by Nikki Steele
I could feel something at the top of this thigh. Something hard. My hand slid toward it. I was staring at the stage, but suddenly I wasn’t concentrating on it.
I shouldn’t be doing this. I was the one that had said it couldn’t happen. I was the one who would get hurt if it started again.
But it felt so good. The sexy musk of his cologne reminded me of his lips against my neck.
I stroked the hardness between his legs; an accidental brush that I knew was anything but. I felt it move at the attention, though Xander’s eyes stayed on the opera. To know again what it was like to be wanted… just a little play, perhaps. An extension of that kiss on the cheek—a reminder of that rush of power, the knowledge that I could please him. I’d stop before it got too far. I could stop any time I pleased.
My hand slid to the zip, pulling it down. Xander’s squeeze on my thigh was the only acknowledgement of my actions.
Well, there was one other acknowledgment—I felt him swell harder as my nails ran lightly up and down the fine material of his designer underwear.
I pulled him free by touch alone. As long as I looked straight ahead, the covered balcony of our box would mean no-one was the wiser. I smiled—it felt so naughty to be holding him, my index finger playing idly with his tip, as below us a thousand people watched the stage, unaware.
A bead of moisture wet my finger. It wasn’t the only thing getting slowly wet—I could feel heat between my own thighs too. I remembered every inch of this length. I couldn’t forget it—the way I’d watched it swell before me on the balcony that night. The feeling as it entered me.
I wanted him in me so badly. My wrist began to stroke him up and down without conscious thought.
He shifted, eyes still straight ahead, though I knew he wouldn’t be concentrating on the opera now either. Then his hands slid up my thigh, moving slowly, to find my center. I frowned in the dark, my own hand faltering. This wasn’t allowed!
His hand pressed in, gently, against the material of my dress. Ohh. I widened my legs. No, not allowed. And that’s why it felt so good.
He began to stroke me, through my material, as I did the same to him. I had the advantage of course, being able to place my hands directly on his flesh. Or at least, I’d thought I did. But the feel of that soft skin underneath my fingers—velvet covering a rod of steel—maybe I didn’t have the advantage I’d thought I had. Each stroke of his fingers mirrored the stroke of my hands, and I could imagine him, naked against me, as we both began to get faster.
I widened my legs more, for the first time closing my eyes briefly. His fingers were rough against the material of my dress, but softened by a layer of silk and then lace to just the right pressure. Each pass as they moved up and down flicked little tornados up into my stomach, spinning me around, making my breath quicken.
It wasn’t just his fingers that felt good. The tight lace of my lingerie, normally not noticeable, was now a partner in my pleasure. It pressed in against me everywhere his fingers did not. The effect was a ripple that never quite disappeared—the lace sustaining the pleasure his fingers generated as they roamed.
No. Maybe I didn’t have the advantage at all. I drew a ragged breath, struggling not to moan out loud, fist tightening upon him. His own breathing was as ragged as mine.
His fingers pressed deeper, making a furrow in the dress. The tiny tornados grew larger, swirling across my belly, tickling my heart. It was now a struggle to keep my eyes focused straight ahead. It was now a struggle to think of anything but the whirlwind he was stoking within me; raging gusts that were stripping my mind of everything but the awareness that I couldn’t hold out much longer. I was at the opera, and I had to be quiet.
My hand on his member began to move faster—if I was going down, I was taking him with me. He choked off a strangled groan, his own hand faltering briefly.
The end was now just a matter of time for us both. I could feel a slickness at his tip, lubricating him as my fingers stroked. My panties were soaking through, but I didn’t care—each caress we made against the other was a glorious precursor, a command that took control of our bodies and made it the others’. His skilled fingers worshiped me. My eager hand worshiped him.
I closed my eyes. I had to be strong. I had to stay quiet!
His fingers stopped suddenly. And then they pressed, firmly, just there.
