Alpha (16 page)

“Th-thank you sir. That’s…very generous of you, sir.” Michael’s voice was awed, stunned, and I imagined Roth had given him a massive tip. A hundred-dollar bill, maybe.
 

The door closed, and the orchestra began playing.

Within the first five minutes, I was hooked. I couldn’t understand anything, but it didn’t matter. I couldn’t see anything, but I didn’t care. The music, the singing, it was rapturous, hypnotic, needing nothing else to be magical. For a while, Roth and I sat side by side, merely listening, and then I felt his hand on my knee. I tensed, but allowed his hand to remain. And then…his hand slid upward. Just an inch, but enough to make my heart rate increase. Another inch, and now I knew he was playing a game. How far would I let him go? Every nerve ending in my body was on fire, and his fingers were barely at my thigh. I swallowed and tried to tune out the feel of his palm on my quad. Tried to listen to the singing, to the orchestra, but it was in vain.

I felt his breath on my neck. I forced myself to keep my head upright, even though every instinct was telling me to tilt my head aside, to offer him my throat. His mouth was hot and moist on my neck, kissing just beneath my ear. I could barely hear past the thunder of my heartbeat in my ears. His hand was sliding higher now, and it was becoming intimate, becoming dangerous. I was trembling now. Unable to move, frozen stiff. The music faded to the background.
 

A warm palm cupped my cheek, turned my head to the side. “A kiss, Kyrie.”
 

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, and leaned in. I knew better than to deny him a kiss; I knew better than to deny myself a kiss. He tasted of Scotch, smoky and fiery, and his breath was slightly cold from the ice, his lips soft and damp on mine, moving with strength and confidence. His hand was at my hip now. His tongue ran along the seam of my lips, once, twice. Tasting, inviting. A third time, demanding now. I opened my lips and felt his tongue graze my teeth, and then my own tongue flicked out to touch his, and that was when I knew I was lost. The kisses we’d shared before were delicate, exploratory. They had been introductions. Slow, and soft, and easy.
 

This one was not. It was hot, hungry. It demanded my attention, demanded that I give in, that I give back. I kissed him back, and I did so because I wanted to. I wanted his kiss.
 

But…his hand. It was resting on my hip, fingers pressing into my flesh through the fabric of my dress. Bunching, gripping. Our kiss continued unbroken, and I had to turn toward him, to pivot my body to face him. I reached out and clutched at him, tangled my fingers in the material of his coat and shirt, pulling him closer. He moaned, a vibration in his chest, an approval.
 

The heel of his palm slid low, over my hip, over my belly. I pinched my thighs together, breaking the kiss. I wanted to ask what he was doing, but I was afraid of the answer.
 

His fingers crawled over my thighs, fingertips brushing the material of my dress, a feather-light touch. I was shaking, my forehead against his, breathing raggedly, my hands fisted in his dress shirt.
 

“Roth?” It was all the question I could manage.

“Kyrie. Don’t make a sound. Okay? Keep quiet for me.”

“Keep—keep quiet?”

“Yes. I’m going to make you come.”

“You’re…you are?”

He didn’t answer. At least, not with words. His mouth found mine, and I was taken away again, transported by the skilled power of his kiss. His hand rested on the space between my thighs, over my dress, an inch from my core. I felt his fingers curl against my thighs, slide upward. My legs were pressed together, and my dress was tight. But yet, when his fingertips grazed over my core, even through the dress I felt it, and I shuddered. Another brush over the apex of my thighs, and I felt my legs fall apart, just slightly. His lips on mine were demanding, unrelenting, stealing my breath, his tongue swiping over my teeth and tangling with my tongue, tasting my lips.

His fingers pressed in, and I gasped into his mouth.
 

“Oh, Kyrie. So beautiful. And I haven’t even really touched you yet.” His voice was a low murmur, his breath hot on my lips. “You want me to touch you?”

I couldn’t answer. I didn’t know how. I did, yet I was afraid to let him. I knew if I did, if I let him touch me, let him make me come, that I’d be even more lost to him, to his game. But I already was, wasn’t I? I’d given in to him. I’d let him blindfold me. Let him kiss me. He’d seen me braless, in a T-shirt and underwear. I was already aching for his touch.

