Sylvie.

  My nerves settle as I turn back around, getting comfortable in my chair. The lights dim, and the curtain sweeps up.

  It’s her moment.

  * * *

  Two hours later, I’m on my feet with the rest of the audience, clapping so hard my hands are going numb. Someone whistles in the row behind me; the woman next to me is hopping up and down, waving at someone onstage. The actors beam out into the bright stage lights, taking another bow before filing away into the wings.

  They were good. No—great. Despite a couple of fudged lines and one forgotten prop, all of which they smoothed over so the audience didn’t notice, they brought the damn house down.

  And Sylvie… Sylvie.

  After tonight, I’m surer than ever: my Liebe is a star in the making.

  The audience takes an age to collect their things and file out into the perfumed spring night. I stand and wait impatiently, tapping my foot and checking my watch, all too desperate to get backstage again. When the woman in front of me stops to tie her shoe lace, I choke back a frustrated growl, and when I finally reach the aisle, I practically fly across the auditorium and out of the side door.

  So many winding corridors backstage. So many prop stores and drape cupboards and harried-looking dressers, bustling back and forth with costumes draped over their arms. I weave my way through all of it, murmuring congratulations and offering smiles to jittery actors, but there’s only one person I really want to see.

  The ladies dressing room is buzzing and loud when I reach it. Rapping on the door with my knuckles, I step back in the hallway and wait.

  One of the ensemble sticks her head through the doorway, sees me, and snorts. She ducks back inside, and I can’t help grinning as she calls Sylvie’s name.

  Of course everyone knows why I’m here. I’ve never hidden the way I feel about Sylvie, not really. Frankly, it seemed an impossible task.

  She’s mine. And I’m hers. Behaving otherwise is unthinkable.

  My jagged heartbeat finally settles when Sylvie flies through the doorway and into my arms.

  “Franz! Oh my god. Did you see it? Were you watching?”

  “Of course I was watching.” Her blonde hair smells of hairspray when I nuzzle it, and she’s definitely smudging stage makeup on my sweater, but I don’t care. I want Sylvie’s marks on me. Want her close, especially when she’s thrumming with excitement like this. What’s a little extra laundry? “You were perfect.”

  She lunges up and kisses me, a smile curving against my mouth.

  And there are people all around, chattering excitedly and swapping gossip. This whole theater is crawling with people right now, and will be for the next thirty minutes at least. But if there’s one thing Sylvie and I have learned over the last two weeks, it’s all the best spots to sneak away and hide backstage.

  “Come on.”

  Sylvie lets me tug her along the hallway, her giggles soft and sweet. She’s changed out of her Juliet costume into a pair of shorts and a pink t-shirt, and she’s wearing sneakers that squeak quietly against the linoleum floor.

  Posters line the walls—old Kephart college productions. How many of those was Sylvie in? There are still so many things I need to ask her; so many things I need to know. I’ll never get tired of this young woman, will never have enough of her to sate my hunger, but for now…

  I test the door handle to a disused dressing room. We already snuck away here for a few minutes alone last week, but I still breathe out a sigh of relief when the handle turns.

  “So glamorous,” Sylvie teases, entering first and flicking a light switch. Bulbs studded around a big mirror blaze to life, casting the dressing room in a warm glow.

  “I’ll take you to a luxury suite after this,” I promise, shutting the door behind me and flipping the lock. We’re deep enough in the building here that all the backstage ruckus has faded to a faint buzz. “Rose petals on the bed, a huge bathtub, champagne on the balcony. The works.”

  Sylvie laughs, hopping up to sit on the table in front of the lit-up mirror. “I’m not sure, Mr Moser. I kinda like all this sneaking around. Besides, Kephart isn’t really that sort of town.”

  It could be, though. If that’s what Sylvie wanted, if it would make her happy, I’d find a way to make it happen. I’m a director, after all. I’m used to creating something out of nothing.

  “I bet you miss London.” Sylvie holds up her arms, and I go to stand in front of her, nudging her knees apart with my hips. She winds her arms around my neck and presses up against me, her softness to my hard chest, and Christ, I will never tire of this feeling. “Bet you miss the big city.”