The whirlwind took me over, whipping through my frame; a hurricane over which I had no control. My body quivered as my eyes went wide. I bit back a scream with herculean effort.
My hand grasped him firmly; my motions now spasms that mirrored the contractions occurring inside. I felt him grow within my palm. My hand slid one final time, gripping him tightly, from tip to base. His face screwed up, then suddenly his eyes went wide and he leaned forward, jaw clenched, bringing me with him. His length tightened within my fingers, then began to pulse with sharp urgency.
He looked for all the world as if captivated by the opera as he leaned against the balcony. But when he turned to me, I knew it was a different performance that had driven his eyes wild.
He kissed me passionately.
“People will see,” I said pulling away.
He seized my hand, pulling me to my feet, pushing me into the deep shadows at the back of the stall, looking into my eyes. “Right at this very moment? I don’t care one bit.”
My dress went up. His pants went down. He entered me with an urgency my own breathing mirrored; we both groaned quietly.
“Kate,” he whispered into my neck.
I shook my head, reveling at the fulfilment I felt inside. “Don’t talk. We’ll make excuses later.”
A hand went to the back of my head, scooping my hair between his fingers. Then both moved to my hips. He began to thrust. I stifled a moan as I felt him slide all the way in, then out, then in again, the motions causing a ripple of pleasure that followed his shaft’s head as it moved.
I pulled open the first button on his stiff white shirt, then the second, my hand slipping in to feel his hard chest. Oh but he was hot. He was hot, and I was at the opera, and we were doing it on the second floor balcony while a thousand people watched a show below. It felt so deliciously bad. It felt so amazingly good.
His thrusts were getting faster now—firm hands guiding my hips to help with the motion. I pushed off him, panting, and spun around. “I want to watch the opera,” I whispered, my grin cheeky in the shadows. I leaned down over the back of the chair, Xander behind me, and he entered again.
The angle was totally different from behind. It hit all new spots, thrusting deeper, as if spearing my soul. That ripple of pleasure I’d noticed before began to grow stronger.
I looked down as my body rocked forward and back with his movements. A woman was singing on the other side of the stage. She turned, song directed to someone out of sight below us.
My pearl necklace caught the light. She looked up, and suddenly her song faltered. She could see me.
I hesitated momentarily. But then her song grew louder, and though her salute was to the person out of sight, I knew it was meant for me—a you-go-girl that I intended to thoroughly take advantage of.
Xander’s hips slid smoothly into me once more. My eyes rolled up and my head went down. I didn’t care who was watching. Let them enjoy the show.
His hand slipped between my legs and my head snapped back up, my eyes widening as he stroked in time to his thrusts. Below, the opera singer had her arms wide to the audience. I almost cried out, joining her in song.
I was breathing heavier and heavier, concentrating more and more on keeping quiet—my entire energy now devoted to containing the pleasure Xander was generating. It was a battle I was slowly losing. Whimpers escaped my gritted teeth. My fingers on the seat were clenched so hard they were white.
I couldn’t help it. Each thrust chipped away at my very core—all I wanted to do was scream Xander’s name and the pleasure he stoked inside.
He slid into me again. Then again, his motions growi
ng harder as his own passions built. He was losing control too, his hands returning to my hips to pull me in over and over again. I pushed back into the thrusts, meeting them in a wild, hard joining of our bodies as one.
The opera singer glanced up. She saw my wide eyes and gritted teeth. She grinned, and then I saw her bosom swell. Her voice rose an octave in a final crescendo. I could swear she gave me a wink.
I felt Xander swell too. With a groan he tipped over the edge, and I couldn’t help it—the motion tipped me as well. I opened my mouth and joined in the song below, contractions shuddering over and over as I sung my joy.
“I don’t know who that was on stage,” I panted when we were done. “But we need to send them roses.”
His face was shadowed but I could see he was confused. “Of course, it was a great performance, though that final song was quite loud. But why?”
