Luke Henry is cursed to live for (aneternity) wrote in rooms, @ 2014-05-14 02:06:00 |
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Entry tags: | !great gatsby, *log, luke henry, wren henry |
Who: Luke & Wren
What: Luke goes to talk Wren into coming home, but not much talking happens. (1/2)
Where: New Amsterdam theater.
When: Recently.
Warnings/Rating: Some foreplay.
The New Amsterdam theater was impossible to miss. It was the tallest building on famed 42nd street and it pronounced its importance in bright white bulbs that flickered in the night sky. An hour before showtime, and already there was a lineup of black cars, elegant men and women stepping out to witness the socially-accepted taboo that were Ziegfeld's girls.
Spring, and the night still held some crispness. The air was clean, practically pristine in comparison to modern day New York and, even the dark, the buildings had a look of newness that they lacked in modern New York. And, too, there were no aliens here, no signs of destruction, no clean-up efforts. Here, the men and women that stood behind red velvet ropes and waited for the theater to open laughed, no fear of things from the sky. Here, the whispers were about speakeasies and brothels and taboo places that titillated. Here, no one talked about pulses or mutations.
Wren loved that.
She'd spent days scared. Even when Luke was there, at her side, she'd been scared. It was a general kind of fear, the kind of fear that felt like a gateway. A portcullis for fears to come, and she needed to find a way to resign herself to the fact that Marvel wasn't going to safe, and it wasn't going to be quiet, and Luke wouldn't want to leave it. She didn't think, not at all, that this alien invasion was going to be the only challenge they faced. The pulse had changed everything, and she expected more changes; she hated that expectation.
And, too, she was tired of children that weren't her own. That made her terrible. She knew it made her terrible. But Gus wasn't handling it well. The little boy never liked change, and a new house, a new school, a new life, it was wearing on him. The first night in Gatsby, she'd woken to find him sleeping beneath the bed the children had been sharing in the very wet bedroom that all seven of them had been calling home since the alien invasion began.
As much as she didn't want to go back to Marvel, she did want to go home. Not to a specific place, necessarily, but somewhere they could let things settle and go quiet again. Somewhere they could be alone.
Inside, the New Amsterdam was opulence, and Wren loved that too. She'd left word that her fella was coming by (Ziegfeld's girls weren't married, because looking at a married woman, that was taboo.), and she'd been reassured that they would send him backstage when he got there.
She wasn't in the first act, so she waited, dressed in something made to be looked at, her dark cinnamon hair curled and held by a diamond clip at the nape of her neck, her legs dangling off the dressing table that she was sitting at while she listened to one of the girls tell the story of her two fellas.
Luke knew next to nothing about the 1920s. It was a time period long, long before he'd even been thought of, and history had never interested him much. Sure, he'd read Gatsby in high school, but he didn't remember much about it. Rich people and parties, that was what he associated it, and by extension the door itself, with, and neither were things he cared for. He didn't want to live in the past. He didn't want the kids being denied a proper education and all the things the modern world could give them, and besides, they had no place to stay in Gatsby. A room over a brothel didn't count, no matter how 'nice' it was. They needed to come home. Wren and the kids, and Evie, and she'd see. It would be okay. Gwen would take Sadie and Delilah would go back to Adam and MK, once he managed to get in touch with them, and they'd have their house back. Their life, which they'd only just started to build in Marvel.
And he knew Wren was scared. He did. He knew, and he understood, but he couldn't let her hide in Gatsby. They couldn't have a home there. And part of him, maybe, liked that he was part of something bigger in Marvel. Something important. It wasn't that he was unhappy with what he had; no, that wasn't it at all. But he'd never lost that desire to be a hero, to do good, and now he had that chance. He could help others like him. He could make a difference. As much as he loved her, as much as she was the reason he breathed and got up each morning, that was just part of who he was. He could try to suppress it for her sake but it would always, always be there. Was it selfish? He didn't think so; had Gatsby really been the better choice, he'd have agreed. But it wasn't. Living there wasn't practical. And he still wasn't sure about this Ziegfeld thing, he'd never been sure, but he was about to finally see for himself what it was like.
He'd gone looking for the outfits Wren mentioned, and even though he thought he looked stupid, at least he'd fit in. Or so he hoped. Hair slicked back under his hat and a jacket over his suit, and he set out to find the door. Once he was there, feeling like he'd just stepped into an old movie, finding the New Amsterdam theater was no trouble at all. Even if it hadn't been bright, flashy opulence, the loudness of the crowd, that many people together in one place, would have tipped him off. He felt out of place, bombarded by smell and sound, acutely aware of everything around him, and once he was inside and the crowd began to disperse, it was a relief.