  “Not really.”

  It’s hard to miss anything when I’m with Sylvie. Something deep inside me knows: this is exactly where I ought to be.

  “But you’d like it there,” I say. “And you could audition for roles on the West End.”

  Sylvie laughs, her excitement so warm and bright, before tugging me down for a long, deep kiss.

  The rest of the world fades away. Time and space—all of it. There’s nothing except Sylvie’s eager mouth on mine, and our tongues sliding together, and the urgent throb of both our bodies. Need to get closer. Need to get in.

  I tear my mouth away, heaving for breath. Sylvie’s worked up too, she’s red-cheeked and clumsy as she yanks her t-shirt over her head, and my heart drums as I follow with my own sweater flung at the wall.

  We shed layers like we can’t breathe until we’re naked, tearing seams and kicking shoes so hard they bounce into the dressing room corners. And then we’re clasped together, bare skin against bare skin, our bodies blurring together in the mirror behind Sylvie.

  Her thighs spread, welcoming me closer. My shaft slides along her pink, slick pussy, feeling how ready she is for me. Swollen and wanting. How she quivers at my smallest touch.

  Sylvie.

  The sound she makes when I pinch her nipples is the sweetest torture. Seared into my brain. And when I press a finger inside her, teasing her nerve endings and coaxing her to soften…

  Sylvie stiffens at first, her breath puffing against my neck… then she melts. My groan of approval echoes around the empty dressing room, and my fingers are glossy as I pump them between her legs.

  “You’re tight,” I murmur, mouth pressed against her temple, fingertips stroking inside her perfect body. Sylvie shudders. “You’re tight, but you’re going to open for me, aren’t you, Liebe? You’re going to let me in. You’re going to let me thrust deep where I belong.”

  Sylvie hiccups and nods.

  She claws at my back as I line up with her entrance; she bites my shoulder as I nudge the first inch inside. And though she tenses up at first, her lower back damp beneath my palm, after a minute of stroking and soothing and kissing her with shameless hunger… Sylvie softens for me.

  “Christ.” Jaw clenched, I work my way deeper. Deeper. Swiveling my hips, burrowing my way inside, and the knowledge that I’m her first and only makes me want to beat my chest and howl. “Do you know how good you feel, Sylvie? How perfect you are? Jesus Christ, I’m going to blow.”

  She makes the sweetest sound—half laugh, half moan—and wriggles her hips when I pause to catch my breath, trying to make sure I don’t lose control way too soon.

  She just feels so good, so right. And every instinct inside me screams to thrust deep and pound until her teeth clack together, then fill her up with my seed. And I’ll do that, I will, but first I’ll be a gentleman, damn it. I need her to like this too, because I already know that without it I’ll die.

  “Stop wriggling. You’re going to make me—stop.”

  Sylvie does not listen. If anything, she wriggles more, the beautiful brat, biting her plump lower lip. When I spank the side of her ass, the sound cracking through the quiet dressing room, Sylvie moans in shameless triumph.

  A gush of wetness over the head of my cock tells me everything I need to know. My girl loved that. She likes me stern; likes me bossy.

  And she’s ready to take whatever I want to give her.

  The final thread of my control snaps.

  Nine

  Sylvie

  The second Franz’s palm smacks against my ass, a wave of molten heat rushes through my whole body. Yes.

  This is what I want: Franz in control, taking care of business. Taking care of me. Maybe not in every aspect of our lives together, but in this? These moments when he lays siege to my body and makes me gasp and moan and whimper? These moments when he presses inside me like he owns me?

  Hell yes, I want it like this. And I let him know by scratching my fingernails down his back, tilting my hips up in offering, and groaning happily when he thrusts another few inches inside.

  “You’re mine,” Franz mutters, thrusting steadily now, feeding me his full length with each pump of his hips. There’s a faint sting from his intrusion, a pleasant sort of ache, but mostly it feels so good that my eyes nearly cross. “You’re mine. Say it, Sylvie.”