I shook my head, a blush spreading over my features, and then allowed myself a small grin. “It’s a girl thing—you wouldn’t understand.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The next time we met, we tried to be smarter. Sure we’d slipped up, but I rationalized that away in my mind as something everyone did just once after a relationship broke up. Never mind the fact that we’d never had a relationship—that it was the very thing I was trying to prevent.
I couldn’t start a relationship with Xander. I knew that. Not when he was leaving. But that week apart had taught me I couldn’t go cold turkey either. He was such a natural fit to my life—he made me laugh, he was good with my dog. It was like I’d discovered a piece of me that I’d been missing, yet had never known until he arrived.
And so we tried our hands at being friends. We even talked about it like adults, together after the Opera as we walked hand in hand down the street for ice cream. Then again as we stumbled, kissing passionately through his front door. We’d peg the night up as ‘getting it out of our system’, then start fresh in the morning.
It was a good theory. But it didn’t seem to work well in practice. There seemed to be a lot that we needed to ‘get out of our systems.’
But we tried. Heaven help us we did. Two days after the Opera Xander picked me up for Chinese. The theory was good—a public place, good food, great conversation. The problem was that the night never got any further than pick me up—I was still getting ready when Xander arrived; he slipped in and put his arms around me in the bathroom, I leaned back to kiss him, and then 45 minutes later Baxter was hoarse from barking at all the noises going on behind the closed bathroom door.
The next time, we went to the movies. That ended up with hand jobs in the dark. We went to a bar. I ended up bent over a washroom sink. No matter what we did, and where we went, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. It was just so hard when it felt so good—especially when he was so good and hard!
Of course, we talked after—often for hours, falling asleep in each other’s arms; Xander driving me to work the next morning. But that was beside the point. Xander was leaving, and the worst thing I could ever do would be to fall for him. He was too perfect—my dream man in every way.
I had to start reining the passion back. To get it to a manageable level by the time he left. Because the problem with dream men was that they disappeared when you woke up.
In the end, the only thing we found that worked was Baxter. The thought of having sex in front of my little dog was like doing it in front of a child—instant mood killer. As long as we weren’t somewhere we could lock him out of, we were safe.
And so our meetings became frequent dog walks, which Baxter loved, and I endured. All I wanted was to rip the clothes off Xander. But I knew I couldn’t. Not if I wanted to survive after he left.
The days became weeks, and Xander soon became my best friend. We saw each other multiple times a day. We laughed, and talked, and I told him about my life, and he told me about his. Baxter was our constant companion, our chaperone, and it was the happiest the little puppy or I had ever been in our lives.
But I still knew I was fooling myself. Because every night after he left, I couldn’t help it—I’d lock the bedroom door, lay down on my back in the dark, and live out with my hands all the things I still dreamed he might do to me, if only he would stay.
CHAPTER FIVE
Xander’s last day came around all too quickly. We both decided to take the afternoon off—him from his fancy parties and ribbon cutting, me from my catheter bags and hospital charts. I was constantly teasing him that he did no real work. He constantly teased me that a relative of his had opened my hospital.
Richards picked me up; we’d learned the hard way that Xander shouldn’t come around personally. We didn’t tend to leave the house if he did, and Baxter did a lot of confused barking at closed doors.
Baxter sprinted into the house from the hole he was digging when Richards arrived, dirt trailing from his snout across my just cleaned floor. He gave a bark, tail wagging furiously as he scrabbled at the wall for his leash.
“Yeah, yeah, hold your horses buster.” I grabbed a sweater, looking at myself in the mirror one last time. Today was the last time I’d see Xander. I wanted to look good for him.
The last time I’d see Xander. I tried not to let the thought crush me. We still had today; I wasn’t going to spend it crying.
“Good afternoon Miss Wilmont.” Baxter leapt to the seat beside me as I climbed in the car.