He figured since Wren was part of the show she'd be backstage, so he wandered until he found a woman in sparkles and silk and asked where it was. Recognition clicked when he said her name, and he figured 'Wren's fella' was just the terminology they used back then. Or now. He had no idea they didn't know she was married; he wouldn't have liked it much if he had. As it was, he was quiet as she led him backstage, managing to dodge her questions and mumbling something about 'working for the government' when she pressed further.
The subtle entrance he'd hoped to make clearly wasn't going to happen; 'Wren's fella' was announced to all the girls gathered, and he smiled sheepishly, gaze settling on her where she sat. He looked at her and only her; it was appreciative, his gaze, because she looked breathtaking, downright beautiful, but then he realized that a whole theater full of men would be staring and he barely managed to suppress the growl which had begun to rumble in his throat. "Hey."
She slid off the dressing room table, completely unaware of any of his concerns. Really, she wasn't aware of anything but him just then. She'd missed him. She'd been scared. She'd been homesick for their life. She'd been a thousand million things, and they all tangled together to create something that was just want. The want to be with him, to be wherever he was, to have him home safe, to have the world stop. All of it, and she ran to him and threw her arms around his shoulders, tiptoes and she smelled like the musk perfume the girls liked so much.
She pressed a kiss to his cheek, leaving red stain behind, and the other girls twittered and catcalled and warned her to take her fella out back, where she wouldn't get caught.
Belatedly, she introduced him by name, her hand sliding into his and tugging with nervous impatience. She could take him up to the flys; the men there wouldn't care, because they liked watching the girls from the sides during the show. It would be quiet, empty, and he could still see.
Tug, tug, because she wanted him all to herself, which just made the girls giggle more, and she knew they wouldn't let her live it down after. She didn't really care. All that mattered was that he was there. He was there. He was there.
"Shhhh," she whispered, even as she tugged him backward. "Come with me, s'il vous plait?"
He caught her around the waist when she ran to him, arms wound over his shoulders and she was close, so close, the scent of perfume and her beneath it. Her heart beat a steady rhythm and she breathed, and the realization of just how much he'd missed her hit him full force. Having her here, now, made him never want to let go, and he didn't care that they weren't alone. He didn't care about the other girls and he didn't care about getting caught. It was her and nothing else; she was his world, and his world was her. "Hey," he repeated, a whisper this time when she kissed his cheek. The giggles and catcalls made him blush just a little, but it wasn't enough to stop him from stealing a kiss when she pulled back, before she slid her hand in his.
It didn't matter where she was taking him. He didn't resist, didn't even try. He went willingly when she tugged, a nod when she shushed him and a quiet hush when he spoke. "Anywhere. I'd go anywhere with you." He grinned. "You look beautiful, by the way."
She always worried, when they were apart. That he'd forget. That he'd forget that she needed him in order to breathe. And now, with his world getting bigger and bigger, hers seemed to be getting smaller and smaller. And all of it built up and created a fear inside her that was bigger than aliens, bigger than whatever had taken Jack. And his arms around her, they made her think maybe not yet. Maybe she hadn't lost him yet. That small kiss as she drew away, that helped too, and there was a smile on her lips by the time she tugged him through the door.
The hallway floor was wood and the echo of their footsteps, and she walked backwards as she drew him away, hands in his and glitter dotting the bridge of her nose and the ends of her curls. "Merci," she said, her own whisper when he said she looked beautiful. The other girls, they were much more attractive than she was. They were like porcelain dolls, platinum blonde hair and skin that was alabaster. Her hair was too long, and her hair was too dark, and she wasn't waifish enough. But she did okay; she had clients that came to see her, and that was enough to keep her there, employed at the big theater instead of being sent to one of Ziegfeld's smaller, off-Broadway stages.
She led him up the curving staircase to the flys. And, as expected, it was quiet as the curtains waited to go up. It was high up, high high in the flyspace, and no one would be able to hear them if they were quiet there. She stopped in the center of the crosswalk, and she tugged his hat off his head and leaned back against the rail as she put it on her head. Her smile was a bitten lip and twinkling eyes as she looked him over, gaze lingering as it went down, then came back up to settle on his lips.