  “I’m yours.” My words are faint, breathless, but I know he hears me because there’s a rumbling sound in his chest, and then Franz spreads my thighs wider and pounds mercilessly between them. My boobs jiggle as the table creaks beneath us, but I don’t care, okay? I don’t care.

  Don’t care if this dressing room is nothing but rubble when we leave it. Don’t care if Franz can see all of my squishiest bits right now, aided by the mirror, because he’s searing me with his hungry gaze. There’s no chance to feel self conscious.

  This man loves my curves. He’s starving for them.

  And as far as I’m concerned, they’re all his. The director’s personal playground.

  Tension squirms in my belly, ratcheting tighter with every thrust. When Franz presses his thumb against my clit and starts rubbing steady circles, I tip my head back with a tortured groan. And I’m sweaty and flushed and the wet noises where our bodies meet are so obscene, but I love every single thing about this.

  Love the way he owns me, surrounds me, conquers me with every thrust.

  Love the frayed expression in his brown eyes—half need, half reverence.

  And I love when his teeth scrape my throat, and Franz snarls against my skin: “Come for me, Liebe. Come on my cock. Show me how sweet you can be.”

  His command is what pushes me over the edge. That, and his thumb on my clit and his fierce grip in my hair, his heat, his scent, the stretch of him pushing rhythmically inside me. My eyes squeeze shut and my toes curl behind his back, and Franz rumbles in approval as I fall apart with a squeak.

  “Yes,” he groans, his movements getting jerky. Sloppy. “Yes, that’s it. Christ, that’s it. I can feel you, Liebchen. Twitching and grasping. Can feel you milking me.”

  My whole body is on fire.

  And the pleasure is so intense, it’s almost too much to bear. So much that I don’t notice Franz coming too at first, until the warmth of his come spills out of me onto the table below in a sticky drip, drip, drip.

  Franz keeps thrusting anyway, pushing his seed deeper inside me. Muttering about how he loves me, how perfect I am, how I’m built for his cock, and how he’ll put me on my hands and knees every day and make me scream. How he knows how to worship me right.

  This is insane.

  This is the best day of my whole freaking life.

  As our breaths even out and the sweat cools on our skin, Franz tucks a lock of hair behind my ear and smiles sheepishly. I poke my tongue out back at him, all jangled up and so, so alive.

  And you know what? There’s no need for him to worry or look sheepish.

  Because the things he promised—they’re exactly what I want too.

  * * *

  Five years later

  My head drops back and I groan at the ceiling, my play script crumpled in my lap. Shakespeare, man. This stuff doesn’t get any easier to learn. And the fact that I’m playing Helena in A Midsummer Night’s Dream—one of my favorite ever roles, in one of the best theaters in London too—well, that doesn’t help with the pressure.

  I’m nervous. No way around it. Because what if I screw this role up? What if my career is over before it begins? What if my daughter grows up to think of her mother as a failed actor?

  Oh, god. I should have studied finance or something. Why do I keep letting Franz convince me I can do this?

  The front door to the apartment opens behind me. “We’re back,” my husband calls, striding into the room with our toddler balanced on his hip. She’s dressed up for summer in dungarees and a cute little bucket hat, sunscreen streaked across her cheeks and nose, and she blinks at me with familiar brown eyes then reaches for me without a word.

  “Oh, dear.” Franz waits for me to stand from the sofa, then hands her over cheerfully. “Looks like I’m out of fashion already. She wants her mother. Well, she can have five minutes and then it’s bath time.”

  “Five minutes,” I whisper into my daughter’s wispy hair. She cuddles my neck, and her hands have that tell-tale stickiness that says they got ice cream. “Five minutes of cuddles, then Mommy has to learn this stupid play.”

  “That’s the attitude.” Franz sounds amused, picking up empty mugs and ferrying them through to the kitchen. “This will make your career, but yes, it’s very stupid.”

  Just like that, the pressure wells up in me and closes my throat. Breathing steadily, I cuddle my daughter close and try not to freak out.

