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“At least once a week. Sometimes more. Can’t say he stays awake for every one.”
Charlie bought out the box for a whole year…for the past four years. Same box. Same chairs. My ass probably has a permanent imprint in this one. And I explain how Charlie and Jane made a bet to see who can attend the most performances to watch Beckett dance.
Some months, Jane wins. Other months, Charlie does.
Jack curses under his breath as he messes with the camcorder.
Now I’ve got to ask. “What is that?”
He pops out the battery. “I thought you’d know.” Genuine confusion arches his brows. “Farrow gave it to me. He said the camcorder belonged to security, and he asked if I could fix it without damaging the footage.”
Huh? “That’s…odd.” Usually I’d keep this uneasy feeling to myself since it’s security, but I’m destroying all kinds of boundaries with Jack Highland.
His hand freezes on the camcorder. “What do you mean?”
“I haven’t heard anyone in security using a camcorder or needing one, and I stay pretty in-tune on comms when I can.” I shrug. “I guess I could’ve missed something during one of the flights around the world.”
“Farrow probably has a reason,” Jack says quietly, jotting something down in a spiral notebook. “It seemed important to him.”
Weird.
Farrow likes to do shit himself when he can. He doesn’t ask for favors that often. I skim him as he finishes note-taking and slips the pen behind his ear. “What’d you write down?” I whisper.
“The type of battery.” He places the camcorder in a camera bag at his feet. “I need to order a new one before I can do anything else.”
Our focus returns to the stage.
Beckett Cobalt is in a sword fight, his nimble movements like silk as he dances and thrashes a blade against another. The audience sucks in a collective breath as he staggers back, wounded. He plays a pompous character and acts as though he’s fine.
But he stumbles in his quest towards his foe, stumbles more, and fights one last time. All the while, he glides, as weightless as a human can be without actually flying.
Effortless beauty and grace with the ferocity of a lion. Charlie read that review to me after Beckett’s first season as a principal dancer. He smiled at his twin brother’s success, and no matter how many hundred times I’m here seeing Beckett jump and twirl, I think of that quote.
And how it’s the pretty sheen of the Cobalt Empire, the romantic one, but underneath it all, there are cracks. But like so many people, the romanticism is needed on heavy days, and sometimes I even try to let it help carry me through.
Jack watches, enthralled. Gaze lit up. As Mercutio perishes, the dancers and their emotion reflect off his glassy eyes. And our gazes catch every few seconds in sensual, hot beats. We both drink in more than just the beauty on stage.
His reverence drapes a fantasy over us. A moment so full of make-believe romance found mostly in medieval fairytales. I’ve wanted this type of heart-stopping moment for so fucking long that I almost can’t believe it’s real.
Watch me accidentally blow it all up.
My confidence has been shot to hell with Jack, but I clearly like a guy who humbles me.
He edges closer, our thighs touching, his sandalwood beachy cologne filling my nostrils like a drug. I inhale for more.
Jack tenses, and then he stretches his arm over my shoulders. My pulse is on a rollercoaster while my heart is playing bumper cars with my ribs.
We’re in the dark. No one can really see or snap photos. More private than public, still working and on-duty, but blame the ballet, I’m sitting here trying to bask in the fantasy of him and me.
For tonight, we are the kings.
He grows more comfortable, his arm loose across me, but I hear his shallow breath in the pit of my ear. I sense the rise and fall of his chest.
Juliet is distraught on stage. Lovesick and in mourning.
I sink a hand onto Highland’s thigh. He shifts in his chair…closer. We steal hotter glimpses of one another. Tension stretches, and while we pretend to watch the ballet, he lets his arm fall off my shoulder and grazes his hand on my thigh.
Fuck…I don’t shift like him. But I’m rigid, breath caught. I caress his thigh upwards, and his hand ascends up mine.
I want to experiment with Jack like I would any new partner, but I don’t want to be an experiment. Squashing the thought, I let pleasure guide me.
My fingers slide against his hardened bulge, and his palm rubs over mine. Muscles constricting, I ignite on fire, doing everything in my power not to initiate a kiss here.
Ballet. Semi-public.
I want to give that choice to him.
His gaze caresses over the tension in my neck when he kneads me. Fucking ah, Christ. I shut my eyes in a long, aroused blink.