Her smile spoke volumes. It was reassurance, it was the feeling that things would be okay, that she knew she'd never, ever lose him. And it was warmth, from the inside out, hopeless adoration as he looked at her. His gaze never moved from her, not even a flicker elsewhere as she led him out the door and down the hallway. Stare and stare, and he loved that he could see every little detail, glitter and curls and the redness of her lips.
To him, she was ten times prettier than any of the girls backstage. She was the most beautiful woman in any room, in every room, and he didn't think he was biased; he fully believed it was true, which was why he was so easily roused to jealousy. He thought other men saw what he did. And so other men would want her, other men would imagine they could have her. Even though she was on stage and they were in the audience, looking was too much. She was his, not theirs, and he didn't even want them pretending otherwise. Maybe it went beyond possessive, his jealousy, but he couldn't help it. That, too, was part of him, and ever since the pulse it had only become stronger, an almost animalistic urge to claim what was his and defend it.
Up, up, up she led, and he followed, glad for the quiet and the chance to be alone. He was supposed to be convincing her to come home, he knew. They were supposed to be talking. But he couldn't quite find the words and, frankly, he didn't care to. He smiled when she tugged off his hat and claimed it for herself, and he stared as she leaned back against the rail and let her gaze slide over him. He thought about other men staring, about other men wanting, and it was a mix of want and jealousy that darkened his gaze. "I think I'll keep you up here," he said as he moved forward, "all to myself." He might have been teasing, but he might not have been, and once there was nowhere else to go, no more space between them that he could close, he kissed her.
She didn't know what he was reading into her smile, but it meant all the things he thought it did. Almost. It was everything but that certainty he perceived. That certainty came in touches, in kisses, when he reached for her, when he held onto her. In those moments, she always forgot that she might lose him. Brief moments, and in those brief moments she felt peace. And tiny as they were, those instances, they were still more than they had been a year earlier. Baby steps, but they were steps, and she smiled at him like he was her constellation. It didn't matter to her what the men in the audience pretended; even if they could touch her, she would never, ever be theirs. And maybe it was hypocritical a lot, because she couldn't do it if the situations were reversed. As childish as it was, she couldn't even stand the idea of other people paying to look at him. She couldn't. She was envy green, even when no one was anywhere near him. It was a permanent thing, one that was so much a part of her that she didn't even notice it there, always simmering beneath the skin.
She was supposed to be convincing him to stay. She was supposed to be pleading for another life, a safer life, a different life. But she couldn't. It wasn't that she didn't remember, standing there against that railing with his hat on her head; she remembered. But seeing him reminded her of all the things she already knew, of all the reasons he would want to go home. It was in the new fluidity of his movements, and it was in the way he seemed to see her clearly, even in the lower light.
And then he moved forward, and maybe it stopped mattering for a second. All the panicked nights that she knew were in her future, they just couldn't compete with the immediacy of his body against hers. The fabric of her dress was nothing, pretty nothing, and she could feel the foreign clothes he wore against her skin, as if there was nothing between them. "Don't you want to see me dance?" she managed, just before his mouth covered hers. Below, dancers lined up, skirts made of feathers in white and silver and tiny silver orbs covering their nipples. The stage was white, bubbles blown in, and it would have all been considered over-the-top in their world; Wren thought it was beautiful.
Her fingers slid into his sleek-slick hair, and she claimed him by mussing his dark curls and winding them around her fingertips. She licked against the seam of his lips, and she whimpered, and she asked for things she'd missed for days that felt like lifetimes.
He was a little surprised that she didn't argue about staying, about Gatsby over Marvel. But he was glad, too; he'd missed being away from her too much to want to waste time and energy on distance and talking. Later, they could do it later. When she wasn't smiling at him like he was her entire universe, when he couldn't feel her against him. And he liked her dress, but at the same time he didn't like it. He liked it when he was looking; he didn't like that other men could see the same. She might have been too jealous to let others look at him but he wasn't far off, because tolerance? Tolerance was a frayed string that might snap at any moment. He was greedy in the way he trapped her with his body; she couldn't leave unless he let her, and he wasn't all that sure that he would.
When she asked if he wanted to see her dance, he didn't answer. Not right away. Her fingers were in his hair and she was whimpering and licking at his lips; those things seemed much more important. His arms encircled her waist, fingers pressing their claim into the bared skin of her back, and he was parted lips and eager compliance with what she asked for as he kissed her. And then, just for a moment, he looked down, past her, at the line of dancers. He didn't care about them. What he did care about was what they wore, or rather, what they didn't. She might have seen beauty, but he saw jealousy-stained red. If the other girls dressed like that, then she must have too, didn't she?
