Oh, it can be hard. In fact, it’s getting harder by the second.
I pull my mind out of the gutter and show our tickets to the usher, who points us to our seats. We’re in a box on the far left, about twenty feet above the stage. Not the best view if sight lines are your primary concern. But if privacy is your objective—like it is for me—then these are the best seats in the house, off to the side and hidden from view by a heavy red velvet curtain.
“These are ours,” I say, taking one seat and gesturing for David to sit in the other.
He sits down beside me just as the lights dim. There’s no more talking for a while—as fellow artists, we know better than to commit that breach of theater etiquette—but about halfway through the first act, right at the point where Albrecht and Giselle do their pas de deux, I feel David’s thigh brush against mine.
It’s the slightest of touches, but it stops my breath in my throat. It’s a good thing I know this ballet by heart because all my attention has shifted to the man next to me. The way his untamable hair spills into his gorgeous gray-green eyes. The sexy thump of his pulse at the hollow where his neck meets his collarbone. The rise and fall of his chest, in time with Adolphe Adam’s music.
I don’t know why I thought it would be a good idea to be confined in close quarters with him for almost three hours. Just the two of us. Alone. In the damn dark. I just wanted to be near him, our private box a bubble, insulating us from the rest of the world while we watched one of the most romantic ballets ever created. Kind of our ownPretty Womanmoment.
But this? It’s torture. Fucking torture. I don’t know how Richard Gere managed to keep his hands off Julia Roberts in that box atLa Traviata.
David’s thigh brushes mine again, but this time it stays there. Heat burns through two layers of fabric. A second later, his hand is on mine, too, warm and solid and steadying, even as it makes my heart rate kick up a notch.
I’m hyper aware of him now. Giselle can go jump in a goddamn lake for all I care. The only thing that matters is David. That he’s here. That he’s touching me. That after all the years and all the miles between us, we’ve managed to get to this place, this point.
I can’t erase those years. And I don’t want to. They’ve shaped the man I am. Changed me. Matured me. I’m sure they’ve done the same for David. But the miles—that’s something I’m hoping I can change.
Not that I’m sharing that with David. At least, not yet. I don’t want to scare him off. He’s thinking one date. He doesn’t need to know my mind’s skipped way the hell ahead of that. I didn’t take a red-eye cross-country for one date. Or even for some between-the-sheets action, although I’m sure as fuck not going to object if we wind up naked and sweaty. I’m already up to the damn hearts and flowers he dismissed so casually.
Baby steps, Casanova. Baby steps.
His fingers thread through mine, and he turns his head to catch me staring at him. I should be embarrassed but I’m not because the hunger in his eyes matches what I’m sure is reflected in my own. It’s real. Raw. Almost a living, breathing thing, pulsing between us.
“Shouldn’t you be watching the ballet?” he whispers, his eyes not leaving mine.
“Shouldn’t you?” I hold his gaze. The pulsing is so strong it physically hurts a little. But at the same time, it feels so good. Good to know the attraction isn’t one-sided. That the zing we had in college is still there, at least on some level.
“This is your party,” he says, his tongue stealing out to moisten his lips. “You’re the dancer.”
Cheeks scorching, I fight the urge to throw my high-minded notion to wait for David to make the first move out the window. It’s the lip licking. It’s like an open invitation to plant my mouth on his. But I’ve been there, done that last night, and I want tonight to end differently. So I tear my eyes off those infuriatingly tempting, way-too-kissable lips and stick to my game plan.
“I’ve seenGiselle. I’d rather watch you.”
“Creeper.”
The word would hurt if it wasn’t for the smile that accompanies it, reaching out and enveloping me through the darkness. I’m strangely content, cocooned in a haze of sweet sexual tension—until he slips his fingers from mine.
My body screams in protest at the loss of contact, but it’s not screaming for long. His hand moves to my thigh, slowly inching toward the growing bulge between my legs until it’s only centimeters from my dick. It twitches in anticipation, and I silently will him to wrap those long, nimble pianist’s fingers around it and stroke. Pump. Squeeze. Something, anything to relieve this pressure, this ache that only he can satisfy.
It’s decadent. Dangerous. I know some people get off on public sex. The risk of getting caught gives them a thrill. It’s never been my thing, but I’m starting to see the appeal.
“Please,” I hiss just as the lights come up and he jerks his hand back.
Fuck. Intermission.
“Intermission,” he says, echoing my thoughts. He stands abruptly, almost falling over himself in his rush to escape the box. “Bathroom break. Be right back.”
He disappears through the curtains and I’m left stewing in uncertainty, my cock at half-mast and still throbbing. Did he mean it when he said he’d be right back? Or did he cut and run? I don’t know whether to follow him and make sure he’s okay or give him some space to figure things out on his own.
I’m not a fucking mind reader, unfortunately, so there are no easy answers. I’m just going to have to trust my gut. And my gut’s telling me to go after him—as soon as my damn dick calms down and I’m not sporting a woody.
I adjust my fly and try some surefire erection killers. Like counting to one hundred by threes. Reciting the preamble to the Constitution. Picturing my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Bindus, naked. But I’m still hard as a steel pipe when the curtains part and David waltzes through.
“Here.” He tosses me a pack of candy. “I saw these at the concession stand and thought of you.”
I flip it over in my hand and smile. “Gummy worms?”
