Chapter Six
‘If you press this button…’ the butler explained.
Poppy groaned inwardly. She didn’t need to know a way to call Konstantinos back to the private box. She wouldn’t be calling him. His were the last pair of eyes that would see her, at least for a little bit.
She needed a respite—a moment to breathe—without sly glances over the rims of champagne flutes.
The private showing tonight was an intimate affair. Twenty faces the public would recognise as masters in their individual fields, and swarm to buy their own tickets so they could see—sit—where the bottoms of the élite had graced.
She’d recognised a few faces from her life before.
She’d lifted her smile higher, dipped her head.
But tonight was not for talking. It was for being seen, not heard.
And for that she was grateful. Grateful to the host who had ushered them through the Grand Foyer of a thousand stairs as champagne was thrust into their hands, all whilst a violin serenaded them with an intense sensual stroke of its strings and prepared them for what was to come.
The music had followed them into the auditorium of golden accents and red velvet. And, beneath the ceiling of vivid pinks and blues, she’d never felt more like an imposter.
She hadn’t wanted to sit next to those people—to keep a smile that felt so plastic in place as she watched a show she knew she wouldn’t see.
She would only see those watching her. Feel their eyes on her, taking notes to feed the gossip that would be shared at every brunch tomorrow—every dinner table.
Never had her heart beat so fast in relief as Konstantinos led her by the elbow away from the masses as the others had taken their seats in the main gallery.
And now she was here, in their own private box.
There was no music serenading them now.
Only the pulse of her heart.
It hiccuped as the head of the butler turned, as he disappeared through the thick curtain, and it was only them.
Her smile fell.
‘Sit,’ he said, and as if she were a puppet, she did.
Her legs too stiff, her body too awkward, she sat down in the plush foam sheathed in the softest velvet. He sat beside her, stretched his long limbs…
The lights dimmed.
‘You did well,’ his voice hummed beside her too closely in the darkness.
She swallowed. ‘I’m just glad it’s over.’
‘But it’s not.’
His fingertips feathered her arm resting between them on the gold-leaf curl of their adjoining chairs.
‘The press…’ he said, the pad of his thumb swiping against the pulse thrumming in her bare wrist.
To anyone else, it was an innocent touch. No more than a husband touching his wife. A soothing gesture. But she wasn’t anyone else. She was his soon-to-be ex-wife. And his touch did not soothe. It didn’t feel innocent. It called to the nerves beneath her skin. It made them jump. Pulse.
‘They’ll still be outside when we leave,’ he said.
She tensed.
Their red-carpet walk had been hell. She’d wanted to run.
But she’d known she couldn’t. And so, she’d matched his stride.
A slow, purposeful walk that let everyone know he was in control.
He didn’t stop for questions. He didn’t stop to the catcalls for a photo, or the intense cries of too many paparazzi asking in unison, Where had she been?
He didn’t stop until he was ready. She’d followed him until he was. Until he’d taken her hand. Kissed it. And he’d let all those below them, clicking their long lenses as they stood on the wide steps, know that she was back.
She was his.
She wasn’t.
No one was watching them now.
There was no one here to fool.
‘Until we’re back outside,’ she said tightly. Slowly, carefully, Poppy reached for him in the darkness. She pressed her fingers into his wrist, her fingers barely enclosing its thickness. She lifted it. Moved it. Dropped it into his own lap. ‘You can stop touching me.’
Her body rebelled. Because already her body missed it. The warmth of his fingers. The promise of them.
She curled her nails into her palms.
A piercing voice filled the auditorium. An operatic shrill that dug beneath her skin. The stage burst to life with figures dressed in fire reds and sunset oranges. And on their backs, broken black wings.
The full orchestra positioned beneath the stage flared to life, with every twist and turn of the ballet dancers on stage.
She’d been told tonight’s performance would be different.
A first for the Palais Garnier. A performance written and directed by an unknown who was a fast-rising star.
Their début. It was a mash-up of classical allegro movements serenaded by the hum only a full orchestra could create with the modernist twist of hip-hop speech accompanied by an opera singer’s voice.
It should have been too busy. Too many sounds. Too many different styles…
But it did something inside her.
It…moved her. But however much the colourful display on the stage held her eyes, the uniqueness of what she was seeing demanding it hold her attention…
His presence never faded.
He only watched her.
And his stare, it was too intense. Too intimate.
‘You’re missing it,’ she husked.
‘Am I?’
