All Chapters of Touch Me, Daddy: Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

Monsieur Paris is a noble dancing legend.The lyrical kind.He defined my purpose. Occupied my childhood with his furious, magical dances. With his unmatched, relentless skill. And when the famous dancer visits our class, I feel like I'm in a dream.But I keep missing my steps.I keep missing the tune.I keep... flopping.Because underneath his heated gaze, I'm a quivering mess. A disappointment. And I don't know why it feels like I'm the only one in the room, dancing for him? Why does it feel like he wants something else from me?Something unheard of in these sacred halls?Something sweet...but wicked? And why do I want that too?-----------------------"Listen up, girls!"Madame Ophelia's throaty growl comes with a sharp clap that draws our attention from our individual routines. An immediate hush quickly settles over the rehearsal studio. She stands in the center of the floor, her back ramrod straight and her chin tilted high.Madame Ophelia is every inch a perfectionist. Though s

All my life, I’ve searched for an angel.My very own angel.A girl who sets me on fire. I searched for her in high school. In the dancing halls. In huge competitions I was made to attend.In the goddamn streets.Everywhere.But here.I’ve found an angel in this class.My angel.Her soft hair glints golden in the sunshine spilling through the windows; her rosebud lips part on a sigh as she dances the arabesque, her movements like the slow spread of honey. I frown at her, transfixed, as the students progress through their exercises, trying and failing to pinpoint why she captivates me so.She’s not the most technically perfect.She does not have the highest extension or the most arched feet.She does not even have the best focus, her attention slipping regularly from the dance and landing on me. Usually, I would snarl in frustration at such lack of focus.But I find I like this—her distracted gaze on me. The pink flush on her cheekbones when I catch her looking; the way her nipples bead

I’m such a fool.I’ve arranged my own torture: watching Camillia in the arms of another man. She dances the steps perfectly, her movements lithe and primal, a secret extra swivel to her hips and smile curling her lips.She’s the perfect black swan. Half the men in this room are panting just watching her, and I tuck my fists behind my back to hide the whitened knuckles.The way she dances… it’s more erotic than a strip tease. More tantalizing than any burlesque. She dips into a backbend, and a groan rumbles through my chest.Camillia. Fuck. I’d give anything to touch her.“What do you think, Monsieur?” Madame Ophelia drifts up to my elbow. “Have you found your star pair?” Her eyebrow twitches, like it’s a nonsense question. Like it’s already clear who I’ll choose.I don’t care.“Yes. Camillia and… that boy.”“David,” Madame Ophelia supplies.Whatever. It’s not like anyone will be watching him. The only thing he brings to the dance is his supporting arms, lifting Camillia, and the shock

I’m confused.Monsieur Paris is not the same man he was before. This man here, treasuring me and wrecking me up in equal measure? It’s not the legendary dancer I watched on so many video clips, nor the gruff master who taught class today. He smiles at me, eyes crinkling at the corners, even as he runs his palms over me with the kind of ownership that steals the breath from my lungs.He is commanding. Sure of himself. And his touch—it breaks me apart.First, he slides his hands inside my baggy sweatshirt. His palms are warm and dry, dwarfing my ribcage, and I shiver as his fingertips graze the underside of my breasts.“These tell me everything, don’t they angel?” He rubs the pad of his thumbs over the hard beads of my nipples. I whimper, my forehead dropping into his shoulder, and he growls in approval. “Every time you look over at me in class, these gorgeous little tits strain against your leotard.”I should be embarrassed about that, but I can’t think straight right now. Not with Mon

Camillia is not her usual self today.The first day in the theater usually bubbles with excitement. The dancers can imagine it properly for the first time: the rows of faces in the audience. The music floating up from the orchestra pit. The heat of the lights and the deafening applause.The rest of the dancers chatter excitedly as Madame Ophelia and I lead them through the backstage corridors, giggling and whispering as we pass the stars’ dressing rooms. And none have more reason to be excited than Camillia—she has the biggest part. The most to gain.Yet she trails behind the others, barely listening to whatever her partner David is droning about in her ear. Her eyes skate along the scuffed linoleum floor, the flyers pinned to cork boards fluttering as she walks past.Her shoulders are slumped. Her face is pale.My God, what have I done?“The costume fittings are scheduled for 3pm.” Madame Ophelia lists the day’s appointments in my ear, but I cannot concentrate either. Not when my ang