Relevé, arms up, turn. Madame’s voice in her head, “Float, Faith. Like a flower petal.”
And she did. The music poured through her, lifting her up. The Tchaikovsky was both powerful and delicate, making her feel strong, light. Balanced. All the sadness from the kitchen, the anger, the confusion, disappeared. In its place, she let all the happiness and contentment dancing could give settle into her bones.
After all her hours of practice, the moves were instinctive, and she forgot Kyle was there. Her mind was occupied with controlling her limbs, moderating her breathing, and ignoring the pain that came with each relevé, but that wasn’t important. Only the dance was. She moved through it, letting the joy pulse in her veins.
The music hit its crescendo, and she spun, before landing in her final position, arms extended and chest heaving.
Then she remembered she had an audience.
Kyle was staring at her, his eyes dark and intense. Nothing mocking, nothing cocky. “That was beautiful, Faith.”
She dropped her pose and stared at her pointe shoes. “Thank you.”
The chair creaked, and she watched his feet close the distance between them as the third movement of the Tchaikovsky began. He put a finger under chin and tilted her face up to his. “I mean it. You have a lot of talent. NYU would be stupid not to let you in.”
“And yet,” she said in a shaking voice, “you still haven’t heard me sing.”
He smiled. “Sing our song, and I’ll whistle along.”
She stared at him, still breathless. That song from Oklahoma!? Surely that’s not what he meant. “Now I know you’re teasing me.”
“Not really.” His hands slid down her arms and encircled her waist. “Maybe not at all.”
“Oh.” She cleared her throat. “I’m not sure I’m ready to sing.” A fleeting look of disappointment crossed his face, and she said, “Not the song, just in general. I’m a little out of breath.”
“How about dancing, then?” He started turning them in a slow circle. “That okay?”
“Always,” she murmured.
His body was tight against hers, his thin T-shirt and her leotard concealing almost nothing between them. Goose bumps rose along her arms when he leaned in to press his forehead to hers.
“What are we doing, Kyle?” she asked, almost afraid to hear his answer if it was going to be “having a good time,” or “just messing around.” Because this didn’t feel like just messing around. This felt too big for just a quick hookup.
“Dancing.” He pulled away to look into her eyes. “Because it’s your favorite thing to do.”
Oh God. He had her now. All in, whole heart. Being hurt would be worth it if this wasn’t meant to last. “It is. But, um…” She gulped down a breath. “I like kissing a lot, too.”
Those must’ve been magic words, because before she could take another breath, his lips were pressed against hers. One hand circled her waist, and the other was busily pulling the pins out of her bun, so that her hair spilled down her back.
She ran her hands down his arms and up to rest on his chest. He was all hard planes and angles. He gasped and pressed closer, pushing her back against the barre, and she stumbled.
“Sorry. Sorry.” He wouldn’t meet her eye. “Did I hurt you?”
She looked at him, astonished. He’d been so eager, and a little clumsy, not at all like a guy with a ton of moves. “I’m fine, but maybe we should take this party inside. Oh, and maybe I should lose the pointe shoes.”
“I don’t know. Ballet shoes are pretty hot.”
Laughing, she took his hand and led him through the kitchen to the family room. “You won’t say that when you see my awful feet.”
“Won’t change a thing.”
“You’ve been warned, then.” She pointed at the couch. “Have a seat. I won’t bite.”
“That’s disappointing.”
She bent to untie her shoes so he wouldn’t see her blush for the nineteenth time that day. When she finished and stood, he was staring at her again, looking rapt simply by the act of untying her shoes. She dropped them on the floor and glided over the hardwoods in her tights. “Should I go change?”
“No.”
That simple word was delivered with force. Hmm, someone liked ballerinas, didn’t he? She slid onto the couch next to him. “How long until you have to leave for practice?”
“About an hour.”
His voice was hoarse. This was it, then. Time to jump off the high dive. “Perfect.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Kyle
Faith settled in his lap, a warm weight that set all his nerves on fire. And those legs? Those amazing, beautiful, long legs that danced like an angel? He had access to run his hands along them from midthigh to ankle. Her muscles flexed under his touch.
“You’re lovely,” he whispered.
“Lovely?” she murmured against his neck, before planting a kiss on his jaw. “That’s not a word I hear guys our age use often. Hot, maybe.”