Page 104 of A Vow So Soulless

Another chime rings out, and soon after the lights in the grand, arching auditorium dim. The musicians lapse into silence, and a hush falls over the seated crowd.

“Go sit in your chair,” I say between greedy kisses along her throat, “or I will drag you over there myself and make you sit on my lap where I can keep my eye on you. Is that what you want? To sit on my hard fucking cock for the entire performance?” I give a dark, taunting laugh, and she shivers. “I don’t think you’ll be able to pay much attention sitting like that. I can already imagine how much you’d fucking wiggle.”

Her spine arches subtly against my front, because at least a part of her wants it. She wants to sit on my cock in the darkness, to rock herself on top it in panting, straining silence, so high above the sea of oblivious people.

My hand glides down and around to her front until I find her nipple. I tease it into swollen tautness and give her ass one more hard thrust of warning.

“I’ll… I’ll sit in my chair,” she whimpers, though she makes no move to do it. It isn’t until I pinch her nipple that she’s shocked into action. She scurries away from me, but there isn’t far to run. This balcony is small, the two chairs nestled beside each other directly behind us.

She sits down in her seat, chest rising and falling rapidly, like she’s trying to slow her breathing and failing. I lower myself into the seat beside her, locking her thigh in the possessive black grip of my hand just as the curtains part.

Chapter 33

Deirdre

At first, it’s hard to focus on the music and the dancers because I’m so utterly aware of Elio beside me. My thigh practically vibrates beneath his hand, and it’s only embarrassment and a whole lot of willpower that keeps me from parting my legs, just a little bit more, in case he’ll move that hand upwards.

God, I shouldn’t have had that much wine at dinner, and that delicious spiced Amaro with the dessert. I’m not drunk but I feel looser and less guarded than usual. And I think it’s contributing to the slow pound of need between my legs.

This is for school. Pay attention!

I don’t know if I’ll get another chance to see a live music performance for my paper, so I try to block Elio out as much as I can and just focus on the ballet happening below.

In the horseshoe-shaped auditorium, we’re at the highest level, and are at the far right end of the horseshoe. It actually isn’t ideal for watching the dance because I’m almost looking at the ballet dancers sideways, but being this close is perfect for glimpses into the orchestra pit. It’s too bad I don’t have anything to take notes with, but I think I have the vague semblance of a thesis taking form as I let the music flow through me.

I haven’t been to the ballet since Mom died. I didn’t realize just how much I missed it. I’ve never been a coordinated dancer, despite a few wayward lessons in my youth, and I was always entranced by the way the dancers could fit their bodies so elegantly inside the sounds. Sometimes Mom got us tickets near the front, and before the show started I’d stand staring down into the pit, watching the violinists warm up with hushed awe.

Kind of like I did just now. With Elio.

A sudden rush of tears blurs my vision. I blink them away, hoping Elio doesn’t notice. I was so excited when we first got here. I didn’t think I would be affected like this. Didn’t think I’d be suddenly adrift in a cacophony of notes that harbour nostalgia and grief and joy all in equal measure.

I don’t know how he does this. Reaching right into me and exposing every hidden, painful place. Cracking every barrier I’ve built up, some of them years in the making, until I’m trembling and exposed and he shoves me naked out into the light.

It’s infinitely painful. And yet, it feels oddly necessary. I thought that Elio had put me into a cage.

Maybe he’s pulling me out of a different one.

Maybe it’s the wine, or maybe it’s the overwhelming beauty of the music and dancers, or maybe it’s the grief or the darkness or the heat penetrating the glove on his hand and the skirt on my thigh, but I want to be closer to him. I tip to the side, leaning my head against his shoulder and wrapping both my arms around his. Now he hasn’t just got me locked in. Because I’ve locked him in too.

I feel a tightening of surprise in his muscles, but it melts away immediately. He strokes his fingers against my leg in a movement that’s somehow almost more comforting than erotic. I give a shaky sigh, and let the tears flow freely down my cheeks now, all of them silent.

We stay like that for a long time as the dance progresses. The Royal York Ballet’s soloist Katerina Turgeneva flits about the stage in her red tutu like a living flame, whirling and leaping so fast she becomes a glittering, heated blur.

A creeping sort of tension manifests itself in Elio’s arm. Leaning against him the way I am, I can tell the way that his breathing quickens, grows uneven. His fingers dig into the flesh of my leg.

“Elio?” I whisper, lifting my head from his shoulder and giving him a puzzled look. He doesn’t seem to hear me – maybe because the music has reached a feverish crescendo. Or maybe…

Because he’s not really here with me right now.

I’ve seen him like this before. Where he seems to get unsteady, lost in something beyond what I can see. The fires of his past. I remember his fear, his panic, when he was living out his nightmares during his illness, and my throat closes with pain for him.

“Elio,” I say a little louder this time. “It’s alright. You’re here with me.”

Unsure what else to do, I slide out of my seat and clamber into his lap. I place both my hands on his face, feeling the scars and the smoothness, and put my eyes directly before his own.

“You’re here with me,” I repeat. “We’re at the ballet and everything is alright.”

His eyes bore into mine, his chest heaving beneath my elbows.

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