A fucking gun.
I dart after him.
He sees me, and all I get a glimpse of is a lot of scruff as he turns and runs. I chase him through the labyrinth of hallways and into a vast, dark area with packed props and people moving around. I ignore them, my gaze set on the guy.
He pushes through a door, a mark like a tattoo on his hand, and I take off after him onto a street.
But then he’s gone before I can get closer. Disappeared into the crowd of people on the sidewalk, or maybe into a car. The only thing, like a fucked-up Cinderella story, is the cap he was wearing that had fallen off and landed on the ground.
“Yankees cap.” I shove it in my pocket and make my way back inside, pushing past the workers in the backstage area and down to Molly’s dressing room.
My heart’s thudding hard.
Not from the run.
From the fucking failure.
How the hell could I lose the person? Shit, maybe he belonged here, but every instinct says no.
That’s when I find the flowers. A blood red rose in a sea of white. The card?
Red for red, in a pure white death.
“Doesn’t even fucking rhyme,” I mutter to quell the sparking unease skittering along my spine and bones.
The door opens and I know. I turn and shut it, holding Marlowe between me and the door. The heat of her flesh is pulsating against me, threatening to start all sorts of fires. She’s breathing heavily, and not just from the dance.
Her eyes are low-lidded, and she’s got too much makeup on. It’s thick and hides the sweet blush that hits her chest, just above her breasts in the tutu thing she’s wearing. It’s long, with a lot of netting andfeathers.
I don’t say a word, just rub a thumb over her peaking nipples through the satin, and then I kiss her.
Soft and slow, teasing open her lips. I ride my hand up her thigh. She’s wearing some sort of soft fucking chastity belt, the leotard and tights forming the barrier with no way in, but it doesn’t stop me sliding my fingers between the leotard and the tights, pressing and stroking against her flesh that gets wet, fast.
Marlowe moans into me as I push up into the cleft of her lips, trailing a tight little slow path up and down that sweet slit. I slide my tongue against hers, deepening the kiss.
And she returns it, opens up, and kisses me back, a hunger that grows as it infects and reinfects.
I stroke up to her clit, playing, taunting, twisting and pinching, only to stroke softly again. A low groan slips from her lips, her hands moving over me, a flutter of a move on my chest, then down, down, until she’s got my cock.
I fucking love the heat of her, the wetness that seeps through the material, and I adore her grasping, stroking fingers. I like the barriers, the edge it gives, like the first forays into sexual exploration with someone else.
And with her, it’s that exciting and new period. I could bust one right here and now if I let go of the control, and I start to retreat from her clit, pushing the tights up, the stretch of them like some kind of sex toy.
She’s not wearing panties, or if she is, they’re so minuscule I’ve somehow twisted them aside. I don’t care.
Because the barrier of the tights is both nothing and something. I can feel her velvet heat, the wetness on my fingers. And when I say I feel, I mean every part of her pussy. Outer, inner, all the fucking way to her ass and back to her clit.
But the wet heat of her velvet walls call to me.
The fever’s bright, and I push into her, thumb on her covered clit, finger thrusting into her. She pants hard, her fingers grabbing and pulling me as the kiss turns into pure hunger and desperate need.
And fuck, she works me over. The friction of material against my cock and her fingers that pull, then rub up over the tip and down, is all pure fucking torture that’s soaked in pleasure, and I’m on the very edge of everything.
Harder and deeper, I sink into the kiss and she takes and throws it back, hungrier, harder, more carnal than before.
She must be on the very edge, too.
Marlowe moans and starts to convulse, that very edge of orgasm, and I stop, pulling out my fingers.
