Fingertips drift across my cheekbone, tracing the contours of my face. “I do,” Sylvie confesses quietly. “I do trust you. But I still don’t know why you want me up here—”

  My head ducks down in answer, because screw that. Screw Sylvie being unsure, looking at me like I might change my mind any minute. My mouth skims up the length of her leggings-clad thigh, until I’m breathing directly against her pussy, misting it through the fabric, my breaths already ragged with hunger. Is that answer enough?

  “Oh,” Sylvie says faintly, even as her fingers weave through my hair and tug. The prickle of pain feels so good, centering me. “Oh, that.”

  “Yes.” My words rumble against her clit through her leggings, and Sylvie squirms, pushing her hips toward me, already eager for more contact. “That.”

  There’s no one around. No one to hear the whisper of fabric as I tease her leggings down her thighs; no one to catch a glimpse of creamy bare skin in the gloom. Sylvie’s not wearing any underwear beneath her leggings, and that knowledge spears into my brain like a red-hot lance.

  Mine.

  Need to touch her. Need to taste her.

  Need to feel her squirm and writhe.

  Need to work this angel into a panting, sweaty mess, until she hungers for me with the same desperation I feel for her. Need to ruin Sylvie for all other men, and claim her forever.

  Then I can breathe again. Nothing else will do.

  “Never thought I’d get a turn on this balcony,” Sylvie jokes weakly, scratching at my scalp. Her breath hitches when I lean forward again, trailing open mouthed kisses up her inner thigh. Her legs are thick and curvy, just like the rest of her, and I want to stroke my hands over every single inch of this perfect body.

  “You’re my Juliet.” I press the words against her pussy like an offering, like a prayer, and the salty-sweet tang of her musk flips a switch in my brain. There’s no other way to describe it: I get the tiniest taste of her, then primal instinct takes over.

  Because Sylvie’s legs are spread, her taste is on my tongue, and she is mine. Mine to kiss and knead and worship.

  Mouth twisting in a snarl, I lick a stripe up Sylvie’s slit.

  “Oo-oh!” The balcony creaks as Sylvie leans back, tugging me closer by the hair. She’s panting already, her hips rocking up to meet my tongue, and I knew she’d like this. Knew she’d make the best little noises. “Oh, god. Okay. That feels so—Franz.”

  Is there any sweeter sound than my name on her lips? Especially when she says it like that, all needy and breathless. My heart lurches in response, and I angle my head, lapping at her clit.

  “This is so crazy.” Fingernails scratch at my scalp, and Sylvie strokes my neck, then my shoulders, gripping hard to the bunched muscle there. “Is this really happening?”

  Oh, it’s happening alright—and let there be no doubt about it. Tearing my mouth away, I tell her: “Don’t you doubt it, sweetheart. This is my tongue on your pussy. This is us in this wing. Feel this?”

  Sylvie’s mouth drops open as I slide a finger inside her, breaching her tight channel. It’s slick and soft and blissfully warm, and it’s going to feel like heaven around my cock. But in the meantime…

  “That’s me touching you, Sylvie. Claiming you. Has anyone ever touched you here before?”

  She makes a muffled sound, shaking her head. Didn’t think so. She’s too tight, too shy, too innocent. And I’m so fucking glad to be her first, even if that makes me a caveman, because no other man in the world could ever worship her like I will. No other would fully appreciate this prize.

  Molten desire simmers in my veins.

  When I bury my face between Sylvie’s legs again, two soft thighs clamp around my head like earmuffs. And I sure hope Sylvie’s listening out for people coming near, because I can’t hear a damn thing anymore—only the rush of blood in my ears. My jaw clicks but I keep licking; my neck aches but I crane closer. This wing is hot and dark and dusty, but this is better than any theoretical feather bed because this is real. Sylvie is mine, and my chin is glossy with her sheen.

  “Franz.”

  With those gorgeous thighs squeezing my ears, her voice sounds like it’s coming from far, far away. But I hear it, just like I sense the wave of tension rippling through her body, and feel her bare skin flash even hotter. Sylvie bucks and moans and writhes on my finger, and I don’t let up for a single second. Not until she freezes, breath held—then falls apart on Juliet’s balcony.