  But Franz must sense his mistake, because a minute late our toddler is plucked from my arms. She squirms a little but she must be sleepy too, because she doesn’t fight when he carries her off into her bedroom, declaring that it’s nap time.

  Then strong arms wind around my waist from behind, and I’m marched to the big windows overlooking our tree-dotted borough of London. Warm breath mists my neck, and my husband kisses along my jaw.

  “Freaking out?” Franz murmurs, humming when I nod. “There’s no need, Liebe. You’re going to be wonderful in this role, just like you are in every play.”

  My lips press together, and I pluck at his sleeve. He’s wearing the gray sweater that he draped me in all those years ago, and the sight of it always settles me.

  “What if I’m not?” I whisper. “What if I bomb, and then I never get another role again? Would you still…?”

  My question trails off, too embarrassingly needy for me to say it out loud. But Franz must hear the unspoken words, because he chuckles and squeezes me tighter.

  “I would love you even if you were the worst actor in the world,” he declares. “Even if you wore a potato sack every day and ate only celery. Even if you broke out in giant red pustules. Even if—”

  “Okay, I get the picture.” I pat his wrist, feeling weirdly better, then spin around in my husband’s arms. “Thank you.”

  Franz gazes down at me, his handsome face etched with love. There’s a little more silver in his temples, but otherwise he’s the same man I fell for all those years ago back in Kephart. He’s still just as hungry for me too, like he’ll never get enough of me, even if we spend the rest of our lives together.

  “Sooo…” I bite my lip, smoothing my palms over Franz’s sturdy chest. This sweater always gets me all tingly and ready. “She’s down for a nap?”

  His mouth curves up, his eyes heating. “Out like a light. I’d say we have a few stolen moments.”

  That’s all we need. That’s all we’ve ever needed.

  After all: sneaking around together is fun as hell.

  * * *

  Thanks for reading Under Study! I hope you loved it. :)

  For more stories set at Kephart College, check out the Crossed Lines series, starting with The Shrink. They sent me to therapy against my will. But since I met my therapist, whole armies couldn’t keep me away.

  And for a bonus instalove story, grab your copy of Something Sweet. I spend every Valentine’s Day baking cookies for my friends and neighbors. But the bad boy who just moved to town? He’s hungry for something else…

  Happy reading!

  xxx

  Teaser: The Shrink

  “So.” The man steeples his fingers, elbows resting on the desk. He watches me across the expanse. “Tell me why you are here.”

  Um.

  “Are–are you sure?” I jab a thumb at the set up behind me. There’s a classic brown leather therapist’s couch facing a hard-looking chair, with a side table and a box of tissues between them. It’s way more inviting than this desk, and more what I pictured from a therapy session. Sitting here, I feel like I’m in trouble.

  Which, okay, I guess I kind of am. “Shouldn’t we sit over there?”

  “No.” A tiny smile ghosts across the man’s face. “This will be fine for today. Now: why are you here, Kennedy?”

  “You know my name,” I say dumbly. The hairs rise on the back of my neck. It’s weird, sitting here with this cool, calm stranger who watches me so closely and already knows my name. Especially since I keep forgetting his.

  Smith, or something. Sotherby. Steele. Something beginning with ‘s’.

  He doesn’t look how I expected. I pictured a doddery old man, or a middle aged woman draped in shawls. This guy, with his dark beard and piercing blue eyes and broad shoulders under his white shirt–he’s kind of unsettling.

  “I read your details when you were referred to me.”

  ‘Referred’ is such a gentle way of putting it. ‘Bundled here against my will’ is more like it. But–

  “So you already know why I’m here,” I say flatly. God, I’ve only been here two minutes and it’s like riddling with a sphinx. “You don’t need me to tell you.”

  That faint, flitting smile again. “Nonetheless. I’d like to hear your perspective.”

  How generous. I shift in my chair, mouth clamped shut, and wow, normally no one can get me to shut up. I’m annoyingly chatty, always running my mouth, yet in this room with this man, I suddenly don’t want to say a word.

  “You’re nervous,” the man announces. “Why?”

  I clear my throat. I can do this. “I don’t want to say the wrong thing.”

 

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