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And she lets me.
The music suddenly seems to intensify, and it is one hundred percent apt. The sexual chemistry in this small balcony is charged. I round her again, satisfied to see her panting, struggling, unable to yank her eyes away from me. I slowly lower to my knees and place my hands on her thighs.
Spread them.
My first kiss on the inside of her knee sends her eyes rolling to the back of her head, her moan long and deep. “More,” she breathes, the word coming naturally. The second kiss on her other knee brings on the shakes. The third, slightly higher, instigates a gentle, consistent, visible throb in her clit. The fourth, a fraction higher than that, makes her arms jerk, the metal clanging. The fifth on her inside thigh makes her head limp. The sixth just shy of her entrance makes her stiffen. And when I cover her completely with my mouth and suck, her body jacks, and she lets out a suppressed cry. I forget where I am. What I’m doing. Why I’m doing it. Her pussy throbbing against my tongue is absorbing. Mind-numbing.
“More,” she pants, rigid in the chair, her thighs tensing around my head. I suck harder, my fingers digging into her flesh. “Oh God.” She starts to pant, and fire races through my veins, my skin prickling. “James.” I kiss, suck, bite, swirl. “James!”
I hum, gorging on her sweet pussy, relishing her squirming, loving her constant cries of my name. I could stay here all fucking night. But I can’t.
I increase my pace, change my rhythm, and introduce my fingers, pushing them deep and high, feeling her walls grip and hold.
She comes as the music hits the crescendo, and she screams her way through it, staring at my face buried between her legs, feasting on her flesh, her body trembling around me. I sweep my fingers through her slickness and feel her internal walls roll as I slow my attack and lick her softly through the aftermath.
Calm. It’s mine again.
After a delicate kiss on the very tip of her clit, which makes her spasm, I reach for her dress and work it down her thighs. She looks at me, dazed, drowsy, as I anchor my hands into the arms of the chair and push my way to my feet. I lean into her. Close. Kiss her delicately, sharing her release. If I could, I’d unzip myself and shove my hard, throbbing cock into her willing, gorgeous mouth. But if I do that, I won’t leave this box all night. “That is why we won’t stop,” I whisper, and she closes her eyes, swallowing. She gets it. “I’ll be back.” I lay a palm over her cheek, and she nuzzles into it. She really gets it.
Then I turn and walk out, leaving her cuffed to the chair.
36
BEAU
He’s gone, and I’m left alone, still restrained, in more bedlam than I was before. The sound of the music is almost haunting. So sad. And despite James taking me to paradise, my mood matches the solemn echoes of the soloist who’s currently singing to the heavens.
I zone out, disappear completely from this box, from the opera house, from life itself. And I walk through every minute of my time since I first heard his voice. Then saw him. Has the universe finally delivered my savior? One wrong phone number, and here we are? It feels too convenient.
The song is finished, another has begun, and the stage setting has changed. I look over my shoulder to the door. Where is he? As if forgetting I’m restrained, I shift my hands, wincing when the metal rubs into my sore flesh. I’m going nowhere, unless I want to open the existing wounds on my wrists. Was that his plan?
I return my attention to the stage, my options limited, and I watch, allowing myself to become captivated by the story playing out before me. I’m serenaded by another performance, and with each minute that passes, I become increasingly worried about where the hell James could be.
I’m just considering the merits of calling for an usher when the door opens and James strides in. He doesn’t look like he’s cooled off. In fact, he looks angrier.
“We’re leaving.” He dips behind me, and a few moments later, my hands are free.
“It’s not finished,” I say, looking at the stage, rubbing at my sore flesh.
“Neither am I.”
My hand is taken, and I’m pulled up. He spends a few moments checking my wrists. “You fought the bonds,” he whispers, stroking over my skin, looking into my eyes. “Never fight the bond, Beau.”
He doesn’t give me a chance to reply, turning me and resting his hand on my hip, leading me out.
Bond.
Never fight the bond.
At a loss for words, I let him guide me to the elevator in silence. We travel down in silence. Walk through the lobby in silence. But our bodies are screaming. I look up at him, seeing his focus set firmly forward, his face cut with so many emotions.