His kiss turned harder, more demanding. "I want to see you dance," he growled against her mouth, "but I don't want them to."
In many ways, she still thought of him as that boy that she could push and push, the one that never growled, that never asserted, that never grabbed and demanded. She thought the dress was pretty, and she liked the way the rail felt against the bared skin of her back, and she didn't realize that he minded what she was wearing. The dress was decent, virginal even compared to some of the costumes used in the show. She thought the prison of his body was heaven, and she associated it with time and distance. She slid her fingers along his jaw, slipping them free of the tangle of his curls when his arms circled her waist. She wanted the kiss to be endless, and she was a whine of protest, warm breath against his cheek when he looked over her shoulder.
But then he was kissing her again, harder, and she melted against him with a sigh that was pure submission and acquiescence and anything. "I'm not theirs. I'm yours," she vowed, heat against his mouth when he growled. And she couldn't not touch him when he sounded like that, she couldn't. The hat tumbled onto the walk, and her finger were impatience as she tugged his shirt free of his waistband. Music played beneath them, and she kissed a line along his jaw as her greedy fingers found warm skin at his belly. "I think I stop living when I can't touch you," she said, no shame, no embarrassment, only truth on her tongue. "Like I die a little, and I stay that way until you're with me again." It was needy truth, accompanied by the press of fingers, bruises beneath his bellybutton and no one would be able to see him without that shirt on and not know he belonged to someone. "Mine," was a syllable she breathed against his mouth.
There were far more revealing dresses she could have been wearing; he knew that. But his jealousy was so much a part of him that he couldn't turn it off, he couldn't even try. If he looked back, back, he'd find that it was rooted in all the things he'd turned a blind eye to in Seattle. The men, so many men, and he should have protected her. Now, now he would, and maybe he was too jealous, maybe it was worth worrying about that there was a very real possibility that he'd go so far as to kill someone if they touched her, but he didn't care. And he liked that he could keep her there, trapped against the rail, and she couldn't stop him. He could drag her out of the theater itself, and she couldn't stop him from doing that either. He leaned into her touch when her fingers slid along his jaw, and her whine of protest made him smile, smile, confirmation that she wanted him just as much as he wanted her.
He loved the way she melted against him. Her submission was a heady thing, something he never, ever took for granted, and the kiss turned warmer. "You are," he agreed, low and rough. "You are mine. Mine." It was possession, claim, and he gasped against her mouth as she tugged his shirt free. "I still don't want them looking. I want you all to myself. I'm selfish," he admitted, and it was the one and only way in which he was. When it came to her, he could be selfish. He didn't feel guilty about it. He rocked against her fingers, and he turned his head when she kissed his jaw, trying to claim her mouth again, to take what he wanted. Her words made him whimper, and his head spun with it, with how much he needed her, with how much he loved her. "I know," he whispered. "I know. I'm not really living unless you're with me. I'm alive when you touch me. I'm alive when I touch you." It didn't make sense, maybe, but the words felt right, and he moaned when the press of her fingers became hard enough to leave bruises. "Yours," he vowed. "Yours." His fingers wound in the hem of her dress and tugged, pulling the fabric up, up, wanting it out of the way.
She didn't think, not for even one second, that he would kill someone, that he would hurt someone. She still remembered that promise she'd made him give her in the confessional, that she could drive him crazy one night, and she didn't worry about anything bad coming from that either. She wasn't worried, and the only reason she wasn't following through right then was because she didn't want to get fired, and she didn't want to be parted from him. Non, that needed to happen far away from the theater, but not because she feared him; she didn't. But tonight, tonight she just wanted to hold onto him, all those nights of fear weighing her down like cement, and she didn't want to bother with anyone else, not even to see jealousy well up in his eyes. And he was right that she couldn't move; she wasn't as strong as him. She couldn't go anywhere at all, not if he didn't want her to, and that was thrilling enough. It made her warm all the way to her toes, and she swayed against him, a little thing of a movement, all hips and soft belly.