  She comes silently, one hand clapped over her mouth, her eyes locked on mine the whole time. She’s a work of art.

  And when I finally straighten up, neck aching, and wipe my mouth with the back of my wrist…

  Sylvie grins at me.

  And I fall impossibly harder.

  Seven

  Sylvie

  Let it be known: the rumors are true. Sneaking around backstage is super fun. For the next two weeks until opening night, Franz and I try out every shadowy corner and disused dressing room we can find.

  Not during rehearsals, obviously. When we’re on the clock, Franz is serious as hell about his job, pacing back and forth below the stage and making endless notes for the actors. He works with the designers to find the perfect lights, set and costumes, and as opening night draws closer, he works longer and longer hours, trying to make sure everything is perfect.

  It’s sweet, really. This man is a world-renowned director, working on this college production as a favor to his old friend, our Dean. The Franz Moser could put barely any effort in to this show and still be heaped with praise, but instead he’s drilling us all like we’re all professionals on London’s West End. Trying to give us an amazing experience.

  It’s thrilling. Exhausting.

  And so freaking sexy.

  Apparently there is something hotter than a stern older man—and it’s a stern older man who clearly needs a nap. Seriously, what has broken in my brain?

  “Sylvie?” Franz glances up when I slip inside the auditorium at ten to midnight, dressed in his gray sweater and frayed denim shorts. We’re deep into spring now, and it was hot and sunny all day, but the nighttime chill has left goosebumps all over my bare thighs. “It’s late. What are you doing here?”

  The director is puzzled but pleased. As though there was a serious chance that I might not come to him tonight; as though I could go a full twenty four hours without his lips at my throat. Usually, yeah, we’ve been finding chances to sneak off during the day, but today was our last full day of rehearsal, and Franz hasn’t had a single spare minute. I’ve missed him.

  The strain of directing shows on his handsome face as I stroll along his row in the auditorium. The lines are etched deeper at the corner of his eyes, and Franz stares at me like I’m an oasis in the desert.

  “You work too hard,” I say.

  His mouth quirks up, and damn—that daily stubble is dark as hell. Bet if I chafe my palm against it, it’ll be in full sandpaper mode. I shove my hands in my shorts pockets instead, coming to stand a few seats away.

  Like always, my chest throbs with the need to be closer, closer. In this man’s lap; in his arms. Hearing him grunt and groan and mutter my name over and over like a prayer, kissing me and stroking me like I’m the best thing he’s ever seen.

  It still doesn’t feel real. After two full weeks of having Franz Moser be openly obsessed with me, not caring at all who sees him take my hand or nuzzle my cheek, you’d think I could trust this by now. You’d think I’d be settling in, loosening up, and enjoying every minute. And yet… somehow, this all feels too good to be true.

  Because I’m the understudy, you know? The eternal second choice. The shy, curvy girl who can never seem to land a leading role, and now this wolfishly handsome director is supposedly super into me? Make sense of that.

  “You’re tired,” Franz murmurs, holding out a hand. When I take it, he tugs me down into his lap, wrapping his arms around me and resting his chin on my shoulder. Sandpaper stubble: confirmed.

  “Pot, kettle, black,” I say.

  Franz huffs a laugh and kisses my neck.

  And this is nice. It’s so freaking nice, and my insides go all tingly whenever this man is near. So why can’t I trust that this is real? Why can’t I finally relax and enjoy it? Why is a secret part of me still clenched with nerves, waiting for the other shoe to drop?

  Maybe because Franz hasn’t slept with me yet. He’s kissed me and touched me and tasted me down there more time than I can count, but he’s never once pushed for more. Why not? Doesn’t he want to?

  Or maybe because tomorrow is opening night—and once the play launches, there’s no reason for Franz to stay in Kephart any longer. He’ll go back to London, back to his big, fancy career in the West End, and he hasn’t mentioned the words ‘long distance’ to me once. Hasn’t hinted at all that I could come and visit him. Will this be over before it’s even begun? Won’t he fuck me even once before he goes?

