Page 4 of Wristlocked
“What about you?” she asks. “Rope?”
Rope is the big thing for guys who stick with circus past the summer-camp phase. Close enough to the silks we all start on, but cooler, more brutal.
Trying to sound casual, I counter, “Nah. I do straps.” No one really does straps at our age, especially not at competition level, and I’m desperate to impress her.
“Wow,” she says, and my heart swells. “You must like pain.” She laughs like it’s a private joke, and I fall in love with her a littlebit right there. When she takes first place later that afternoon, my fate is sealed.
After my mom laughingly informs me who Gia, Guy, and Chloe Laurent are, I get her to buy meSix of Crowsthat same night. Turns out there’s a sequel, and I’m carryingCrooked Kingdomwhen I saunter into Centre du Cirque a week later, having also convinced her that even though the high-end gym is farther from our apartment, it’s worth it for the better facilities.
Gia smiled at me from across the room when she saw me, before I ever showed her the book. I came to live for those smiles and all the other expressions of her twisted, damaged heart. And I learned to guard my own, knowing she would never be wholly mine. As it turns out, I’ve done a crap job at the latter.
“So, how’s Naomi?” Gia says, breaking the silence. I’d like to pretend she’s jealous, but I know better.
“She seems happy to be here.” And then, because I want to push her buttons, I add, “She’s doing a double specialty in Hoop and Chinese Pole.”
“Of course she is.” She rolls her eyes.
Other than the Chinese, BIPOC are tragically underrepresented in Western circus. As the daughter of a Black circus power couple, Naomi is pretty much the poster child for diversity in the scene and works hard to live up to her hype.
None of that is what bothers Gia, who respects talent as much as any of us and obviously doesn’t give a fuck about the color of anyone’s skin. What drives her crazy is that Naomi does every show and competition her parents put her in without complaining, lets them pimp her out on social media to promote their Centre, and still seems to actually love them. Basically the opposite of everything Gia stands for. Talent is one thing. Selling out is a personal affront.
The dorm rooms are assigned by seniority, with two floors for each year, and the seniors at the top. Since I’m on the second floor, while Gia’s on the third, we head to my room first.
“Think your hot Australian roommate is in there?” Gia whispers, nudging me with an elbow as we approach the door. We stalked his circus profile on Instagram after I got the assignment, and Gia immediately started placing bets on how long it would take me to sleep with him. But it’s another overture, and this time I relent.
“Ninety percent sure he’s totally straight,” I remind her. “I met him at the audition, remember?”
Ren Campbell, my “hot Australian roommate,” bounces off the bed closest to the windows when we enter, smiling and pulling his earbuds out of his ears by the cord. He’s shorter than me, with the compact build more common to aerialists, tan, blond, and freckled. He’s cheerful and friendly, calling Gia “Bluey,” which baffles her, but apparently, it’s an Aussie nickname for redheads. He also has no idea who she is—has never even heard of the Laurents—so she likes him immediately.
“Nice job on the double pirouette at the audition,” I tell him once the introductions are over.
“Thanks.” He grins. “Stupid risk, really. Only pulled the bloody thing off three other times before that. But you gotta make yourself stand out, yeah?”
“Not stupid if it worked.” Gia shoves a laundry basket full of my shoes off the bed and hops up to take its place, folding a leg under her. Ren watches the shoes scatter across the rug.
“Cheeky little cunt, is she?” he asks me.
“You have no idea.” I start to collect the shoes, meaning to throw them in the closet, but Gia pokes me in the ribs with a toe.
“Still gonna help me haul my stuff upstairs?” she asks, tilting her head toward the door. I hesitate, remembering the charged silence in the elevator, torn between frustration and desire. “Come upstairs, Lyot.” This time it’s a command, her voice dipping to the husky timbre she knows I can’t resist. She stands, ignoring Ren’s darting curious eyes, and moves toward the door.
I take the offering—and her trolley—and follow at her heels.
Gia’s parents sprung for a single, of course. Meaning she does, in fact, have a shower all to herself.
The stall is barely big enough for the two of us. My six-foot, two-inch muscled frame dominates the space, and Gia can brace both feet on the opposite wall when I prop her up against the tiles and push myself inside her, digging my fingers into her silky thighs and burying my face in her neck. She clings to my shoulders, urging me closer, deeper,more.
Dragging my teeth along her collarbone, I sink them into the muscle at the top of her shoulder. When she gasps, arching against me, I hum my satisfaction into the tender flesh. Here, we are Lyot and Gia, bound by history, and our ghosts are safe to come and play.
I draw out slowly and hook an elbow under her knee, angling to take her even deeper when I slam back in hard and fast.
“Yes,” she gasps, her head falling back against the tiles as her fingernails claw at the contours of my chest. The hot water stings the scratches she leaves, and I punish her with another vicious thrust. “That’s it,” she whispers, Shadow-voiced. “Right there, my Lyot. So fucking good.”
An ache builds inside me, liquid warmth spilling through my limbs as I grind against her torturously slow. The tight heat of her pussy milks every inch of me, and I revel in how my cock stretches her to her limit every time. Still, she spreads her thighswider, using the wall at her back to push against me, chasing that edge of pain.
I drag my tongue up the clean salt beading along her neck, scrape my teeth along her jaw, and then pillage her mouth. The kiss is deep and languid and familiar, echoing the roll of my hips, and she sucks greedily at my tongue, wanting more.
I can give her more. I slide a hand down between her and the tiles, cupping her tailbone and dipping my middle finger into the crease of her ass. A small, desperate sound escapes her as I tease the tight rosebud, and I swallow it down, savoring her frantic need. Then I still my hips, drawing back to watch her face, flushed and open and, in this moment,mine.
