Page 24 of Under Pressure

“No?” If I didn’t know better, I could swear there’s a gleam of interest in her eye. She’s not the type to do stuff like that, though. Everything about her is so… wholesome. Pure. When I’m not riling her up, that is.

“When’s the last time you got any?” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them and she recoils slightly.

“That’s— That’s personal,” she stammers, her cheeks visibly turning red even in the dim light of the club.

I immediately feel like shit. “Sorry—”

“Over a year,” she blurts out, meeting my gaze and lifting her chin higher. “What about you?”

“A few months.”

She takes another sip, eyeing me over the rim of her glass. “That’s longer than I expected from you.”

I lean closer. “And why’s that?”

She makes a gesture with her hand to encompass all of me. “The way you look. You obviously put time into working on your body. Seems like you’d want someone to appreciate it more often.”

I shake my head, my lips twisting of their own accord. “Sex is just a means to an end. If I need to blow off steam and boxing isn’t cutting it.” I pause, picking at the label on my beer bottle. “And I’m selective with my partners.”

Her eyes widen. “How so?”

I stare at her, taking her measure. “You really want to know?”

She nods, bringing her glass up to her mouth again.

“She has to have experience. I’m not messing around teaching some virgin what to do.” She rolls her eyes, her body relaxing. “She has to be on the pill or some kind of birth control. I don’t take any chances with that sort of thing.”

“That’s fair,” she murmurs.

“And she has to understand it’s a one-time deal. I don’t do girlfriends.”

“Of course not.”

I stay silent, letting her have her little jab.

“Come dance with me,” she says, gulping down the last of her drink. “Notas a girlfriend.”

I smirk at her. “Yes, ma’am.”

She leads me to the dance floor, shaking that wild hair of hers out behind her shoulders, her hips moving sensually to the rhythm of some remix playing I can’t quite put my finger on. I watch her move, much more coordinated than I would have given her credit for. “Where’d you learn to dance?”

“Miss Galina’s Dance Academy.”

“What?” I laugh.

“Ballet and jazz. From first through seventh grade.”

“And what happened after seventh?”

“My body started actually developing. And I didn’t want to eat salad every day to keep my weight down. So I wasn’t really encouraged to continue.”

I stare at her. “You’re not fat.”

“I know. But for a ballerina…” She grips the sides of her waist, pinching the skin through her sweater. “You are too big,” she proclaims in a Russian accent.

I place my hand on her hip, tracing my thumb over her hip bone. “You feel good to me.”

Her movements falter and she looks up at me, eyes wide.

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