My smile for Richards was genuine. “What did I tell you about calling me that, Rich?”
“Force of habit ma’am.”
“Well, it won’t be a habit much longer.”
He nodded from the front seat. “If I may say so, I’m going to miss you when we go tomorrow.”
“Thank you, that’s very kind. But let’s not talk about that right now, I’m liable to burst into tears.”
He chuckled. “Me too, in honesty. He’s going to be a right crabby git when he gets on that plane.”
The thought made me laugh. “Are you allowed to say things like that?”
“He’s not going to fire me—I’m the only one that will put up with it!”
The ride passed pleasantly, Richards taking my mind off tomorrow in his own special way. He was a good soul, and though I wouldn’t miss him like I would Xander, I’d still miss him. It made me happy to know that Xander had surrounded himself with people that cared for him as much as I did.
What were my feelings for Xander? How much did I care for him? This last month had been… wonderful. Frustrating and filled with sexual tension to be sure, but wonderful all the same.
I sighed, willing myself away from that line of thought. It wouldn’t matter after tomorrow. I just had to be strong for one more day. I could cry all I wanted once I’d waved goodbye.
* * *
Baxter was a streak of white on green when we arrived, leaping from the car to sprint with lolling tongue toward Xander, who waited under the shade of a broad, beautiful oak tree.
“What’s this?” I asked. Xander had set up a gorgeous spread on a checked red and white picnic blanket—I could see platters of cheese, ham, salads and crusty French bread. In a cooler to one side, a bottle of Dom Perignon sat chilling.
“I thought we’d have a picnic,” he said brightly, navigating the obstacle course that was Baxter at his feet, to kiss me lightly. I closed my eyes, wishing I could lean into that kiss, instead of pulling away. One more day Kate. One more day.
I forced a smile. “You have enough food here to feed an army!”
He shrugged. “I figured Baxter could eat the leftovers. Would you like a glass of champagne?”
We sat as Baxter began snuffling at the various foods. He did a complete circuit before sitting beside a leg of honey glazed ham, an expectant look on his face. I shook my head and the little devil turned to Xander instead, front paw scraping at the prince’s knee. Xander pulled off a section and let him eat it from his fingers. Pushover.
Baxter’s tail began thumping. He looked at Xander expectantly. “Once you’ve start
ed he won’t stop!” I warned.
Xander handed him another piece of meat. “I don’t mind—I want to spoil him. I won’t see him again after tomorrow.”
Urgh. I did not want to talk about that right now. “Why don’t you tell me more about Alonia? You said your mother never remarried?” Xander’s father had passed away when he was a child. His mother now ruled as monarch.
He nodded. “Richards is probably the closest thing to a father I’ve ever had—I’ve known him since I was four.” He looked at me. “He likes you, by the way. Did you know he’s never let me call him Rich, not once?”
“Really? He let me call him that the very first day.”
“I know. Like I said, he must like you a lot.”
“What about your mother. What’s she like?”
Xander sipped his champagne, contemplating the question. “Strong, I guess. She had to be, after my father died. Two days after he passed away, our neighbors to the east declared war.”
“What? Why would they do that?”
He shrugged. “They thought we were weak, I guess. Don’t get me wrong, that’s not the reason they gave, but that’s what I think. Our gem deposits are some of the best in Europe. It would have made them unimaginably wealthy.”
“What was the reason they gave?”
He shook his head. “They said we stole something from them.”
“No! People don’t start wars for things like that, do they?”
He chuckled. “There’s always a reason, Kate. And if you don’t have one, you make it up. Wars have been started for less, I can assure you. Britain and Spain fought a war over a cut off ear in 1739, Chile and Peru fought a war over bird droppings in 1879, and—I swear this is the truth—you Americans almost started a war in 1859 over a pig.”
“We did not!”
“Look it up! Regardless, in the scale of things, a stolen national treasure seems pretty legitimate. Even if it was fabricated.”
