Prosper blushed. Damn it. Why was she still blushing over this? Jackson had talked to her a hundred times already about his ideas on the ballet, and now she couldn’t look at it innocently, not anymore. He’d taken a traditional tale where the prince catches a Firebird and turned it into high D/s pornography, at least in her mind. After the new year they would begin practicing the entire work in preparation for the start of the spring season. This was the only section he kept changing. He kept making it more complex. More difficult. More dangerous.
“Catch, swing, turn her around, catch her in your arms like this—” Jackson mimed a passionate bear hug.
Blake still looked doubtful. “If I miss the turn, if she swings even slightly off balance, she’s hitting the floor! And she’s going to be moving fast, she’s going to be up in the air—”
Jackson waved a hand. “This is Prosper we’re talking about. Perfect Prosper. She’ll hit her mark. You just hit yours. I want it to look like you’re catching a bird in midflight. And you,” he said, spinning on her. “Stop being so afraid. We’ve talked about this before.”
Jackson’s ballet wasn’t easy. Jackson wasn’t easy. He pushed and pushed. He pushed her at home; he pushed her at rehearsals. Her feet ached, but worse, her nerves were shot. He walked over and took her arm to lead her back across the rehearsal room.
“Again. Head up. Run fast. You’re trying to get away. I want to see fear in your face and panic in your body. Let Blake partner you. Work with him. And Blake, you control her. You’ve caught her. She’s yours. Show me in your face how that makes you feel. Show me how you make her give up her freedom to you.”
Prosper squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. Blake stood, waiting. She ran; she leaped. He caught her in a grasp that hurt her, swung her over his head high in the air. His hands left her. Free of the earth, she arced upward for a millisecond, then came down. She squeaked as his strong arms gripped her on the way down. He hugged her as Jackson had demonstrated. It felt crushing. Her toes just skimmed the floor.
“Okay,” said Jackson. “Was that so hard? Repeat five hundred times; make it bone memory. The audience will gasp. It will all be worthwhile.” He looked back down at his dance book, already moving on to other steps. Prosper thought he thought she could do anything in the world. She wasn’t so sure.
“Jackson,” she said. “If I slip, if we get it wrong, I’ll fall on my back. Or if he drops me in the catch afterwards, I’ll snap one or both of my ankles.”
“That’s ballet, isn’t it, girl?” Jackson looked up at her, unwavering. “If you don’t want to get hurt, don’t get it wrong.”
They walked home together later that night. Jackson was quiet, but that wasn’t unusual. Rehearsals had gone well aside from her abiding anxiety about the lift. She and Blake had tried it fifteen times in a row afterward, until the skin he grasped at her waist was so raw and sore she had to bite her tongue to keep from crying out. It wasn’t bad partnering to grab her that way. It was good partnering. Clutching, good. Dropping, bad.
And Prosper fought her own fears to make it work every time. Tensing or shrinking during a lift could make a slight dancer unliftable, while good balance and propulsion could make a heavy dancer effortless to lift. Partnering in general was such a complicated and precise art, but lifts even more so. The female had to keep her abdominals tight, but her body loose. She had to keep herself perfectly centered in space but not rigid. The man provided the muscle and the counterbalance in the event of a waver. The male had to learn with each female he partnered how to guide her particular body to the right axis in space. With the best pairings it developed naturally, almost like falling in love. With others it was a struggle. It was a conscious effort to figure the other out and adjust to the balance each time.
She looked over at Jackson, head down, shoulders hunched against the bitter December wind. It was almost Christmas, and while the decorations and twinkling lights of the neighboring townhomes were lovely, they did nothing to take the edge off the frigid wind. She suppressed a shiver. He took his scarf off and wrapped it around her shoulders.
“I told you to start dressing more warmly. This isn’t peacoat weather. Especially when you weigh ninety-five pounds.”
Prosper weighed more than ninety-five, but not by much. She’d begun to lose, not by any real effort, just the punishing performance and rehearsal schedule at this time of year. And yes, every so often, she decided not to eat. She liked to feel light, empty. It was easier to dance that way. But she knew she had to maintain her weight. Her clothes were getting loose, and she’d been fitted already for her Firebird costume. If she lost or gained weight, even a little, the tight silhouette wouldn’t fit right.
Unfortunately when she was at the apartment with Jackson, food was the furthest thing from her mind. Even now, during this silent, tense walk to Jackson’s street, when they didn’t touch for fear of being seen, she burned for him. He’d made her his Firebird, but more than that, he’d lit her up. He’d set her on fire.
At the Townsend, they worked. They collaborated. At his apartment, he took her in his arms and everything else fell away. There was only his naked, golden skin and his heavy cock in her hands, between her legs. Hairy chest against her smooth one, strong knees pushing her thighs apart, arms she was powerless to escape. Hard hands that pinned her down and a gaze that could pin her down even harder. Softly whispered directions, barked commands. Rough fingertips exploring her skin.
He glanced over as if he could tell what she was thinking. She might have had flames licking out of her ears from the thoughts in her head. Maybe he was thinking similar thoughts. Two more blocks. Two more.
“Talk to me about the lift, Prosper.”
Okay, maybe not thinking similar thoughts. She pulled her peacoat around her more snugly and nestled her face into Jackson’s scarf. It smelled like him. Aftershave? The soap he used? She would steal this scarf, hide it so when he was gone she would still have it to remember him by. Remember his smell, remember the way he wrapped it around her whenever she shivered.
“Prosper.” He was looking over at her. She pulled her nose from its soft, fragrant haven.
“I’ll get it. It’s just a little scary.”
“Is it because you don’t trust Blake?”
“I trust Blake.”
“Don’t tell me lies. Look at me. Do you trust Blake?”
She did a small half shake of her head and shrugged again. It was too complicated to explain. “I mean, I do trust him—”
“Has Blake hit on you?”
That question she did not expect. She looked over at him with a frown. “Would you care if he did?”
“Has he or hasn’t he?”
“Once. A couple of weeks ago.”
“What did you say?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. We never even finished the conversation. I think he was just joking.”
“I doubt that.”
They both fell silent.
“About you and me, Prosper… Everything’s still okay?”
She took a deep breath. Her palms were starting to sweat. “What do you mean?”
“You’re enjoying living with me still? I mean, you don’t want to move out?”
She didn’t even have to think about it. “No, Jackson. Not at all.”
“I know I’m hard on you at work. And I ask a lot of you at home too.” He stopped, and she looked over at him. Their breaths intermingled, white and wispy, in the air between them.
“I just want you to know…” He paused and shifted, rubbed his lip. “That lift. I know it seems hard right now. But you’ll get it.”