Two dancers training. Meet Toni and Rashim from Into the Light.
- Written in October 2006. Rated MA.
He's so focused, so intense. Lips parted, gaze fixed to the mirror as his feet pound the rhythm on the floor. He hears the music and so do I. Our brains add what's still missing on top of the thumps and hiss of well-worn leather against smooth wood.
Those shoes are about to fall apart but he won't stop using them until they actually do. It's a tragedy that it always happens; the shoes are at their best just days before they're ruined beyond repair, and then you must start breaking the new ones in. You know you should start it already earlier but somehow you always find yourself wearing the old, worn, comfy ones anyway. He's no exception to the rule, and that makes me feel like laughing.
I love to watch him train, and not just because he's so beautiful. I love that hard look in his olive-green eyes as he watches himself. Every line, every movement. His eyes are merciless and I know already that one day, when he won't go to the stage any more, he'll make a damn good teacher. Right now he makes a glorious sight in those tiny training shorts, warmers crumpled down his ankles, thin shirt soaked through and plastered to the skin on his back and waist and arms.
The outlines of muscles are sharp in his legs as he turns around and stops for a beat. Tendons flex, I see the little grimace but then he's moving again before my heart has time to do more than just thump uneasily, and the motion is as fluid as ever. My eyes follow the arm that reaches up, higher up, the hand that closes around something invisible and pulls it down to cradle it to his heart, but I don't stop there. No, his buttocks and thighs look far too nice in this position and I let my gaze drop to caress them as he slowly curls down and sinks to one knee on the floor.
It takes a while before he snaps out of the scene and our eyes meet, he grins and licks a bead of sweat from his upper lip.
"How did it look?" he wants to know and catches the huge, bundled towel that I toss him.
"Impressive," I say truthfully. "Surely you're not limping again?"
"I'm not." He sits down on the floor, then rotates the foot experimentally in front of him. "It was just a sting, nothing bad."
"Remember not to ignore it if it gets worse," I remind him. "Rith's not going to be happy if you won't be able to dance your part."
"I do remember," he sighs as he rubs the Achilles tendon through the warmers. "I've learned my lesson, believe me."
"I hope so. You should believe me a little more often."
He rubs his face with the towel and messes up that sleek dark hair. He knows I can't resist it when it's mussed like that, so of course I have to crawl closer and sink my fingers into it. It's damp, too, but who cares? I want to kiss him, taste the sweat on his lips.
He claims that I'm a good kisser, but I'll be damned if I'm even half as good as he is. I don't know how he does it, unless it's just because I'm forever so crazy about him ĘC anyway the truth is that the first poke of his tongue against mine makes want flare up inside me. I've had time to cool down a bit and he feels so hot against me when my arms twine around him under the towel and pull him close.
I swear I must be the luckiest guy in the world. Still there are moments when I just have to stop and gasp for breath to comprehend it, moments when the sheer power of my dumb luck catches up with me, such as right now as we kiss here. My hand splayed in his hair. Our bodies pressed together. His possessive hold of my ass. His dick throbbing between us, against mine, I can feel it so gloriously well through the thin, worn fabric of the shorts. How can I be this lucky?
How can it be that I still can't quite comprehend it at times? Probably because he's the most gorgeous man I've ever met, barring none, and he wants to be my partner.
"I don't think we'll be training any more today," he says and pulls my ponytail so that I have to tilt my head back. I don't mind, because that gives him better access to my throat. He likes nipping the skin with his front teeth, I like the shivers that gives me.
"At least I won't," I tell him. "I'd need sturdier underwear to keep this hard-on properly inside."
That makes him laugh until he's almost in tears. I try to look insulted but know even without the mirror that it's not succeeding too well. Nevertheless I manage something of a pout. "What? It's the truth!"
"How can someone so beautiful talk so naughty?" he grins. Our foreheads press together.
"And I'm not even naughty," I correct him. "I was just saying a truth that you could feel perfectly well yourself."
"Anyway," he murmurs between little kisses. "Gorgeous and ethereal stars of the Dance Theater are not supposed to talk about hard-ons. What would all your doe-eyed fans say if they heard you?"
Now it's my time to laugh, not least because he's doing a very good imitation of said fans. "Toni, they are all very well aware that I am being regularly and thoroughly fucked by another heartthrob of the Dance Theater and loving every moment of it! Will you please stop quoting that one overexcited critic at last?"
"I'll try to," he promises. "I just like that review so damn much."
The wicked glitter of his eyes just fans the need licking my body.