a common occurrence, Ballerina Girl?”
I shrugged, finishing up. “I know what people see—beautiful, graceful ballerinas, women who twirl and look like they’re dancing on air—but it can be competitive, Brando. Rife with jealousy. But for the most part, things have changed since then.”
The news seemed to flabbergast him—mean-spirited ballerinas!—before he turned to stone once more. “Never forget.” His words were forceful. “Always check. Shake those shoes.”
“I will.” I stood and stretched my arms. And then I slid the length of my left leg up the beam in the middle of the room, coming to a sideways split against the wood. Half of my body became flush against it. Then I used my right leg to stand en pointe.
“I’ve never seen you do that before.” He cleared his throat. “Looks painful.”
I bit my lip to keep from laughing. “It’s not. It actually feels good to stretch.” After more stretching, I pointed to a chair that had been placed in the room. “Sit, Brando Piero. Take your shoes off, get comfortable, stay with me a while.”
Once he was settled, I pressed play on the radio. Static crackled and popped in the background before the song I had choreographed my dance to began to play.
Maja Resnik had told Harper’s Bazaar that I had been born a performer. A star, she had said. I had never disagreed with her. Confidence in my ability, in what I could do, and how spectacular I could deliver, came as natural as breathing. I admitted this as freely to myself as someone who could recite the alphabet does. It was great to have the ability, but it wasn’t fabulous, unless you were two. My mother held great disdain for my laissez-faire attitude, but there it was.
Having Brando as my sole audience, one set of eyes, one heart, one soul, seemed intense to the point of madness.
Though the ballet can be described as sensual, the fluidity of the body and how it moves, the movements are too focused, too choreographed, to become aroused by it. This? This was different. My movements were sensual, slow, and romantic, meant to turn him on. I had come to learn that Brando enjoyed the slow burn. Though I didn’t think he’d mind wild and intense either—perhaps another time.
I had never moved in such a way before, and never for anyone else. I was exposed to almost burning, and I had never been so aware of a piece of clothing on my body—so cool and so forgiving. The silk barely touched my legs, only drifted, caressed as it moved with me.
The intensity made me feel unstable to the point of free; somewhere deep inside, this secret between us felt like a blossoming addiction. I could dance for him this way, only him, for the rest of my life and never feel loss at not sharing it with anyone else—ever again.
His eyes moved me, directing the shifts of the wind, me the helpless ribbon lost to it. The drumming of his heart echoed in my veins, rattling bone, trembling to the marrow.
I was born to dance this way for him alone.
The song ended. Another slow, romantic song took its place.
I stood on the other side of the room, hands clenched, knees weak. My chest pumped up and down with my jagged breath. My heart beat out an erratic tattoo. The whirring of blood in my ears made me think of storms that come in the dead of night.
My cheeks were tinted scarlet, but a chill clung to me, making me feel feverish. This visceral response from my body was not a result of the dance—I could have gone on for hours without losing my breath or tiring. It was because of Brando. The way he watched me almost felt as if he wanted to absorb me into his skin. If eyes could be labeled dangerous, his would be lethal. Even in the candlelight, from across the room, I could see how they simmered, close to an inferno that I had never touched before. Around him, my skin felt as thin as paper, the blood in my veins fire.
He hadn’t even touched me yet. His will alone left me close to trembling.
Minutes disappeared and neither of us spoke. I willed my eyes to stay on his and not drop to the floor. When the silence became too much for me to bear, I broke it, close to begging for relief. I couldn’t have been more vulnerable even if I were standing before him naked.
“Say something,” I