Only one slice of pineapple pepperoni pizza remained in the grease-stained cardboard box. Easy R&B streamed from Dominic's phone on the coffee table next to the box and nowhere near him. Amila intently watched him on the other side of the luxurious off-white couch with the tip of her thumb between her teeth, trying hard not to bite them. But she was getting antsy. He was getting close, and she wasn't ready to lose.

"Answer it already," she insisted, sitting utterly comfortably in the dwelling. Her shoes were off, and her finger-combed hair hung over her shoulder in that 'just got off work and tired of a ponytail' way.

Dominic's finger remained over her phone as he hissed, "Don't rush me, woman."

She laughed, sitting up. "If you get it wrong, you'll lose more than points." She leaned towards him, knowing the answer to the trivia game question. "Let me help you so you won't lose your black card." She joked and let out another laugh as he glared at her.

"Here, then." He angled the phone towards her. "What's the answer?"

"Hmm." She tapped her mouth, feigning the need to ponder over the answer choices given for the multiple-choice question, then read it aloud. "On the sitcom Martin, what was Gina's father's occupation?"

"Can you stop faking?" He slumped back against the couch, looking like a sad puppy in the cutest way possible that she had to put him out of his misery.

"Gina Waters' dad was a...." A satisfied grin quirked her lips up.

He rolled his eyes before dropping his head back, "Of course, you know her last name, too. Showoff."

"A chiropractor." She tapped the third choice under 'optometrist' and above 'psychologist.' The phone dinged jovially as confetti rained across the screen, congratulating her on her knowledge of Black sitcoms.

"Aww." She cooed at the defeated six-foot-two man across from her. "You can try again."

He folded his arms. "I don't want to." For a second, she thought he was actually perturbed, and then the corner of his mouth ticked up. "They changed the questions."

"You cheater." She yanked the pillow behind her back and slapped his arm. "This is your game. The one you sold."

He held up his hands, shielding himself from the strikes of the fluffy pillow, and his laughter drowned out the music. It infected her, etching a big smile on her face—a smile she hadn't been able to form her lips to create, for it was crafted from pure joy and exhilaration. It was a happiness that erased every moment and occurrence from your mind during its duration because of something else—something more significant than pain, something more substantial than regret.

Triumphant is more potent than failure, and defeat is but a sting; never let it convince you to quit. Persevere.

Amila's arm paused mid-strike, letting the curvature of her lips slack just a bit as her sister's words resurfaced in her mind. She froze on her haunches, and although she peered at him, her mind was miles away, chasing down the memory of the day her sister told her those words. She called up the image like a siren, and it appeared, scrolling through her consciousness like a highlight reel of her life. It was the day she first entertained the thought of quitting ballet. The defeat of putting in copious hours of practice only to lose part of Clara Stahlbaum and landing the role of a sugar plum fairy brought tears to her eyes as she packed up.

It was Akeela who convinced her to keep going and keep working hard. Her sister was her biggest fan, the first to applaud in the audience, and the bestower of the grandest bouquet. All in all, it was she who Amila danced for. The thought of dancing without seeing Akeela's encouraging face and wink, which she constantly flashed just before the music began to play, was a task too hefty for Amila to perform.

"Mila," he called out to her, but his voice sounded miles away from the cave of sadness she was lost in. She didn't respond to his caressing tone, nor did she utter a word as one of his hands went to her waist while the other gripped the back of her thigh and slid her on top of his lap.

He softly cradled her face and whispered. "Amila, come back to me." His hands inched up her cheeks and tucked her hair behind her ears. He smoothed away a tear that she didn't know she shed and let his hands settle on the space where her hips and waist met. "Swan."

She blinked, caught off guard by the nickname he gave her after showing off her dance moves during the last part of their first date back at his loft.

"I'm sorry." She quickly apologized, shifting to move, but his hands stayed in place. She gave up without much fight, rather liking her new seat.

His muscular thighs under her as his hands stroked along her thighs gave her a sense of security and comfort that she wasn't ready to relinquish. And the way his beard blanket face turned delicate and sweet for her made her feel slightly like the person she once was, the girl who knew she could do anything as long as she put the work in. That person was brave enough to take on any challenge. The person who knew she deserved an unselfish, everlasting love. She yearned to be that person again.

"There's nothing to apologize for." His hands stilled around her lank waist, a few of his fingertips molding into her soft flesh.

She sniffed and rubbed her hands over her eyes, ensuring all the water was gone. "You're not paying me for tears," she said.

"I'm not paying you for anything." He huffed like he was slightly offended. His grip tightened around her as he shifted on the couch, the movement making her thighs widen and bringing her middle closer to his. "I'm taking care of you...because I care for you."