  “Growing up in Vienna, my mother always told me not to trust late night troubles.” Warm breath tickles my neck, before Franz’s teeth gently scrape my earlobe. “Whatever it is, whatever is troubling you, Liebe—it won’t seem so terrible in the morning. Our worries shrink back to size with the sunrise.”

  Yeah… except my worries come closer with the dawn, too. Because tomorrow is opening night, and what then?

  Ask him. Ask him, you coward.

  But my tongue stays resolutely glued to the roof of my mouth, and I play with Franz’s collar instead. He’s wearing a wine red button-down shirt today, the sleeves rolled, and his brown eyes are just about the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen. Like rich milk chocolate, flecked with gold.

  “Liebe?”

  His smile curves up. “It means love.”

  My toes curl in my sneakers, and I turn to stare dry-eyed at the empty stage. A spotlight shines down on the scenery for the opening scene, and someone’s dropped a prop near the stage left wing. Some kind of paper scroll, maybe.

  “I’ll miss you.” The words burst out of me in a rush, and it’s not exactly what I wanted to tell this man, but it’s not wrong either. Can’t look at him, but I need to get this out, because it’s been festering inside me worse and worse each day. “After tomorrow, I’ll miss you so much.”

  There’s a long pause behind me, Franz’s arms tightening around my waist. The strap of his expensive watch digs into my ribs, ticking down the minutes until midnight, and Franz is right: it is getting late, and I still have assignments to work on tonight. But I couldn’t stay away. The thought of a whole day without Franz’s arms around me? It’s unthinkable.

  My heart plummets when Franz rasps, “Me too.”

  It’s not what I wanted to hear from him… but it’ll have to do.

  * * *

  Opening night is hectic as hell. The stage manager prowls around backstage, dressed all in black with a buzzing headset, searching for lost props and double checking all the tech. Dressers sew last minute tears in costumes, whispering apologies when they prick the actors with needles, and the dressing rooms are a constant hum of nervous conversation.

  I’m huddled in the corner, lacing into my ensemble costume. It’s one of those buxom peasant dresses with the criss-cross laces over my boobs, and every time Franz sees me in it, his expression sharpens. So I don’t mind the costume really, don’t mind having such a small role when the pressure tonight is sky-high, but a deep voice calls to me from the doorway before I can finish getting ready.

  “Franz?” I push outside, the temperature dropping away from the press of bodies. “I’m nearly done.”

  The dressing room door swings shut behind me as I gaze up at the director in the hallway. Franz is dressed in a soft black sweater that hugs the muscled planes of his chest, and his jaw is freshly shaved for tonight’s occasion. He should be all business right now, doing any final checks before the curtain goes up, but instead he’s staring down at me with a funny look on his face.

  “Franz?”

  “Loren has a family emergency,” he rasps. “You’re up, Liebe. You’re playing Juliet tonight.”

  My stomach swoops like I’m riding a roller coaster. Me? I’m playing Juliet tonight?

  “Are you serious?”

  Franz’s eyes crinkle when he smiles, but he can’t hide the tension in his shoulders. “That would be a very unfunny joke.”

  It really would. And I know I’ve been preparing for this, I know that I have Juliet’s lines memorized, but a cold chill still sweeps down my spine. Because… what if I’m not good enough? What if I ruin the show for everyone else? What if Franz sees me onstage making a mess of things, and then doesn’t even bother saying goodbye?

  “There, there,” the director murmurs, spinning me around to rub my shoulders. “It’s normal to be nervous, especially when you didn’t expect to go onstage tonight. But you are ready for this, Sylvie. You are a leading lady, and you’re going to prove that to everyone.”

  A dresser rushes past in the narrow hallway, the costume she’s carrying brushing our legs. She glances at us as she hurries past, but she doesn’t even blink when she finds the Franz Moser nuzzling my temple and giving me a pep talk, because over the last two weeks, everyone has seen us together.

  Everyone knows this man is into me. That my super embarrassing, radioactive crush was requited all along. That thought squares my shoulders, and I raise my chin.

