His sharp intake of breath is barely audible over the music, but I hear it. Feel it. He tries to grab my wrist but I catch his hand, pin it against the velvet armrest. “What’s rule number one?” I hiss.
He tries to pull free again.
“Don’t,” I warn softly. “You’ll make a scene. And wouldn’t that be embarrassing for the Clemenza name?”
I let him go. He doesn’t move his hand from the armrest, though his jaw twitches as my hand slips inside his pants. He’s not wearing underwear because I didn’t send any down with the tux earlier today. I wrap my fingers around his flesh, feel him start to harden despite himself.
“You fucking asshole,” he breathes, so quietly only I can hear.
“You should watch your mouth,” I murmur, stroking him slow and steady. “What would Mrs. DuPont think?”
Within seconds, he’s wet at the tip. His body knows who owns it even when his mind rebels. On stage, some guy begins to sing, his voice bouncing through the place, keeping every eye fixed, every ear occupied.
And in our private box, I work the Clemenza into rock hardness, pulling base to tip, twisting on the upstroke, using his own pre-cum as lubrication.
I ease up at last, let my fingers trace the thick vein on his underside, and he presses his lips together hard. He’s trying to stay perfectly still, trying to pretend this isn’t happening. But he’s leaking in my palm, a flush creeping up his neck. He’s fighting a war with himself, and my hand on his cock is becoming the only thing he cares about.
The opera continues. Some lady comes out and starts wailing. The whole room is lost to her.
But not my little prince. His whole world has shrunk to my hand on his dick.
I experiment a little. Rub into his slit and see him shudder. Drag a blunt nail across the sensitive skin underneath the crown and hear his breath catch—pain or pleasure? I think it’s both. His head is tipped back against his high-backed seat, showing the long, golden line of his throat, and I want to bite him there. Leave a mark for everyone to see.
“Enjoying the show?” I whisper.
His hips twitch forward, a desperate, involuntary movement. He hates me for it. I feel it in the way he’s tensed every muscle in his body, in the way he won’t look at me. He hates me, but he can’t deny what my touch is doing to him.
And he’s close.
“What do you say?” I murmur. “You want to show all these rich folks who you really belong to? Mess up your new tux right here in the middle of the Met?”
His thighs tense. “Not here. I can’t—not with?—”
“Can’t?” I lean close, lips at his ear. “You came across my lap yesterday from nothing but my hand on your ass. Didn’t even need to be touched. Just a little pain and my voice, and you gushed like it was the first time anyone ever made you feel good.” I twist my wrist slowly. “At least this time you’ve got a hand on your cock.”
The sound he makes—bitten off, swallowed, forced back down his throat—is the hottest thing I’ve ever heard. I could shoot myself just from the sound of it.
Icouldmake him pop. I could bring him right to the brink and then shove a hand over his mouth so no one else hears him while I push him over the edge.
He seizes the armrest, knuckles white. He’s breathing in short, sharp bursts, trying so hard not to give me the satisfaction of hearing him moan. The singing on stage has faded to an instrumental break, and the quiet in the auditorium is a weapon in my hands.
I reach down to squeeze his nuts, not too hard—but not soft, either. Just enough to make him jump. “You like that? Getting your balls played with in public?”
He shakes his head, a tiny, miserable movement. “Go to hell.”
“My home away from home.” I keep fondling that tight little sack, wondering what it would be like to suck on his stones, or have them vibrating under my chin while I eat out that luscious virgin hole…
Fuck. I need to stay in control. I can’t lose myself to this. Tohim. I grasp for anger again, find it buried under a haze of lust.
And I keep pushing him. I keep him hard and dribbling all through the first act until the music on stage swells into something dramatic. The audience is captivated, so I work him faster, the sounds muffled by the orchestra. He’s trembling, a thin sheen of sweat at his temples, and his hands grip the armrests so tight he might break them off.
“Please,” he whispers. “Dami,please?—”
“Please what, little prince?”
“I’m going to—” The music rises to a climax.
And I stop.
