Free Amour Amour by Krista Ritchie, Becca Ritchie Page B

over his shoulder at Helen and then focus on me again. His closeness and deep, hollow voice cement my joints to stiff, unbendable shapes. When I should be just the opposite. Flexible and lithe.
    “You’ll follow my lead then,” he says. “I’m assuming you can do that unless you tell me otherwise.”
    “I can,” I nod, more eagerly than usual. I want to learn. As much as possible.
    He stares down at me again, his gaze raking my small frame in a long wave. “This isn’t about executing the best pitch tuck or vault somersault. There’s no score at the end of a show. People attend the circus to see the impossible become possible, and it’s up to us to create that illusion.” His hand descends to my hip, his grip firm. “And we do that using our bodies.”
    I’m wide awake, all yawns vanishing. His touch leaves hot imprints across me.
    “We’ll try something simple first…” He clasps my hips and swiftly lifts me to his waist, and I instinctively wrap my legs around him. Thump. Thump. I can feel my heart slam into my ribs.
    One of his hands rises to my hair, clutching the back of my head. And his unwavering bedroom eyes try to melt parts of me. On purpose. This is purposeful lust that I cannot defend myself against. It’s too strong. He’s too strong.
    “Whatever passion you’ve ever encountered in your life, you use it now, Thora,” he tells me, reminding me that this is more than gymnastics. This is a performance.
    Passion.
    I wrack my brain. And I see a sloppy drunken night. And I see an awkward, short-lived one. Passion has never been in the cards for me, but that doesn’t mean I can’t fake it. That’s what acting is, right?  
    We’re all putting on a show here.
    I take another strong breath, fixating on his lips in hopes that I look sultry enough. I’m tiny in his arms, little and breakable but still strong. Not as strong as him , my conscience retorts. I’ll get there , I snap back, attempting to snuff out any self-doubt.
    “We’ll try a handstand on my shoulders,” he instructs. “I’ll be able to tell if you’re struggling, so don’t worry about falling.” He searches my eyes for affirmation that I understand. But his hand caresses my cheek, my whole body warming and my mind jumbling. “Thora?”
    “Yeah?”
    “Relax. Breathe normally ,” he tells me with a smile beginning to lift his lips.
    “I can do that,” I say positively.
    “Good.” His hand drifts to my spine, pressing my body closer. My thin leotard is all that separates my skin from his. I feel his chest rise and fall a bit heavier than before. And then his unshaven jaw skims my cheek; his lips to my ear, he says, “I’ll swing you, and with that momentum, you’ll reach my shoulders. Don’t be afraid.”
    I wonder if I’m expelling fear. I don’t mean to be. “I’m not afraid,” I whisper.
    “Then show me.”
    With this, I unlock my legs and he grasps my forearms, lowering me. Not to the ground. He swings my body out, and when I careen back into him, I spread my legs so I don’t whack into his knees. We repeat the movement only twice before I’m high enough to grip his broad shoulders.
    The adrenaline flows through my veins like an electric shock. My fingers whiten as I clench his shoulders as hard as possible, forcing my body to this position. Upside-down, my head rushes with blood. He stays perfectly rigid, and I press my legs together, mimicking his pose so we’re in a straight, tall line.
    Then he places one hand firmly on my ass, the other remaining on my forearm. As though he doesn’t trust me enough to release his hold. I point my toes and whisper, “Let go.”
    His eyes flicker up to me once before he very slowly drops his hands.
    “Step forward,” Helen suddenly says, challenging us.
    Nikolai’s muscles flex and emerge as he carries my weight. Without shifting his posture, he takes an extra step. My body teeters a little from the movement, and I struggle to remain fixed in place.
    His hand