Chapter 51 – Pleasing the Boss

“This was all for me,” she says. “This whole night—it was about announcing the show. You were a dick about it, but it was for me.”

“What?” I’m taken aback by that perspective. I mean, it was all for her show, but it’s not like I don’t have skin in the game. It’s not like I did something out of generosity.

But she thinks that I have, and now I’m torn about how to respond. It’s been fun having her mad at me, and yet the way she’s looking at me now feels…nice.

Or useful, anyway.

“Hold that thought.” I leave her to cross the few feet over to the bar where I get a newly opened bottle of Caymus Cabernet, Special Selection. Not necessarily what I would have chosen, but it’s nice enough.

When I return to Brystin, she’s typing something into her phone—texting someone, considering how long she’s at it.

And just like that, the momentary lift of my rage is gone, and it’s back full blown.

“It’s him, isn’t it?” I ask, knowing full well it is.

She looks up as if I’m grandma and she’s been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. “Just…I was telling him…” She puts the phone back into her clutch and shakes her head. “I can tell him later.”

Why wouldn’t she want to tell her husband and producer that his show has just been announced, two days ahead of schedule? I should have given him the heads-up myself. Or André should have, on my behalf.

I shouldn’t have left it to Brystin, and I’m as pissed at myself about it as I am at her for including him in this moment. “Does he know you’re here tonight? With me?”

She nods, tentatively, as though she’s afraid it’s the wrong answer.

I shouldn’t ask, but the next question unfurls from my t***ue like a damn flag on Memorial Day. “Does he know why you’re with me?”

She answers immediately. “I tell him everything.”

I already know her well enough to have discovered her tell—a quick blink of her eyes before she spouts a lie, like she just did now.

A rush of self-righteousness flows through me like someone injected it into my vein. It’s stupid, really. She doesn’t tell him everything, so what? It’s not like I get the point instead since she tried to lie to me about it.

I step closer to her, not caring that the action seems predatory or that we’re still very much in the public eye. “So he thinks you’re with me tonight for PR?”

She swallows.

“Or he thinks you’re here to…please me?”

Very slightly, her head bobs. “Yes. That.”

Interesting. After the incident with the contract signing yesterday, I considered that she might have told Elvis that there wouldn’t be any more sexual favors exchanged. I thought he might even go as far as to intervene.

Honestly, I don’t give a f**k what he thinks we’re doing or whether he thinks I’m allowed—consent is up to Brystin, as it always has been, despite what I said about owning her.

Mostly.

But if she didn’t tell him that she was done with me, that’s a good sign she doesn’t think she’s done either. Which makes it that much easier to say what I say next. “Wouldn’t want to make a liar out of you.”

She swallows again, but her eyes darken, and fight it all she wants to, she can’t ignore the electricity bet**en us.

After the orgasms I denied her all night, I’m not sure she’s primed to even try.

“In five seconds, I’m going to head toward the stage door. Count to ten after I leave, then come after me. If anyone asks, we’re looking for your opera glasses.” It’s her choice now to follow.

But I know she’ll make the right choice, and not just because I’m c**ky, but because I know she needs this as much as I do.

I step even closer and lean down to whisper intimately in her ear. “Don’t even think about removing that toy before you get there, and when you do, Brystin? You damn well better be ready to come.”

Without monitoring her reaction, I head to the private hall that leads to the stage. I key in my code then leave the door slightly ajar for Brystin. It’s at least a hundred feet before I reach the door to backstage, and I feel the torture of Eurydice, wanting to look behind to see if my Persephone is following.

But I’m a Seymour, and as I’ve been told my entire life, I have strength that other men don’t possess—though it hardly feels like it with this woman—and somehow, I manage to keep my eyes where they belong, and eventually I push the double doors open onto the pitch black of backstage.

By the time I’ve switched all the breakers on to bring up the lights, including those in the house, I hear the cl**k of her footsteps on the masonite.

She walks past me, passing under the set’s constructed cherry blossom tree, all the way to the sk**t of the stage. I watch her momentarily, admiring how she carries herself as she gazes out on a sea of empty seats. Even here, even when it’s just us, she exudes a presence that deserves to be in the spotlight.

I set the wine bottle down on the steps of the minka façade and approach her carefully. It’s so quiet, there’s no way she doesn’t hear me. “It feels like there are hundreds of eyes watching, doesn’t it? Even when we’re alone.”

“It makes me nervous.” She shivers, and I wonder if my nearness isn’t the real cause. “I don’t know how the performers do it every night.”

“More people see you on TV than there are seats out there.”

“I like to think I’m talking only to the cameraman. Don’t ruin the illusion.” She’s silent for a beat, then something shifts in her, and she seems even more nervous when she turns to face me. “Why are we here, Hadrian?”

Nervous or excited. Perhaps a combo of both because she knows exactly why I’ve brought her here. “I want it to feel like we had an audience when I fill your throat with my c**k.”

Her eyes darken and there is no mistaking the hitch in her breath. “I don’t know why you think I’m still playing that game with you.”

“I don’t know why you still think it’s a game.” I take a menacing step toward her. Then I sit on the faux stone stool where Suzuki sat during b**terfly’s performance of Un bel di vedremo.

She frowns, apparently disapproving, and I half expect her to scold me.

Instead, she stays on topic. “You’ve announced the show now. Canceling it would do more to your reputation at this point than it would to mine.”

“When have I given you any indication that I care about my reputation?”

“There has to be something you care about.”

“I care about getting you off and making you feel morally uncomfortable about it when you do.”

Pink extends across her collarbone, and I’m officially at full mast. I’m definitely painting a white necklace on that sunset skin.

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