Oh, I was certain Leo would be an avid fan of the art when I was finished with him. My lips collided with his. I showed him just how passionate I was about my medium of choice—on and off stage. My fervor for dance didn’t stop when I stepped out of my pointe shoes. It accelerated whenever I was inspired. And Leonardo Richards was a fucking inspiration. Artistically grinding against him—just like I would if I was interpreting a sensual dance—I moved in sync with the pressure of my lips. I wanted, needed, him to know that when I kissed, I did it with my entire body; that I didn’t do anything half-ass. That when I was passionate about something, or someone, it moved me. And I moved right back. I rocked my hips against him, rubbing up and down the length of him and enjoyed the sweet bliss of his moan. I tore from his mouth when I slid my fingers through his hair and yanked back. I swallowed his moans, refusing to break this kiss that breathed zeal into my body. I pressed my heels against his back.
