The Prima’s Virgin Girl

Mia POV

The entire theater staff had finally cleared out, and for the first time all evening I was alone in my dressing room. My scalp still throbbed from the tight bun I had just taken down, and when I ran my fingers through my hair, it felt tender and raw. I let out a long breath and looked at the tutu hanging in front of me.

I never thought I would make it this far. My own dressing room. My name printed neatly on the door. I had just performed the lead role, and not just any role. I wore the costume that once belonged to Katarina Rosenfeld, the Katarina Rosenfeld, the woman every dancer in this building either worshipped or feared.

Tonight it was me on that stage, not her.

I should have felt proud and jumped with excitement. Instead there was this tight knot in my chest that would not go away. I adjusted the thin robe around my shoulders when there was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” I said.

The door opened slowly, and she stepped inside.

Katarina.

She looked flawless, of course she did. Her posture was straight and effortless, like she had just walked out of rehearsal instead of watching someone else dance her role. Her blonde hair was pulled back in an elegant way.

“Get the f*ck out,” I snapped before I could stop myself. “I don’t want to see you.”

Katarina only raised one eyebrow, calm and almost amused.

“I am Katarina Rosenfeld-Reid,” she said coolly. “I can be anywhere I want.”

She tossed her bag onto the small couch and sat on the edge of my makeup table like she owned the place. The scent of her perfume drifted toward me, and it made my head spin. Her coat slid up slightly as she crossed her legs, exposing a strip of pale skin, and memories hit me so fast I had to look away.

“Mia,” she breathed softly. “Look at me.”

I kept my face turned, stubborn and furious, but then her hand reached for me. Her fingers were firm and sure as they lifted my chin, forcing me to meet her eyes.

“I want to apologize,” she whispered, her Austrian accent still there, subtle but unmistakable.

“You mean that?” I asked, my voice lower now, less steady than I wanted.

“I do.”

I held her gaze. Those icy eyes that used to watch me from the wings, judging every step, every mistake. I swallowed hard, feeling my pulse in my throat, hating that even now, even after everything, she could still make my body react like this.

“...then show me.”

Katarina smiled, still holding my chin between her fingers. God, I hated that smirk. I hated how arrogant it was, how controlled, how it made me feel like she knew exactly what she was doing to me.

And I hated it even more that I loved it.

“So the student becomes the teacher,” she murmured, a soft scoff escaping her lips.

I cut her off before she could say anything else.

“On your knees, Katarina.”

For a second her eyes darkened, measuring me. Then she slowly slid off the table. She shrugged her coat off without breaking eye contact and let it fall carelessly to the floor. Then she lowered herself onto her knees in front of me, waiting for my next command.

I stood up fully now, leaning back against the makeup table, looking down at her. For the first time, I was the one above.

“Crawl to me.”

Even on her knees she looked dignified, like a queen choosing to kneel rather than being forced to.

Katarina ran her tongue over her lower lip and then she began to move toward me. It felt less like obedience and more like a game she was perfectly happy to play.

She stopped right in front of my leg.

“Now,” I said, my voice barely more than a whisper. “Show me how sorry you are.”

I could hear my own heartbeat in my ears, feel the heat rising under my skin.

She tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable now, and for a split second I wondered who was really in control.

I spread my thighs slowly, the fabric of my robe sliding open, giving her silent permission. My pulse was racing so hard I could feel it between my legs.

Her fingers brushed over my inner thighs first, light, teasing, as if she was reminding me who had taught me how to hold tension on stage.

Then she hooked her fingers into the waistband of my panties and pulled them down in one smooth motion. Katarina leaned forward and pressed a slow kiss to the inside of my thigh. Then another. Then higher.

My fingers dug into the edge of the table behind me as her mouth finally found me. She did not hesitate. She kissed me there, her tongue sliding over me in a way that made my knees weaken instantly. A low sound escaped my throat before I could stop it. Her hands gripped my hips, holding me steady as her mouth moved with confident precision.

“F*ck,” I breathed, my head tipping back.

She responded with a hum against me, and the vibration made my body jolt. My thighs tightened around her shoulders, my hips rocking slightly despite myself. She was enjoying this. I could feel it in the way she moved, the way she took her time, drawing it out, making me unravel slowly.

And then—

A faint metallic click.

The doorknob turned slowly, opening the door just a fraction.

I did not notice at first. I was too far gone, too focused on the heat building low in my stomach. Katarina’s mouth moved again, deeper, more insistent, and I gasped her name.

Then came another sound.

A sharp, unmistakable click.

A camera shutter.

Another.

My eyes flew open.

Through the mirror, I saw the the small flash of light reflecting off the glass.

Sh*t! No no…

Someone was taking pictures.

5 months earlier…

Katarina POV

The house at Lumière Theatre was completely sold out.

I lowered myself into a deep bow as the audience erupted. The applause rolled over me like a wave. Every single one of those people had chosen to be here tonight. Millions had sat in those velvet seats before them, and millions would come after.

They were here for me.

For the leading ballerina of the Vienna New York Lumière Theatre.

When the curtain finally fell, I straightened instantly and walked offstage without looking back. Backstage, Matthias was already waiting with a bottle of water and a towel, exactly as he always did.

“You were incredible,” he said.

“Spare me,” I replied, taking the bottle from his hand and heading toward my dressing room. I still had to survive the reception downstairs. My husband had invited half the press in New York, along with critics.

After changing into a fitted black dress and fix