He didn’t touch her again, but his eyes, they did. They swept over her. Made her aware of every inch of flesh exposed to the dip of his gaze. His eyes travelled down her throat, to her chest, rising too slowly.
Her traitorous body shivered.
‘You’re still tense,’ he stated.
She didn’t respond. Tension was threaded in her every muscle. It was bone-deep.
‘I can help,’ he offered.
‘Help?’ she mocked.
‘I can give you what you need.’
Her stomach tensed. ‘What I need?’
‘You need to be touched, agape.’ His voice was silk, but it scraped against her skin, waking every fine hair, and called them to stand.
‘And I’m offering to give you release from the tension holding your shoulders too high, and your back too stiff. A reprieve from—’ he swallowed heavily, and she almost felt it, the drag of his Adam’s apple, the tension in his corded neck ‘—what is to come when the lights go back on.’
‘No,’ she said, because suddenly the darkness felt too tempting—too inviting. ‘No, thank you.’
‘I’m not offering you sex,’ he clarified. ‘I would, of course, not deviate from the contract. I would play safely within your carefully scripted rules.’
‘How would you do that?’
‘I would use my imagination, glikia mou.’
Hers ran riot. Of all the secret things he could do to her here. In the dark.
‘No.’
‘You need it,’ he countered, his voice low. A whisper only her ears could hear. ‘You need me.’
Her breath caught. Clarity formed—pushing the fog of illicit images in her mind apart to reveal a path of understanding at their centre.
It was a power play. All of it. The contract…
It had surprised her that he’d agreed to it, without correction, without changing the narrative he wanted the contract to fulfil other than the length of their agreement.
She could play within the lines, too.
Her heart racing, she reached for his hand. This time she didn’t take it further away. She drew it nearer. Placed it in her own lap. On her stomach. And she knew he only needed a word, only her consent, and a new game would begin.
Hers.
‘Okay.’
It was all Konstantinos needed to hear.
He’d been heavy-handed, but he was in no mood to be subtle. Watching her, watching the elaborate spectacle on the stage…
She hypnotised him.
The rise and fall of her chest, her small breasts straining against the bodice of her dress…
He hadn’t been able to help himself. He wanted to stoke the flame in her eyes, play along with the music seeping into her ears. The fast pump of a song elevating her pulse, widening her eyes.
His fingers flexed on her stomach, firm and tense beneath his hand. She remained perfectly still. Waiting. Her hand on top of his. Trapping it against her. Her eyes remained on the stage, but he felt it. Her complete awareness of him. His eyes watching her.
He wanted her eyes.
He wanted her to want him.
He wanted her every thought to be about him as his thoughts had only been about her for the last year.
He’d been consumed by her.
By the thought of her out there, all alone.
Now she would be consumed by him.
Konstantinos moved. The pads of his fingers stroked over the silk clinging to the shape of her flat stomach like a second skin. The hand on top of his tensed. He stilled. Waited for her to throw his hand away—change her mind.
But she didn’t.
She lifted her hand.
Freed his.
Gave him permission to roam, and fulfil his promise.
He looked out towards the stage. The audience below it.
He stiffened.
Casual scandal he couldn’t allow.
He couldn’t risk it. Poppy… She’d been through enough. They both had. Thanks to the paparazzi. But—he inhaled silently. Deeply. The scent of her trickled inside him. His nostrils flared.
Their private box was situated high on the left, behind the audience. Those down below couldn’t see them. They would have to twist their necks, try to see beyond the column of marble obscuring them from their field of vision. Stand up and use binoculars.
They could do this.
If they were careful not to be heard.
He leaned in, moved his mouth to the sensitive patch of flesh beneath her ear.
‘Can you be quiet, agape?’ He breathed the question onto her skin.
‘I can,’ she confirmed, but he felt the strain in each word presenting itself in her too tight lips.
He knew how she liked to sing for him. How he caused her vocal cords to make sounds that were primal. Primitive. He wouldn’t hear them tonight. She would be quiet. Keep her release a secret. But she would know who had given it to her. Him.
‘And now?’ Feather-light, he brushed his lips against her skin. ‘Can you be quiet when I do this?’ He applied pressure. Pressed his lips into her skin.
She shivered.
‘Yes,’ she said.
Slowly, he dragged his mouth down the taught tendons of her throat. He kissed it. Licked it. He sucked the flesh between neck and shoulder into his mouth. Hard.
‘Oh!’