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“I know,” he says gruffly.
“Show me that you know,” I murmur, stroking his skin, like I can draw his pain out of him with the touch of my fingers. “Show me that you’re here with me.”
I figure that he’ll nod and calm down, or maybe hug me or something. So I’m completely unprepared when he wordlessly tips his head forward and fits his mouth hungrily against mine.
The unsplinted hand that was once on my leg is now seared to my spine, a hot leather stamp against the skin exposed by the low back of my dress. Using that hand as support, Elio leans forward in his seat until I’m tipping back, his mouth travelling in a scorching, wet line across my jaw and down my neck. The kisses are rough, messy, greedy. Claiming me with lips and tongue and teeth. Dazedly, undone by the sensations, I wonder if I’m going to have a dark necklace of hickeys on my own wedding day. I gasp when he dips lower, tonguing my nipple through the exquisitely thin silk of the gown.
“Elio!” I force out as white-hot need twists my insides. “Stop! We’re in public. We’re at the ballet! We-”
“Right,” he growls against my breast. “You need to see what’s going on for your schoolwork.”
It’s amazing how strong he is, how easily he can manipulate my body when one of his hands is almost completely out of commission. But before I know it, I’m wrenched upwards and spun around so that I’m facing forward once again. I think he’s letting me go, so I lurch forward to get off of his lap and return to my own seat, but his arm locks like a bar of steel around my waist. He hitches my ass backwards until I feel the shape of his hardness.
“Keep your eyes open,” he murmurs against the side of my throat. “Don’t miss anything. I expect you to write that fucking paper.”
His right arm stays tight around my waist while his uninjured left hand drifts upwards to stroke my left nipple through the dress. It tightens into diamond hardness, so sensitive I want to cry. Cry for him to let me go.
Cry for him to give me more.
“Someone will see,” I mewl, straining in his hold.
“It’s dark.”
It is dark, but only up to a point. The lights aimed at the stage give off enough of a glow that I can see the ghostly shapes of people in the audience below. And if I can see them from here, then any one of them could look up and see me too. See me squirming and panting in Elio’s lap like the sordid little Songbird he’s turned me into.
“Stop moving so much,” he grunts as my ass bumps his erection. “Pay attention.”
I don’t know if he’s telling me to pay attention to the music and the ballet or to what he’s doing to my body. Maybe both. But it’s impossible. My brain isn’t big enough to process all of that at once. The stage fades to a bright blur, the music turning into nonsensical background noise as Elio’s touch overpowers everything else. My nerves flare and leap, just like the dancer below.
Elio’s touch darts back and forth across my chest, teasing one nipple, then the other, until I’m arching and panting and pathetic, unable to tell him to stop, unable to pull myself out of the wicked hold he has on me. I wonder if something’s wrong with me, that his touch can break me down so completely, or if it’s just a testament to the kind of power he has over me.
But maybe I have some kind of power over him too, because his breath is rough and ragged, his erection grinding against me as he claims my breast with a possessive, kneading motion.
I cry out, then instantly clap my hands over my mouth. Luckily, the music is loud right now, but it won’t be loud forever. I need to get a hold of myself.
I need to tell him to stop.
But I’m terrified that if my hands come away from my mouth now, that the moan that escapes is going to be so lurid and dirty that everyone in this whole fucking place will hear me, from the audience members to the ballerinas right down to the bored employees waiting for intermission in the lobby.
Panic and need rising with equal force inside me, I feel Elio tear his glove off with his teeth.
“Spread your legs,” he commands, sliding his now-bare hand beneath my long, flowing silk skirt and over my knee.
I shake my head rapidly, keeping my left hand plastered over my mouth and grasping his forearm with my other one.
“Fine,” he hisses, his voice like ripping satin at my throat, “If you won’t spread them then I’ll make it impossible for you to keep them closed.”
His hand glides softly up my thigh, a whisper of a touch that draws my muscles taut as a string on my violin. I’m shaking trying to keep my thighs pressed together. The skirt shifts against my bare pubic area, and I feel so much more sensitive and exposed than before. It heightens everything that Elio does.
Elio draws a brutal-sounding breath when his fingertips reach my naked vulva. My voice skitters up my throat, muffled by my sweating hand.
“Are you fucking kidding me, Songbird?” he seethes quietly. “No fucking panties? And no hair, either.” He kneads my skin, as if getting used to the new sensation of me bare beneath his fingers. My clit zings with the need for him to move lower, but he doesn’t. Not yet.
“You don’t have any razors,” he breathes against my ear. “How’d you manage that? Was it wax? Did you get that hot, sticky stuff all over you so that you could make this plump little pussy all smooth for me?”
He splays his whole hand flat against my pubic area, the tip of his middle finger dipping down just far enough that I feel a coaxing pressure right above my clit.
I clench my teeth against a moan.