That roughness in his voice, it was new, just like the growl was, and it made her want to do all kinds of things to draw more of that out of him. Maybe it was really, really not a good idea, especially up on that crosswalk where privacy was a fleeting illusion, but she didn't think very much when he was this close. "I'm going to make you watch while they look," she said, and it was unthinking, almost nearly a contradiction of her thoughts from moments earlier. But the statement was his fault, really, because she thought maybe the world stopped when he sounded possessive like that. Or maybe it was just her world that stopped turning.
She turned her head, not letting him claim her mouth in that kiss he was trying to chase, her pulse speeding up with the thrill of denying him. And his words earned him a whimper, and her fingers pressed harder against his belly. Her fingers slid below his waistband, lower when he tugged up the hem of her dress, and the music from below stopped, and the dancers ran, and the music changed as the women did. "I have to go. I have to go. Stay?" She stroked him. "Stay and watch?" She bit her lip, cheeks flush in the near-dark of the costume change. "For me? Stay?"
She always thought the best of him. Always, even when he saw differently, when he knew he was capable of things she wouldn't ever consider. But none of that mattered just then. No one else was touching her, and no one else would be. He didn't like them looking, the men, but it wasn't enough to inspire the kind of violence that physical contact would. For a moment, just that, his gaze went unfocused when she swayed against him, breath catching in his throat, and he pressed her back, against the rail, a wordless reminder that she was trapped and only he could decide whether or not to let her go. He liked it. He liked it a lot, and he was getting better at not worrying so much about what that said about him.
He made a sound that was a cross between a growl and a whine when she said she was going to make him watch them look. No without actually saying no, and when she turned her head he kissed her jaw instead, dragging his mouth along her skin with enough pressure to leave marks. His breathing quickened as her fingers slid lower, and he didn't even realize the music had stopped, didn't realize changes were happening below. He whimpered when she said she had to go, moaned when she stroked him, and he wanted to refuse. He would have, but those two words, for me, changed everything. Stay for me. Watch for me. For her he would do anything, and she knew that.
"For you," he breathed. A concession. For all his strength, she was the one with real power, but it was a slow, reluctant thing, moving back so she had enough space to go. "Come back? When you're done, come back?" It was a plea, not a command, desperation and hope, and he cleared his throat to try again. "Come back to me." Less of a request this time, rougher, and his fingers trailed over her skin as he let her hem fall.
She knew him, inside and out, and if she thought the best of him it was because she knew that he was a good person, the best, and nothing would ever sway her belief in him. She would always blame external factors - people, the world, the situation. Never him, because he was - at his core - one of the most selfless and heroic people she'd ever known.
When he pressed her back against the railing, she whimpered. She loved his dominance. It was new, so new, but she'd always craved it. She'd wanted to ask for it a thousand times in the past. She almost had when she'd put her crop in his hand once. She wanted that from him, and maybe it didn't make even the tiniest bit of sense, not given her past. But it made her weak in the knees like nothing else did, and she trusted him entirely. There wasn't any fear in her unfocused gaze when he growled. There was only heat, and there was only want, and there was only need. She wanted more of his moans, and more of the weight of him in her hand. She didn't want to go, but part of her wanted him to look, to suffer, to yearn. She wanted him to look and see and not be able to keep his hands off her after.
She broke away when he agreed, needing space between them before she changed her mind and stayed with him. He looked beautiful there, a few feet away and looking thoroughly kissed. Her breathing was fast, shallow, fluttering wings in her chest. She nodded. Promised, and then she was gone.
When the curtain parted, the girls were twenty-deep on the stage. The nudity was careful and deliberate, everything designed to titillate. The singing and dancing was good, but it wasn't the point, and every man and woman in the audience knew it. The audience leaned forward in their seats, itching for a glimpse of more skin than the number intended. The women wanted to be the girls, shockingly daring as they were; the men just wanted them. At times, they got the views they wanted; at others, they were left deliberately teased. Kicks and long legs and almost decadent views, and the song ended with applause and catcalls that were awed and appreciative.
The girls from the first number came back onstage, and Wren was back up the stairs in a flush of cheeks and yards of bare skin.
He didn't want to let her go. Knowing she'd come back, knowing the men would only look and not touch, it wasn't enough. He didn't want to be parted from her for even a second, and he made an aborted move forward, like the start of a lunge, when she broke away. The space was hard, distance he felt like a layer over his skin, and he swallowed hard, chest rising and falling as he stared, until she descended the stairs and was gone.