She let out a breath with a slow shake of her head. "I'm not looking for love," she said.

"Nor am I." He breathed out, then glanced over at the picturesque windows that seemed to hold back the darkness of the night outside as the living room lights beamed brightly. " But I do like you. I'm attracted to you; your mind, your beauty..." His thumb stroked across her skin as his eyes dipped down to her breast, hidden behind the bright crop top. "...and your body. I'm taking care of you so that when I need and want you to take care of me...you have nothing to worry about, want, or need, so your mind, energy, and body are focused on the only duty I require you to fulfill."

Amila latched her hands around his thick, strong wrist. "And what duty is that?"

"To tantalize my mind with a conversation, shower me with affection..." He smirked, letting his eyes glide down her body, then back up to her eyes. "...and fuck me so good day and night became one."

"I—" Her voice got stuck in her throat, getting lost in the captivating allure of his deep brown eyes. Her pelvis moved independently, slowly rolling as she sat up. She got damp, feeling the thick rod of flesh against his thigh grow a little more complex and more defined than when she first sat on his lap.

Amila's chest rose as she took a deep breath, getting her thoughts and emotions in order. "I can do that."

"I know." He cockily said, running his hand up her waist and stopping at the end of her bralette strap wrapping around her back. "That's why we're here."

She nodded, moving his hands back to her waist, where she was tempted to let them forge underneath the lace bralette. Her mind took her to the scene at the pool earlier, and she remembered what she wanted to ask him after signing the NDA and before he handed her a ring of keys.

"I understand how this partnership works, but I, um..." She paused, thinking of the correct way to ask the question so she wasn't more turned on than she was. "I know we're going to have sex, but what kind of sex."

He chuckled, "The kind of sex people have."

"But like how?"

His mouth stayed curved in humor, "Are you talking positions because I'm down for anything, and you're a dancer, so—"

"Yeah, I'm flexible." She cut him off, knowing what most men assumed about ballerinas and dancers of all variations. She wasn't referring to her flexibility, though. The confusion on his face just informed her that she wasn't asking the question correctly, so she would have to be blunter.

"Like, what do you like because I'm a performer, and I have to know..." Her fingertips went to her temples. "...what's expected of me so I can perform a flawless routine. Do you like oral, anal, whips, chains, menage..."

"I don't share." He said, stopping her ramble. "And fellatio is always good."

She swallowed, unsure why her mouth was watering. "Okay."

"Okay." He nodded, then his head tipped up as he remembered something, "I hope you're still on birth control because I don't do condoms."

Her nose wrinkled as she shook her head. "Not since I no longer have health insurance."

"That's fine. It's an easy fix." He nonchalantly shrugged. "I'll tell my accountant to get you a plan and get whatever form of contraceptive is best for you."

"It's that simple."

He nodded and then snapped his fingers. "That simple."

"We're both getting tested, right?

"Absolutely."

It didn't feel that simple to her, and since she'd never really done anything he had just informed her of, she was being overtaken with angst and a helping of worry. She slid off his lap and no longer turned on. Her mind was spent trying to figure out how to perform the intricate dance of body on the body when she'd never practiced the routine or experienced the steps. Was sex just like dancing like Deja told her, and she was exaggerating things, or did she have cause to be worried?

She pointed to the lone slice of pizza in the box, which was now cold. "Are you going to eat that?"

"No." He gestured to it. "You can have it."

He noticed her disposition change from calm to pensive, "Are you cool?"

"I'm cool." She held his sight and said, "I don't have as much experience as you. Are you still good with this?"

"As long as you are open and consent to gaining the experience," He watched her sink her teeth into the cheesy dough, "I don't mind teaching."

"I've always been an astute pupil." She informed before a yawn forced its way out her mouth."But now, I'm tired."

"The main suite is down the hall." He pointed in a direction behind her.

She didn't feel like turning around, so she asked. "Can you show me?"

He stood up and held out his hand. She took it, tossed the rest of the pizza in the box, and followed him down the dim hallway to the room now hers to share with him. She was nervous about performing the act of sex; her perfect nature was getting the best of her. But she was very much sure she was a professional at the things that led up to it. And since she wasn't on birth control yet, she knew intercourse wasn't happening just yet. She had more time to do some research.

Do you think Amila is letting her perfectionist nature get the best of her? Does she need to do research or just go with the flow?

Do you think Amila will find someone else to dance for?

Dominic doesn't do condoms and insists she gets birth control, is it fine for him to back that choice?

Is he right, to believe he's not paying for sex and her; he's taking care of her so she'll be focused on taking care of him?

Why do you think Dominic calls Amila 'Swan'?