Chapter 21 #2
I experiment a little. Rub into his slit and see him shudder.
Drag a blunt nail across the sensitive skin underneath the crown and hear his breath catch—pain or pleasure?
I think it’s both. His head is tipped back against his high-backed seat, showing the long, golden line of his throat, and I want to bite him there. Leave a mark for everyone to see.
“Enjoying the show?” I whisper.
His hips twitch forward, a desperate, involuntary movement. He hates me for it. I feel it in the way he’s tensed every muscle in his body, in the way he won’t look at me. He hates me, but he can’t deny what my touch is doing to him.
And he’s close.
“What do you say?” I murmur. “You want to show all these rich folks who you really belong to? Mess up your new tux right here in the middle of the Met?”
His thighs tense. “Not here. I can’t—not with—”
“Can’t?” I lean close, lips at his ear. “You came across my lap yesterday from nothing but my hand on your ass. Didn’t even need to be touched.
Just a little pain and my voice, and you gushed like it was the first time anyone ever made you feel good.
” I twist my wrist slowly. “At least this time you’ve got a hand on your cock. ”
The sound he makes—bitten off, swallowed, forced back down his throat—is the hottest thing I’ve ever heard. I could shoot myself just from the sound of it.
I could make him pop. I could bring him right to the brink and then shove a hand over his mouth so no one else hears him while I push him over the edge.
He seizes the armrest, knuckles white. He’s breathing in short, sharp bursts, trying so hard not to give me the satisfaction of hearing him moan. The singing on stage has faded to an instrumental break, and the quiet in the auditorium is a weapon in my hands.
I reach down to squeeze his nuts, not too hard—but not soft, either. Just enough to make him jump. “You like that? Getting your balls played with in public?”
He shakes his head, a tiny, miserable movement. “Go to hell.”
“My home away from home.” I keep fondling that tight little sack, wondering what it would be like to suck on his stones, or have them vibrating under my chin while I eat out that luscious virgin hole…
Fuck. I need to stay in control. I can’t lose myself to this. To him. I grasp for anger again, find it buried under a haze of lust.
And I keep pushing him. I keep him hard and dribbling all through the first act until the music on stage swells into something dramatic.
The audience is captivated, so I work him faster, the sounds muffled by the orchestra.
He’s trembling, a thin sheen of sweat at his temples, and his hands grip the armrests so tight he might break them off.
“Please,” he whispers. “Dami, please—”
“Please what, little prince?”
“I’m going to—” The music rises to a climax.
And I stop.
I tuck him back into his trousers, button him back up, and smooth over that fancy fabric he just had to have. It’s like nothing happened, except that he’s still hard.
And so am I.
The first act ends to thunderous applause, and as it dies away, I turn to him and straighten his bow tie. “There we go,” I tell him softly. “No one but me will know. Not unless I decide to let New York in on your dirty little secret: that you enjoy being treated like this.”
He’s flushed, trembling, beautiful in his frustrated need. His eyes are glassy with want and humiliation. He’s…
Perfect.
The lights come up for intermission. Mrs. DuPont turns to us with bright eyes. “Wasn’t that absolutely marvelous?”
The Clemenza’s smile is flawless. No one would guess I just spent over an hour edging him. “Breathtaking,” he agrees. “I’ve never had an experience like it.”
I smother an unwilling snort of laughter.
“You wanna get a drink?” I ask once the DuPonts have left their box and the house is emptying below. “Or would you prefer I finish you off with the lights up? Let you spray your spunk all over the cheap seats below us?”
The look he gives me could melt steel. “Champagne sounds delightful. And isn’t that why we’re here? So you can show me off to your betters?”
He barely flinches when I slide a hand into his hair and tug hard, not caring who sees this time.
But he’s right, isn’t he? These people with their old money and inherited culture, their casual entitlement and generational power—they are better than me, in every way that matters to this glittering world.
But they’re not better than him.
That’s his message.
I let his hair go and run my fingers through it, smoothing out the waves. “Sure,” I say. “Let’s go parade you around.”
“Wonderful.” He rises, adjusting the gold and diamond cufflinks I provided for him. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had stimulating company.”
I follow him into the hallway outside the box, watch him greet some rich asshole I don’t know with a smile that lights up his whole face.
I pull him close and drop my voice as soon as we have a moment alone. “You’re showing off again, little prince. And you know what that means.”
I feel his shiver and smile to myself. But I hope he keeps pushing. Hope he keeps punching all my buttons, hard as he can.
Because when we get home tonight, I swear to God I will make him pay for every moment he tried to make me feel small.