning.

Bruises mar my arms, thighs, ankles—war wounds from apparatuses and training seven days a week. Now in a salmon-pink bathing suit, the bruises are visible, including a nasty green and brown welt on my upper-thigh.

I try to hide the pain in my muscles and joints while I stand beside a high-top table near the cabanas, overflowing with people. I can’t even see the lounge cushions beneath the bodies—same almost applies for the pool.

I rub my swollen knuckles, waiting for Nikolai to return with drinks. Amour isn’t playing tonight. Management scattered Infini in their time-slots, and Nik didn’t seem pleased by it. Maybe it’s a sign the show isn’t performing well.

Elena could change that though. In six weeks she’ll take the stage in the aerial silk act, opposite Nikolai. I try to be happy for him, that he can finally perform his act again, but it’s hard to think of her and not see what I lost.

The high-top table vibrates from the DJ’s blasting speakers, and I rest my hands on the surface to steady it. A passing couple gives me the stink-eye for commandeering a table all to myself. Sorry. I’m waiting for someone. I doubt that I channel the apology through my face. Scowling. I’ve been scowling this whole time.

Resting Bitch Face fail.

My spirits lift slightly when I see a person behind them, a real grimace on his face every time someone bumps his arm. John looks ready to douse his beer on their heads. By the time he makes it to my table, he sighs heavily, like he just walked through the Sahara and barely came out alive.

“They’re all going to need a tetanus shot after this.” He gestures to the pool. “Idiots.”

I smile. “Nice to see you too, John.” In swim shorts, he’s way more toned than I thought he’d be, more definition in his abs.

He raises his drink at me in hello and scans the congested area, searching for someone. Then he turns to me. “So…” His dark brows tic up.

I frown. “So…?” I repeat.

“How do you two even work?” His face is still in that grimace. “Are you always on top?”

“John,” I say, wide-eyed. How Nikolai and I fuck is honestly—it’s something I’m still trying to picture. I don’t even want to be on top that much, which is the worrisome part.

Near us, a romantically-entwined couple starts making out with major tongue, and John’s lip curls at the affection. “Get a fucking room,” he says, loud enough that the guy shoots him a glare. “I’m not the one sucking face.” The guy flips him off but actually leaves our area. “Asshole.” John turns to me, my heart pounding. “You can’t be that surprised. When people see a giant fucking Russian man with a five-foot-something tiny blonde, it’s the first thing we all think.”

“No…” People aren’t that curious. But then I envision myself in their shoes. I internally groan—how do they have sex would be in my top five thoughts, for sure.