Chapter 178 Behind the church doors 2

Chapter 178 Behind the church doors 2
The next three weeks were torture disguised as discipline.

Elena ran rehearsals like a tyrant. She drilled the company until feet bled inside satin pointe shoes, until spines shook with exhaustion, until every transition in the new Salome was carved into muscle memory with surgical precision. No one dared complain. They all knew the reviews would either crown them or bury them, and Elena’s reputation was a blade balanced on their necks.

Valeria, officially named understudy with the promise of two performances, absorbed the punishment with a half-smile that never reached her eyes. She took every correction Elena threw at her, every vicious “Again, from the entrance—cleaner, you look like a whore with a broken hip,” without flinching. But when Elena’s hand lingered on the small of her back a fraction too long, or when their eyes locked across the studio and held, Valeria’s tongue would touch the corner of her mouth in a promise that made Elena’s stomach drop.

They did not touch again. Not once. Not in the studio, not in the corridors, not even when the lights went down and the building emptied. Elena told herself it was professionalism. Valeria knew it was foreplay.

Then came the Thursday that broke them.

It was past ten. The janitors had already made their rounds. Elena had kept the principals an extra hour on the veil sequence, screaming until her voice cracked. When she finally dismissed them, the others fled like prisoners granted parole. Valeria stayed behind to stretch, ostensibly. Elena pretended not to notice.

She locked the rehearsal studio, walked the long back corridor to her private dressing room, and left the door unlocked.

Fifteen minutes later the handle turned.

Valeria slipped inside and shut the door with deliberate quiet. She still wore the rehearsal clothes: black practice tutu shredded at the hem from falls, pale pink tights now grey with rosin, legwarmers pushed down around her ankles. Sweat had dried in salty tracks down her throat and between her breasts. Her hair was half out of its bun, dark strands stuck to her cheekbones.

She looked like sin that had been working hard all day.

Elena sat at the vanity, removing stage makeup with cold cream, watching Valeria in the mirror. She had changed into a charcoal silk robe, belt loosely knotted, nothing underneath. The reflection showed the shadowed line of her collarbone, the swell of a breast threatening to escape with every breath.

Neither spoke.

Valeria crossed the room in four silent steps and dropped to her knees between Elena’s thighs.

The robe parted as Elena’s legs opened without conscious permission. Valeria’s hands slid up the bare skin, pushing the silk higher, until the belt gave way entirely. Cool air hit Elena’s heated flesh; she was already wet, had been wet for hours, for days.

Valeria looked up once (dark eyes glittering, asking nothing, promising everything) then leaned forward and licked her in one slow, possessive stroke.

Elena’s head fell back, a broken sound escaping before she could stop it. Valeria did it again, parting her with thumbs, tongue delving inside before circling the clit with devastating precision. She knew exactly what she was doing. This was not gratitude or curiosity; this was ownership.

Elena’s hands found Valeria’s hair, gripping hard, guiding her exactly where she needed. Valeria hummed approval against her, the vibration shooting sparks up Elena’s spine. She sucked Elena’s clit into her mouth, flicking relentlessly, while two fingers pushed inside and curled.

Elena came embarrassingly fast, hips bucking off the stool, thighs clamping around Valeria’s head. The orgasm rolled through her in brutal waves, leaving her gasping, trembling, vision whiting out at the edges.

Valeria did not stop. She gentled her tongue, lapping softly through the aftershocks, drawing it out until Elena whimpered and tried to push her away. Only then did she sit back on her heels, lips swollen and shining, chin wet.

Elena stared down at her, chest heaving. Something dangerous and tender fought behind her ribs.

“Stand up,” she said, voice rough.

Valeria rose. Elena stood with her, letting the robe slide off her shoulders to pool on the floor. Naked, she was lean muscle and sharp angles, small breasts high, hips narrow, the body of a woman who had punished herself into perfection. She took Valeria’s face in both hands and kissed her (slow, filthy, tasting herself on that wicked tongue).

Then she spun her around and bent her over the makeup table.

Valeria’s palms slapped the lighted mirror, breath fogging the glass. Elena shoved the shredded tutu up to her waist, yanked the tights and thong down in one motion, exposing the lush curve of her ass. She brought her hand down hard.

The slap echoed like a gunshot. Valeria cried out, back arching, but pushed back for more. Elena gave it to her (again, again, until the skin flushed dark pink, until Valeria was panting and dripping down her thighs).

“Spread,” Elena ordered.

Valeria widened her stance. Elena dropped to her knees and bit the tender place where ass met thigh, hard enough to bruise. Valeria sobbed. Elena licked a stripe up the center of her, tasting how ready she was, then pushed three fingers deep inside without warning.

Valeria’s entire body clenched, a guttural moan ripping free. Elena fucked her hard and fast, palm slapping against slick flesh, free hand reaching around to circle her clit. Valeria’s arms gave out; her cheek pressed to the cool mirror, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open on silent screams.

Elena added a fourth finger, stretching her, curling to hit that spot over and over. Valeria’s legs shook violently.

“Come,” Elena growled against her spine. “I want to feel it.”

Valeria shattered. Her walls clamped down so hard Elena’s fingers ached. A rush of wetness coated her hand, dripping onto the floor in obscene proof. Valeria’s knees buckled; only Elena’s arm around her waist kept her upright.

But Elena still wasn’t finished.

She pulled her fingers free, stood, and turned Valeria to face her. Then she pushed her down onto the wide, threadbare chaise in the corner (the one dancers used for ice packs and breakdowns). Valeria landed on her back, legs splayed, chest heaving.

Elena climbed over her, knees bracketing her hips. She grabbed Valeria’s wrists, pinned them above her head with one hand, and kissed her again (brutal, devouring). With the other hand she reached between them, found Valeria’s soaked heat, and guided them together.

The first slide of clit against clit drew twin gasps. They found the rhythm instantly, hips rolling, grinding hard. Sweat made their skin slippery; the chaise creaked beneath them. Elena released Valeria’s wrists to brace on the armrest, giving herself leverage to ride harder.

Valeria’s hands went to Elena’s ass, pulling her down, nails digging crescents into flesh. Their mouths met in messy, open-mouthed kisses, breathless and filthy.

“Harder,” Valeria panted. “Fuck me harder.”

Elena slammed their hips together, the wet slap of flesh loud in the small room. Pleasure coiled tight and vicious low in her belly. She felt Valeria swelling against her, felt the tremor that meant she was close again.

They came together this time (a violent, shared explosion that bowed both their backs and tore raw cries from their throats). Elena collapsed forward, forehead pressed to Valeria’s, both of them shaking with aftershocks.

Minutes or hours later (time had lost meaning), Elena rolled to the side, pulling Valeria with her until they lay tangled, legs intertwined, hearts hammering against each other’s ribs.

Valeria traced a lazy circle around Elena’s nipple. “Tomorrow,” she whispered, voice hoarse, “you’ll correct me again in front of everyone. You’ll call me sloppy.”

Elena’s lips curved against her temple. “And you’ll smile like you hate me.”

“I will hate you,” Valeria said, nipping her collarbone. “Until you lock the door.”

Elena closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of sex and sweat and jasmine gone feral.

Outside, the corridor lights clicked off one by one. Inside, two women clung to each other in the dark, already addicted, already damned, and neither willing to stop.