Heart broken

Heart broken
"Very good seats," Annika mused as we settled down. She was happy, fidgeting slightly with the folds of her fur coat, but every single one of my nerves was on edge. The world was moving far too slow as we waited and waited for the performance to start. Dimitri and I had missed the first half of the show last time, and my eyes were wide, scanning the stage, ready to seek Elena the moment she set foot on it. Every movement of the orchestra, every shuffle of a program in the hands of a theatergoer, made my chest tighten with anticipation.

All I could think about was watching her fly over the stage. My fingers itched to pull another smoke from my front pocket, the leather of my jacket brushing against the pack, but then the lights were dimming, and the music was starting. The first act of Swan Lake was terrible, Elena wasn't in at all. The entire thing revolved around some dumb prince, and the man prancing about the stage in ridiculous tights. It annoyed me so intensely that I bounced my leg in my seat, a sharp rhythm of irritation echoing in my bones.

The second act's first half was equally boring. More than anything, it felt like torture. I was certain that prince Siegfried was a moron, his every gesture grating, his presence nothing more than a distraction from the beauty that was yet to appear.

Everything changed when the Swan Queen was revealed. Odette, the great beauty, cursed to live as a swan by day.

Elena, the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, emerged like a vision.

I watched her lithe, powerful form move across the stage, each step precise, every motion conveying meaning, telling a story with her body accompanied by heartbreaking music that seemed to seep into my chest. Her movement made the story come to life with the grace in every ounce of her being, her every extension and turn holding the audience captive, but my eyes never left her.

It made me believe with no doubt that she was the swan; she was the woman, cursed by the evil sorcerer, carrying the weight of a story that mirrored the ache I felt deep in my own chest.

Her struggle was real. When she sees the prince pronounce his love to the imposter Odile in the third act, I wondered if Elena's heart had ever been broken. My stomach tightened as I considered it, my fingers twitching as though they wanted to reach out and comfort her.

Was she acting? Or did she perform such believable emotions because she had lived through them?

Was her heart broken now?

Odette forgives the prince for being fooled, and I don't like that part of the performance. He messed up, and she shouldn't have continued loving him. Their love leads to her demise. My jaw clenched at the thought, the injustice of it echoing in my chest like a punch.

Again, from this view of the stage, I could see the tears in her eyes. My fingers itched with the desire to wipe them away, to shield her from even the smallest pain.

In the end, the spirits of Odette and the prince ascend into the heavens together. Watching Elena in awe was inspiring, but I couldn't help but think that she deserved a happier ending. The swan's suffering wasn't fair. The injustice clung to me, a weight I couldn't shake.

"Andrey, why do you send me home on my own? Your uncle will not help me finish that bottle of wine I just imported, and I know you appreciate a red from Tuscany." Annika pushed for me to join her, her words thick with her Russian accent, but I knew if I went back with my aunt, she would drink too much, chatter endlessly, and gossip for far too long.

"I have plans for the rest of the night, Tetya. Antonio will get you home safely." I kissed her on the back of the hand, feeling the warmth of her skin against mine, and helped her into the car. Once the black car disappeared in the flow of traffic, the city lights reflecting on the wet streets, I shifted my mind back to what the night had in store.

I felt as if I was still… high. From seeing Elena on stage. That was the only way I could describe this feeling. Her performance changed me, and I knew it; just seeing her move, the curves of her body in motion, her expression, the subtle tremor in her hands, erotically affected me. I wanted more of her.

When I thought of the last time, it was incredibly obvious to me now that she had been tired. And why wouldn't she be? After the intense performance where she just gave her heart and soul to the audience, every muscle stretched and strained to convey perfection.

And she had been nervous. I could taste the liquor on her lips when I kissed her, faint but intoxicating, mingling with the natural scent of her skin. The tremor in her limbs as I touched her replayed vividly in my mind, sparking a hunger I could barely contain.

"I don't want her to be nervous again," I grumbled, running my hand through my hair, the strands sticking slightly from the summer humidity. I pulled my smokes from my pocket and lit one up as I meandered down the bustling streets, the smoke curling into the cold night air, mingling with the scent of rain on asphalt and the distant aroma of street food.

Why did I care if she was or wasn't? This situation differed from the women I normally pursued. I didn't need to try.

Elena was different for many reasons.

She was the Prima Ballerina of the New York City ballet and she was for sale.

I didn't need to impress her or make her feel special just to get into bed with her. It was guaranteed. I was spending a lot of money to get myself between her thighs. But damn, I did want to get myself between those smooth, impossibly sculpted thighs again.

"Your orgasm is mine." That was all I said and her face was so astoundingly beautiful when she came for me. I wanted her to do it again and again, and I wanted to watch each time, memorizing every curve, every arch, every expression.

"Fuck me." Exhaling heavily, I tossed the butt of my cigarette into the murky water draining from the street into the sewer, the hiss and steam mingling with the fog rising from the gutters. When I looked up, I was standing under the light of a bright flower shop, the petals illuminated, almost taunting me with their delicate perfection.

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| ELENA'S POV |

Over one client in a month is rare. Another one within a week hadn't happened before. Knowing they asked for me specifically made me incredibly curious. Luke and Dax didn't provide any information on the clients before meetings. Each time I went in blind, nerves tightening with a familiar thrill and fear.

This time I was terribly afraid and I wouldn't be as lucky as the last time. That man, Andrey, he had been something else entirely. No one had ever made me feel how he had. The only client to ever bring me to the peak of pleasure like that.

"Your orgasm is mine."

What was it about those words that made me linger on them? The passion and the dominance in them as he controlled me. My skin itched to remember his hands, his voice, the taste of him.

It didn't feel like he was using me.

Something about that night left an itch of sorts under my skin, a burn that lingered longer than any mark could.

Looking up at the hotel, I sighed loudly, the sound swallowed by the city hum. Adjusting the strap of my purse and ignoring the horns honking around me, I pushed my aching legs to walk. Inside, I was crying out for my bed, the warmth of blankets and the quiet of solitude, but I had nothing to do.

Not this one. Not with a stranger.

My phone told me I was just early as last weekend, and I braced myself to mix an energy drink and vodka from the mini fridge. The cool liquid slid down my throat, a sharp contrast to the heat still burning beneath my skin from last time. The key card clicked, and I pushed the door open, feeling the weight of anticipation settle in my chest.