I’m confused.
Monsieur Paris is not the same man he was before. This man here, treasuring me and wrecking me up in equal measure? It’s not the legendary dancer I watched on so many video clips, nor the gruff master who taught class today. He smiles at me, eyes crinkling at the corners, even as he runs his palms over me with the kind of ownership that steals the breath from my lungs.
He is commanding. Sure of himself. And his touch—it breaks me apart.
First, he slides his hands inside my baggy sweatshirt. His palms are warm and dry, dwarfing my ribcage, and I shiver as his fingertips graze the underside of my breasts.
“These tell me everything, don’t they angel?” He rubs the pad of his thumbs over the hard beads of my n*****s. I whimper, my forehead dropping into his shoulder, and he gr
