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Des shrugged. "Give me a few coils of rope, and a nice quiet outdoor place with a stream, a big tree...that's the best."
He lowered the bottle, wiping his lips with the back of his arm as he put Julie squarely in his view and considered her with frank and thorough interest. "A tree with a branch thick enough to hold us both. I'd stretch you out on it, tie you face down. Then I'd slowly fuck you while the tree sways with the wind." A thoughtful look crossed his face. "I'll have to work on finding the perfect tree for that."
The carpentry team called to him, pulling him out of whatever setting he'd placed her in his obviously busy imagination. Handing her back the bottle, he swiped a cool, damp kiss over her stunned lips, then strode back toward the wings.
S
hale nudged her wrist, reminding Julie she was holding a bottle of water for her suddenly dry throat.
"He goes from casual and friendly to intense like that in a blink. It's hard for a woman's heart not to be tipped by it, isn't it?"
"Yeah." But instead of feeling good about that, Julie thought of Missive, the face she now put on every sub he'd ever had or would have, before and after her. She took a swallow of the water.
"He's always been careful to maintain boundaries, though," Shale mused. "I've never known him to date a sub, and we've been in the same circles for about five years. There's obviously something a little different with you. He's more engaged, and his eyes have a harder gleam." Shale fluttered her fingers toward her own long-lashed ones. "More predatory, in the right ways. But I suspect you know that, since you just took another swig of water at the thought."
Julie snorted, but she was feeling better. "Should I be afraid or happy, or send him packing?"
Shale smiled with a Domme's feral pleasure. "That's always the question, isn't it? Good luck with that."
As Shale left her, Julie watched Des. Though he was involved in a scenery issue, she had a feeling he was as aware of her as she was of him, particularly after dropping that distracting visual.
Their second date had occurred in her little room at the theater. The day had ended at nearly midnight, after the Consent version of a dress rehearsal. After Harris left, and it was just her and Des, he'd taken her to her room, pushed her onto her bed and given her a foot massage that had her moaning with pleasure. He turned her on her stomach and also gave her a full body massage that had her vibrating but limp as yarn, the day's exhaustion covering her like a blanket.
When he'd pressed a kiss to her cheek, she knew he was getting ready to leave her. She found his hand with her eyes closed and held it. "Stay a while," she mumbled. "Watch TV or something."
He'd obliged, stretching out on the cot with her. She'd adjusted so she was sprawled against him, cheek pillowed on his chest, arm wrapped over him as he brushed his lips against her temple and she made a contented noise. He channel-surfed her small TV while she fell into a heavy doze.
Nothing had marred her opinion of him. His sense of humor was as uncensored and outrageous as hers. Their intellects were well matched. While she wanted to see how his performance with Missive made her feel, and she was determined not to move beyond flirting and simple enjoyment of his company until then, sometimes she wondered who she was fooling. Even the most casual interactions with him had a way of making her feel like she was falling deeper into a sweet abyss.
Then there was the other side of things. She read up on Type I in her spare time and, the more she liked him, the more she worried, because what he'd said at Bob Evans told her he wasn't a typical Type I patient. But except for that discussion, he'd made that subject off limits. Would that change after opening night, if she was still okay with their relationship?
Truth, she didn't want to wait until after opening night. Maybe some part of her worried that what she saw would ruin everything, and it would be over before it had barely started. Maybe if she had something more to solidify their relationship before then, it would help her perspective, help her weather whatever that night would bring.
No, she wouldn't try to control fate that way. She was going to trust her instincts. Opening night was going to be the start or finish line, and that was that.
Chapter Eight
Opening night. No matter the show, opening night was always special, infused with a tremendous energy and excitement. And nervousness, because no amount of run-throughs or rehearsals were ever enough, especially in community theater, where they were limited because of day jobs, school and other scheduling factors for a volunteer cast and crew. From cast choice to opening night, they'd had six weeks to prepare for the show that could make or break Wonder.
Jitters were to be expected, but Julie had been down this road before. She embraced and transformed them into an ebullient excitement, letting that flow of positive energy ground her cast and stage crew. She created an infectious "we're going to totally rock this" feeling. Hell, things could always go wrong and they would, because that was the nature of the business. Part of the fun was figuring out how to make it work so the audience thought everything went exactly as planned.
Tonight, though, she had a niggling barb in that rainbow-and-unicorns flow of energy. When Des was with Missive tonight, it would be for a performance, she told herself fiercely. Yes, Sand Kilroy, one of the actors she'd dated, had screwed his leading lady. A couple of them. He hadn't limited himself to the theater manager. But he wasn't Des. Des made her feel extraordinary, a way no other man had made her feel.
Tonight she'd have to watch him do the same thing for another woman. For the past week, she'd been unable to tune out her cast members, raving about her "coup" in convincing Des to join the line-up.
"He takes subs on an indescribable journey," Tony, one of the Masters, had told her. "It's spectacular to watch, even for a Dom. He may not like performance, but when he's in the zone, it's like he was meant to be on a stage."
Des had told her that she was different. What did he have to do to prove it? Why the hell should he have to? She knew why she was back to square one on this crap. For the past several days, as her insecurities mounted, there'd been no more time to spend together. This was why, in romance novels, the hero was a gazillionaire who ran his empire on two languorous hours a day, and the heroine always had a mega-important altruistic job that never seemed to take up any of her romance time. A job that in real life would have denied her a social life of any kind or even regular showers.
Yep, she was doing the panicking thing, just like Marcus said. She was back to thinking she shouldn't do this with anyone, ever again. The stage was her lover, the one that had never let her down. She didn't need the rest of this. She was already composing a text to Des in her head.
REALLY REALLY REALLY can't do this. You're too perfect, and I can't handle that. Please don't talk to me again. Consider this a restraining order, one on the honor system. You don't want me and I can't want you. I am too fucking fragile.
"Stop it." She slapped herself, earning a startled look from one of the lighting guys rushing by. It was all right. He'd just figure it was some pre-performance superstition. She ignored him and slapped the other cheek.
She wasn't doing this. She had a performance to run. She had to be on her A+++ game. Fortunately, the muses sent Madison as a reminder. The theater owner appeared at her elbow like a serial killer popping out of a closet, making Julie yelp.
"Hey. You okay? You look so pale. Did you eat anything today?" Pulling out a pack of peanut butter crackers, Madison put it on the podium where Julie would be posted in the wings. Harris would be in position on the other side. Tonight was really all his show, because on performance nights, the stage manager was the hub of the wheel. She was just here for troubleshooting support and to see how the show unfolded so they could evaluate and adjust afterward to make the next one even better.
