Page 81 of Butterfly

“Yes, because he wonders how the darn show is going to be a success with such a mediocre singer.”

He suckles gently at a sensitive spot below my ear. “I heard you rehearsing. It was great.”

I roll my eyes. “I was off-key in a few spots. Hope people don’t notice it too much, and—”

The rest of the sentence is cut off by his kiss. He traps my face in his hands and kisses me with the same intensity as last night in the pantry. His tongue beats a punishing rhythm against mine in a possessive claim that I suspect has something to do with Dylan. He grazes, pulls, and bites my lips in a mix of punishment and adoration that has me weak at the knees.

“The pantry was great.” He traps my bottom lip between his teeth. “But I want you in my bed. All night. Without worrying about someone catching us. Naked. Legs wide. All wet.”

A little shiver darts up my back at the thought of spending a night in Alex’s bed. “Do you have to leave London after Christmas?” I circle his neck with my arms.

The lusty glint in his gaze fades a little. “I don’t have to leave London immediately, but I’m going to be busy with meetings and script readings and interviews.”

“We’ll find the time.”

He squeezes my bottom with both hands. “Of course, we’ll find it.”

“On stage!” the director shouts from the other side of the theatre.

“I have to go.” I kiss him, but he doesn’t release me.

“Does Dylan know you’re taken?”

“Are you jealous?”

“Very, and I’m not going to apologise for that.” He gives another hard squeeze to my bottom. “Told you that actors are insecure narcissists.”

“He knows I’m taken.” I step away from him before he can grab me again. “You have nothing to worry about. You’re my one and only.” My intention is to say that in a flippant tone, but it comes out solemn and heavy. My smile fades because I mean every word.

Twenty-seven

Alex

I SHIFT ON my stuffed seat in the theatre, trying to ease the constant ache in my groin. It’s like I’m fifteen again, and my hormones are in charge of my body. The entire town is present. Banners with slogans on raising money for medical research hang from the walls, and the logo of the local bank as the sponsor of the event gleams from every corner.

I smile when the curtains part and Sienna appears in a Father Christmas costume. A sexy Father Christmas, that is. The red jacket hugs tightly to her curves, and the short red skirt, rimmed with white fur, shows off her lovely legs. Hell, those red high-heeled boots cause a certain stir in my trousers. Her hair is twisted into two long braids that fall over her breasts. Shit. Now I imagine taking her from behind, tugging at those braids while she’s wearing that dress. She’s turned me into an animal.

The group of singers link arms and the music starts. The song,Love for Christmas, is horrible and cheesy, and the lyrics seem out of a fortune cookie. But her voice holds enough sweetness and roughness to make it sound magical.

As she sings, she touches the golden butterfly every time she says, “I love you.”

The dancers pirouette around the singers and jump across the stage while the lights flash over them.

“She’s good,” Mum says, shaking her shoulders in rhythm with the music.

“She is.”

Fiona gives me the thumbs-up. Even Charles is beating a tempo with his hand. My smile falters when the song is nearly at the end, and Dylan grabs Sienna by the waist to do a round of waltz with her. He’s standing too bloody close to her, his hips plastered to hers, and her shoulder is injured, for God’s sake. I cradle my chin as something angry and toothy scratches my chest. Besides, they aren’t even dancing, but simply hugging on stage while he rocks his damn hips. Even the other singers are being swept off their feet by the dancers, but my eyes are only on Sienna and bloody Dylan.

When he and Sienna finish with an elegant pose, arms up and chests close, the music ends. The crowd claps and cheers. Sienna is breathing hard, her eyes shining under the stage lights. Dylan kisses her cheek and raises her hand when it’s their turn to bow to the audience for the curtain call. The sodding bastard. I clench my fist, taking some of my own medicine. I guess that now I understand how Sienna feels when she sees me kissing Emily on the screen. Everyone on stage takes the mic and says a few words about the meaning of Christmas and generosity. When it’s Sienna’s turn, I lean forwards.

“Thank you, everyone.” She waves a timid hand. “You know, this is the best Christmas I’ve ever had in my whole life. I’ve found my family. Some lovely people who accept me for who I am. There’s no better gift than that.” She finds me in the crowd. “Thank you.” Her voice doesn’t crack with emotion. She doesn’t sound embarrassed, but simply happy, and that’s why her short speech is heartbreaking.

Mum is wiping her face. Fiona is blowing her nose, and Charles glances at me.

Among the autographs and selfies with people who swear to lovePaladins of Shadows, I make my way backstage, waiting for Sienna to come out. Dancers and singers hug each other, crushing their costumes. The loud chatter echoes in the narrow corridor where too-bright lights glare at me.

Someone clears his throat behind me. Charles is giving me one of those frowns I see every morning in the mirror. Mum and Fiona are loitering on the other side of the hallway.

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