Page 41 of The Devil's Playground

“No,” I admit, taking one of the seats. I wait for her to lower herself into the other. She’s wearing a skintight, black cocktail dress that had me seconds away from calling the whole night off just so I could have the pleasure of peeling it off of her, and she moves carefully as she turns to look at me. I run my thumb along the edge of her jaw. “But you like this stuff. And if you like it? I’ll look into it. I’ll give it a try.”

“Royce…”

I knew I outdid myself.

It’s not that I picked a random musical that just so happened to be playing locally, either. It’s that I took the time to research the show to make tonight as special as possible. I drew the line at putting a half mask over my face, though the beaming smile she shot my way when I stopped and bought a rose from a vendor in the lobby makes me wonder if I should have.

The private box earns me more brownie points. It’s recessed on the side of the theater, with a curtain behind us to give us privacy. It doesn’t have the best view of the stage, but I figure the trade-off is worth it. Despite being in a theater with a thousand other people, in this box, it can be just the two of us.

With my free hand, I take hers in mine, twining my fingers with hers. “I want to like the things you like.”

I see it when she swallows roughly, a hitch in her voice as she asks, “What about the things you like?”

“Me? I like being a Sinner. I like gambling,” I tell her honestly, “and I like you.”

She sucks in a breath. Since the lights go off the moment after I tell her that, followed by a round of applause from the audience, I figure that’s what caused her reaction.

I’ve never been so fucking happy to be wrong.

Leaning over the seat, she pushes past my outstretched hand, laying hers on my cheek. She gives me a quick kiss, telling me more with actions than she can with any words as the show begins.

I have never been to one of these things before, but even I know there’s a certain etiquette in regards to how to act.

Fuck that.

I shift in my seat, collaring her throat, keeping her where she is as she begins to back away. That one kiss just reminds me how much I hunger for her. She started the kiss, and as the thunderous chords to the overture echo around us, I take that kiss, turn it around on her, and devour her in the darkness.

She’s panting softly when I finally break it. “Royce,” she murmurs softly, “the show’s started.”

I know. But whether I was planning this or not when I got the idea to book one of these private boxes, it doesn’t matter. As though I’ve got Link whispering in my ear, I’m reminded of a talk we had a few years ago over a couple of shots of whiskey.

I couldn’t understand why he’d willingly give up all women when he couldn’t have Ava. He couldn’t understand why I’d hop from bed to bed, getting nothing out of it except a quick nut and a sense of self-loathing when I abandoned another conquest.

There was, however, one thing we agreed upon: the best sex happened when there was a connection.

Right now, as a huge ass fake elephant comes rolling onto the stage, behind a shrill redhead singing far more opera-y than I was hoping, I think I finally understand what my boss was getting at all those years ago.

And, suddenly, I crave it.

Letting go of Nicolette’s neck, I pull on her hand. I’m still holding it, and I squeeze her fingers, wordlessly gesturing for her to come closer.

She leans over the armrest, a curious look in her eyes. “What’s up?”

No. I need her closer. I pat my lap.

Her eyes widen. She points at herself, then at my thigh.

I nod.

Nicolette chuckles, her eyes go even wider at the sound, and she slaps her hand over her mouth. In the shadows of the private box, I can just about make out the amusement dancing in her eyes as she shakes her head.

I raise my eyebrows, pressing my palms together.

Like me, Nicolette leans more toward being agnostic. We had the discussion once while watching Fiddler on the Roof. While I was raised Catholic before leaving the church as an adult, Nic’s mother bounced from religion to religion, depending on her husband du jour. She says she was baptized, was pretty sure she had a Confirmation—which makes me think she was Catholic once, too—but she hesitates about whether she believes there’s a God or not. Though the gesture might look like I’m praying, it’s more like I’m pleading.

She leans in. “You really want me to fuck you right now? The show just began.”

Exactly. We have at least an hour before intermission—but that’s not necessarily what I do want.

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