A deep, thready exhale, and then he turned, hands on the rail as he leaned forward to get a better view of the stage. The other girls didn't matter; not so much as a glance was spared for them. No, he only had eyes for her, and he'd never been as conflicted as he was then, watching. She was beautiful. She was want and desire and need, and she was his, but he couldn't forget that he wasn't the only one who could see her. He saw the way the men stared. He swore he could smell their desire even from where he was, and it sickened him. He hated it. He hated them, but he loved her, and her song and dance had the intended effect; he was helpless to stop it. Tease and torment, and he wanted more. He paced like a caged animal, claws sliding in and out, and he fought the urge to go down and drag her away. He ached to touch her. It was frenzy, building and building, and at some point he discarded his suit jacket, at some point he loosened his tie, like that might help somehow.
When she reappeared, he stopped and stared. He was angry that she hadn't told him it was like this, more than just dancing. He was angry at the men. He was jealous. He hated. But, too, there was desire and need, and softer things beneath; adoration, love and fondness. He stared, a maelstrom behind eyes that gleamed, and he moved towards her. Step, step , and when he reached her his fingers found hers, deceptively gentle. He tugged, once, twice, still gentle, before suddenly pulling with all his strength, a yank forward to bring her up against him even as he shoved her back against the rail.
Words failed him. He tried, briefly, but he ended up muffling his failed attempts against her mouth in a searing kiss. His hands slid up her thighs and this time, he wasn't letting her go.
There was something about knowing he'd been watching that made her pulse race, and she was anticipation as she reached the top of the stairs. She took things in at first, grey gaze dancing along the length of him, taking note of the discarded tie, the discarded jacket, the fact that she'd caught him mid-pace. When he stopped moving and stared, she was a drag of indrawn breath, and her skin felt like needles. It was impossibly hard to stay still when he began moving toward her. She fidgeted, now-bare feet against the floor, toes curling into the catwalk, fingers fidgeting with the nothing little skirt at her hip, with the bright silver and stone of the clasp that held that skirt in place. Tiny movements, and they increased with each step. She was flushed cheeks and the scent of nervousness on her skin. She held her breath, and then he reached her.
She wasn't expecting that gentle tug to her fingers, and it was plainly writ on her face. Wide eyes and a question there, wordless and silent. The gentle tugs continued, and her breathing evened, and her pulse slowed. Wane, wane the anticipation, and she opened her mouth to ask him what he'd thought. Calm now, not expecting anything but words and more of that gentle tugging to her hands.
The yank and shove made her pulse spike, adrenaline rushing, and she was a sharp gasp and a moan that she couldn't quite bite back at the feel of his body against hers. "Did you," she began. Did you like it? But the question never made it out, and his mouth was against hers, and the kiss was bruising. It was all she wanted, and maybe encouraging her was bad. Maybe feeling this unbelievable rush when she made him jealous was dangerous. She didn't care, couldn't care. There was nothing but his hands on her thighs, bare skin and a sliver of fabric under the skirt, nothing more. She pressed against him, a wanton thing that slid her fingers into his hair. Yank, and she pulled back from the kiss a little, barely, breath against his mouth and her voice a teasing, husky whisper. "Did you like it?"
He was acutely aware of every tiny movement, the curl of her toes and nervous fidgeting of fingers on fabric; it was all brought into razor sharp clarity, overlaid with the scent of her nervousness. It was sweet. That even after all this time she could still be nervous was endlessly endearing, and he didn't think the thrill of being with her would ever, ever disappear. It didn't matter how many times they were together; every time felt new, different, and despite knowing her body as well as he knew his own he never tired of looking at her. He could feel her pulse slow, her breaths even out, when he was gentle, and it made her reaction to his sudden roughness even sweeter. His own breathing became heavier in turn, and god, the way she gasped and moaned made him want to take her right then and there. He was definitely liking this dominance thing.
If it was dangerous, letting her rile him up with jealousy, he didn't notice or care. It wasn't dangerous for her, because he'd never hurt her. It wasn't dangerous for him, because he could handle himself. It was dangerous for other men, maybe, but he didn't care about them. He gave the kiss bite, and he licked into her mouth, and he was all take, take, take, until her fingers slid into his hair and she yanked. His gaze went darker still, the gleam in his eyes more prominent, and he slid his fingers between them, over that sliver of fabric beneath her skirt. "Yeah," he breathed, "but I didn't like that everyone could see." No, he didn't like that at all, and the fingers of his other hand found her throat. It was a light touch, cautious and hesitant, almost fearful. "Did you see them? Think of them? Do it for them?" His fingers tightened, ever so slightly. Testing, testing. "Or was it for me?"
