Two weeks later
When he made himself a promise that he would protect Mytho, Fakir had been ready.
Ready to jump through fire & fall off a cliff, ready to be chased by hordes of monsters & pecking beaks.
Ready for Anything.
But not this.
He had been ready to wield a sword, fight to his death
But he wasn't ready for this,
Not this, never this.
Her alabaster hands sweeping across his face, caressing his cheekbones, causing the faintest flush.
Her pale lips twisting into a slight smirk as his breath caught from the nearness of her face, her body...
Her dark lashes fluttering down and she peeking out from under them to capture him in the depth of her wine-colored eyes.
Mr. Cat rolling on the floor in a spasm of pure euphoria as two of his his best and most promising students demonstrated to him once again
why they were chosen to represent the academy in a national bid to secure a spot in the Western World's most prestigious Dancing academies, Julliard.
Fakir spazzed and backed away quickly, flustered to his senses.
Shit
'This isn't real. It's all a joke, We're rehearsing one of Mr. Cat's stupid skits, trying to decide which one we'll use for the callbacks. That's all'
And nothing should be real, not the blush searing across his face, not her gentle caresses of his face, his forehead, the bridge of his nose, his lips...
No, it wasn't real. It was acting.
Acting.
Fakir was acting.
He was working, He was dancing. No matter who he was dancing with, when Fakir danced, he didn't screw around.
He had his hand around her waist and his body pressed to hers because he was acting.
Rue was acting.
Pirouettes, laughter, grand jetes, jokes.
She was dancing and she was performing.
She was watching him squirm beneath her touch.
Two weeks had passed since their first Julliard discussion meeting. Every day of those two weeks brought hours of studying & practicing & dancing & acting.
They had moved through script after script, tossing away those that were too explicit, too lame, too tawdry, or too boring.
Finally they had come across one that seemed to fit.
And they had started rehearsing around 3 O'clock, it was now a quarter till ten.
Fakir was tired, he was annoyed, he was frustrated, & he wanted to just go to bed.
But the draw of her eyes kept him there, the beckon of her hands, the call of her body.
Fakir gently spun her around & lifted her off the floor, her hands reaching toward the sky.
Then, as her ballet flats returned to the ground, as the teenage dancers looked toward their feline mentor for approval, as Mr. Cat mewed his applause & exclaimed,
'You're almost there!', as Rue sighed in relief and slyly leaned onto Fakir as if in exhaustion, as she felt him tense up & suddenly relax, as she was allowed to stay there, her head resting
on his chest, she felt a hard swell of feeling pressed against her lower abdomen. He was almost there, almost ready to succumb to her & her growing need.
Rue smiled...