  “I can do this,” I declare to the empty air, and Franz hums with approval, kissing my jaw. His soap and cedar scent is all around me, soothing my nerves and heating up my insides at the same time, and I love him, I love him, I love him.

  I don’t want to let him go. Don’t want to say goodbye to this man. The thought of it makes me feel like I’m splitting in two.

  And if I’m brave enough to go onstage as Juliet tonight, I’m brave enough to confess how I feel.

  “I don’t want you to leave after this.” My words are shaky, but I force them out anyway. Even if it makes me sound like a naive idiot; even if I’m offering up my heart to get trampled. “I know you need to go back to London, but I’m just saying—I don’t want that. I’ll miss you every day. And I hope… I hope I can come to visit you there soon. Maybe in the summer. If you’d want that.”

  Franz is statue-still behind me, his grip rigid on my shoulders. His lips have frozen at my throat, and I swear I can feel the tension vibrating inside him.

  “I don’t want that,” he grits out at last.

  Oh, god.

  My heart shrivels in my chest. My cheeks flush hot and my throat goes tight, and I try to shrug him off, try to run off and bawl my eyes out into the nearest drape, but Franz won’t let me, holding me too tight.

  “I don’t want that,” he says again, his grip firm on me, “because I don’t want a visit from you, Liebe. I don’t want to be parted from you for a single day. If you’ll let me, I’ll stay here with you in Kephart until you finish your studies. Then we can go to London together, or wherever else you like. Don’t you understand by now, Sylvie? This is what I want. You.”

  …Oh. Guess I’d better stop trying to elbow him in the stomach.

  I clear my throat, feeling a dizzy mix of pure, soaring joy and complete embarrassment.

  “But we haven’t even… you haven’t want to… you know.”

  Franz’s dark chuckle makes my nipples harden against my dress. “Haven’t I? Haven’t I wanted that?”

  With a single yank, he pulls me fully against his body, pressed flush so I can feel his muscled chest and toned stomach and—and the hard line of his cock digging into my lower back.

  “Patience is not the same thing as disinterest, Sylvie. I didn’t want to push you too fast. But have no doubt: I will claim you that way—and now that I know you’re eager, I’ll do it before the night’s end.”

  My head swims. Footsteps echo along the corridor, coming our way, and Franz reluctantly allows a few inches between our bodies, nodding over my head at the sound tech as he walks past.

  “Really?” I whisper once we’re alone again. This has all been a lot to take in, and I’m woozy with nerves and excitement about all of it. Playing Juliet tonight; having Franz stay in Kephart for me; the rough catch in his voice when he promised we’ll do that in the next few hours. No wonder I’m bright pink and breathing hard.

  “Really.” Sharp teeth nip my earlobe, then I’m nudged back toward the dressing room. “Break a leg, Liebe.”

  Eight

  Franz

  Nerves squirm in my stomach as I settle into my seat in the front row. As the director, it’s my job not to let any uncertainties show. But the truth is, opening night is always hard. What if I’ve misjudged this performance? What if the actors aren’t ready?

  What if, what if, what if.

  In theory, I should be less nervous about this college production than a professional show on the West End. But in reality, this is even worse. These are precious hopes and dreams I’m shepherding, young actors at the very beginning of their careers, and as I glance back and forth at the audience around me, my hackles are raised. Though I don’t let any emotion cross my face, I feel fiercely protective of my students.

  Then there’s Sylvie.

  My Juliet.

  Ever since the first week of rehearsals, she’s been the true lead in my mind—even as I gave Loren my full encouragement. It was too late to swap their roles, and I’d never admit this out loud, but I’m privately glad that it’s Sylvie up there tonight instead.

  She deserves this. The limelight; the applause. The chance to show the world what she can do. The chance for everyone else to see her as I do: as beautiful, talented, charming.

  A woman next to me flicks through the playbill, chatting quietly with her friend. On my other side, a man scrolls through his phone until he catches my side-eye and switches it off. When I turn around, the whole auditorium is packed, every blue velvet seat filled, and the whole room buzzes with excited energy.

 

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