She didn't have his enhanced senses, but she still noticed when his breathing became heavier, and it made her whimper against his mouth. It made her want more than she already did, and she had thought that was impossible until then. But she always thought that. She always thought she couldn't possibly want him more, couldn't possibly need him more. And then she did, and the cycle started all over again. She whined when he gave the kiss bite, a demand for more in the keening sound, and she pressed against him as much as she could manage, all soft curves and femininity, bare skin and fabric that slipped and refused to cover what it was meant to cover. She wished she could see him better then, that she could see the darkness that she could just barely make out in his eyes. She wanted, and then he began talking, and his hand found her throat, and she held her breath. She smelled of anticipation. No fear, only surprise, shock, and the razor's edge of waiting to see how far he would take it. And her knees went weak when he said he hadn't liked that everyone could see. His fingers tightened, and she whimpered, even as she licked her lips before responding. "I saw them," she admitted, just because she wanted to see what he did with the admission. The anticipation was tangible on the air, thick and heavy, and she slid her fingers from the tangle of his hair, and she tugged aside the fabric that barely, barely covered her breasts. "I'm for you," she whispered. "Show me that I am."
The way she whimpered and whined was like heaven, and even with his clothing between them he could still feel her, warm skin and curves that made him wish he was wearing nothing at all so he could feel more. Like her he always wanted more, even when he thought what he had was enough. He was insatiable when it came to her. He couldn't help rocking against her, just once, friction and pressure that made him moan, an unthinking thing; he was barely aware he'd even made the sound. What he was aware of was her lack of fear. He could smell anticipation, shock, but she wasn't afraid. Had he scented even the slightest bit of fear he would have let go immediately, but there was none and his breath caught in his throat at the realization. He whined, because he just wanted her more, more, wound so tight it was only a matter of time until he snapped.
When she admitted that she saw them, a growl sounded in his throat and his fingers tightened again. Pressure, pressure, and then he stopped, released, back to that light touch and her skin under his palm. He knew he was walking a fine line. He knew. He would never, ever hurt her, never, but this was new ground and he was treading carefully. "How did you see them? How?" It was a demand. Rough and possessive, and his gaze dropped when she tugged aside the fabric. "You're for me," he repeated, liking how it sounded. He kept his hand at her throat, the other holding her against the rail, and he mouthed a path down, down, over exposed skin until he reached her breasts, and the pressure of his mouth increased. He didn't care if he left marks. He wanted to. He swirled his tongue around her nipple, teasing, start and stop, and when he took it into his mouth he bit down lightly, a careful press of teeth. "Mine," he whimpered against her skin. "Mine."
The fact that this could cost her job, if they were caught, was irrelevant. The fact that the men that worked the flys could be hiding in the dark, watching, was irrelevant. Nothing mattered but the scratchy feel of his clothing against her bare skin, and nothing mattered but the lean, muscled body she knew was beneath those items of clothing. She hissed when he rocked against her, teeth against her lower lip and want in the press of air between her lips. The moan made her beg. Beg, whine, whimper, wordless things that all said yes and more and I missed you and I was scared. And she didn't really know that he was wound up near to snapping. She would have pushed harder, had she known. Because it was always about snapping with them, about everything, every last shred of everything he was, that was what she wanted.
She realized, when he growled, when his fingers tightened, that she would get more of what she wanted if she pushed. A thready exhale, and she shuddered, and she wanted. The pressure was heaven, bruises and the threat of the world going nothing and black and just him around the edges. When his grip softened, she whined, but it was a sound of protest, of loss. "Non," she whispered, unthinking. But the rough possessiveness in his voice when he looked down at her, it almost made up for the loss of pressure from his fingers - almost. "I could see them looking at me," she said, and it was a lie. The lights on the stage were too bright to see beyond them, but that didn't matter even a tiny bit. "I could see them." And she really, really liked his repetition, but she liked the trail his mouth followed more. Her nipples were hard and aching, and she rocked against him in defiance of the hand at her throat and the railing at her back. When he bit, she exhaled his name, and her hand slid down into that little nothing strip of fabric beneath the tiny excuse for a skirt that she wore. It was defiance, and that was what scented her skin. Not fear, but that push and taunt as her fingers slid out of sight and between her own thighs. "I could see them," she repeated.