Chapter Text
He emerged last of all: hair unbound and falling over his shoulders, face bright from the oils she knew he used after taking off his makeup. She sat alone in the front row. The theater was dark: empty.
And usually she would sit beside him in his dressing room as he got ready to leave—but tonight, she had a feeling that this was the place she wanted to be.
He lingered on the stairs beside the stage, scanning the house for her. She beamed, knowing he’d find her (because he always did).
His sparkling eyes landed on her at last and he bounded toward her, shimmering with the sort of radiance he always had right after he got offstage. She patted the seat beside her and he catapulted himself into it.
“How was I, princess?” he murmured, bending to kiss her lips. She smiled as his long hair tickled her shoulder. “Was I good?”
“You were spectacular,” she told him, laying a hand on his thigh. He pouted, shifting closer.
“Why didn’t you come backstage tonight?” he asked—and he was trying to keep his voice level, but she could tell he was a little bit wounded. She looked into his endless eyes and beamed.
“Because I wanted you here.”
His eyebrows arched in a look confusion that was so beautiful it stopped her heart. She winked and slipped to the floor, coming to her knees before him.
“You wanted—” He shook his head, inhaling shakily. “You want to—”
“May I, darling?” She parted his legs and ran a curious hand up his thigh. She loved to feel the way he responded to her: hardening beneath her touch, already straining against his perfectly-tailored pants.
“Now?” he whispered, combing a hand through her hair. She undid his zipper and lifted his shirt, pressing her lips to his firm abdomen. “Right here?”
She smiled against his skin.
“You did so well tonight, love. I just wanted to do something—” She wrapped one hand around him and he groaned, thighs shivering.
“My god,” he hissed. She took his tip into her mouth and he seemed to forget himself for a moment: he moaned out loud, arching his back and clutching at her hair. She curled her lips around him; his breath came hard and fast as he tried to swim through the sudden onslaught of sensations.
She was aware of the stage at her back as she took him deeper, building up a steady rhythm. There was a distinct presence here in this space: a tingling in the air; a shimmer all around her.
This was a place of seeing and being seen—of beauty and fantasy and wonder.
Oh, and she marveled at the feeling of giving him all of her—of using her lips and her tongue to make him gasp and whisper her name like a prayer.
She went faster, faster—and he groaned, his hips twitching beneath her. She loved to watch him onstage (otherworldly; untouchable)—but she adored the sight of him stepping offstage and into her arms. He was magical.
And he was hers.
He squeezed her arm in warning and she increased the pressure, needing to feel the way his breath would stutter as she pushed him over the edge. Ah, and he came apart beautifully: gasping and panting as she held him through it.
And then his hands were on her waist and he was pulling her to her feet—no, into his lap, twinkling and dizzy as he covered her face in kisses.
“Beautiful,” he murmured. “Perfect.”
She kissed his neck and his ear and his jaw and smiled into his glittering eyes.
“When you’re onstage,” she whispered (and he trembled just at the timbre of her voice), “you belong to the whole world.”
He nodded, understanding.
“But you know the truth, don’t you, angel?” His voice was sweet and low—and she grinned, because she did.
“The truth,” she said, “is you belong to me.”