“I asked you a question, Kyrie.” His fingers slid down my thigh, toward my knee. I felt him lean down, grasp my ankle and lift my foot. He grasped the hem of my dress. He pulled, gently and implacably sliding the fabric up, up, baring my calves, my knees, and now my thighs. “Do you…want me…to
touch
you? It’s a simple question. Yes or no will do. Do you want to orgasm? Right here, right now? In this theater? Surrounded by thousands of people? You’re probably already wet for me, aren’t you? A few strokes with my finger, and you’ll come apart, I bet. I’d just have to slide my finger inside you, and you’d be whimpering. I bet your clit would be so sensitive, so tender. You’d be tight, too. So tight. When you came, you’d clench around my fingers, and you’d have to bite down to keep from screaming. You want that, don’t you, Kyrie?”
 

I let out a shuddering breath, let my head thump back on the seat. “Y—yes. Yes. I do. I want that.”

My dress was bunched beneath my thighs now, and his hand was curled over my thigh, caressing the round muscle and sliding up, up. “Say it. Tell me what you want me to do. I need to hear you say it, Kyrie. Tell me what you want me to do to you.”

“Unh…” I couldn’t make words form in my head, or on my lips. All I could do was gasp and breathe as his fingers drifted between my thighs—still closed together—and grazed the scrap of silk over my folds. “I—Roth…I want you to—to touch me.”

“I am touching you. You’ll have to be more specific.” His lips nibbled on my earlobe, over the shell of my ear, kissed behind it, down and around beneath it, kiss, kiss, kiss, to my throat.
 

I wiggled my bottom on the seat, wanting to open my thighs but still afraid to totally give in. “Oh, god…I want—
I can’t say it
….”

“Then you don’t get it.” His touch moved away, back to the top of my thigh.
 

He traced the length of my leg from knee to hip with one finger, back down. Moved in slightly, traced the same path from knee to apex along the inside of my thigh.
 

I moaned in frustration, trapped between desire and fear. “God, Roth.”

“In your life, at this time, those two words could be considered synonymous.” He nipped at my throat, kissed up to beneath my chin, and then his tongue flicked out and tasted the corner of my mouth. “You know what you want. Don’t be afraid, Kyrie. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to make you feel good. I’m going to make you feel better than you’ve ever felt in your life. All you have to do is tell me what you want me to do. Whisper it, as soft as you please. I’ll hear you.”

I felt his finger slide in and rest on the seam of my thong, at the very edge of my core. His touch moved down, lower, and then traced back up. I shivered from head to toe, shaking, still not really breathing.
 

“Touch me. Touch me
there
.”

“Where?”

I hesitated. “My pussy.” The words were barely audible, but I knew he heard them. “Put your fingers inside me. Make me come. Please, Roth.”

“Ah, now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
 

“Yeah, it kind of was,” I said.

He laughed, a gentle chuckle. “Don’t you ever talk dirty, Kyrie?”

“No. Not really.”

“Well, you’ll learn.” He traced the line of my opening with his finger. “Are you ready?”

“I’m ready.”

“I don’t think you are. Not really. Not for what I’m going to do to you.” He kissed his way down my breastbone, and then his lips came to rest on the slope of one breast. “Remember, not a sound.”

I nodded, and then his finger slid underneath the elastic at the inside of my thigh. I couldn’t swallow, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Every single sense was attuned to his finger as it neared my opening. I let my thighs open a bit, felt them shaking. I sucked in a breath, held it, waited. I felt his touch on my folds, brushing over my close-trimmed pubic hair.
 

“So soft, Kyrie. I can’t wait to feel you.” His words were felt more than heard, pitched just loud enough to be audible.
 

His finger extended down my opening and then traced up, slid back down and back up. Three times he did this, each time the tip of his finger going slightly deeper. I was wiggling in my seat by the time he had his finger inside me up to the first knuckle. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to have me shaking all over, anticipating, needing. I had to breathe now, and my lungs were expanding and contracting furiously, my chest heaving.
 

He stilled then, one finger barely inside me. I frowned, groaned, just barely able to restrain myself from writhing my hips to get more of his touch.
 

“Not a sound, Kyrie. Not so much as a groan.”
 

“Okay, sorry.”

I was aching, hot and throbbing, wet. Needing his touch, needing him to make good on his promise. I
needed
this. He was there, right there, but not moving, not touching. And then, just as I was about to ask him to touch me again, he did. His finger slid in, a little deeper. He dragged it up between my lips, and I had to bite my lip to keep silent as the rough pad of his big index finger brushed against my clit. I did gasp, but it was a quiet intake of breath. I tensed, my hands still fisted in his shirt. I let my hands fall, releasing his clothing. One of my hands rested on the armrest of my chair, the other on his forearm, gripping the corded muscle and firm flesh.
 

I felt his muscles moving as his finger circled my clit. My hips lifted, fell, lifted and fell, moving with the slow rhythm of his finger. And then, suddenly, his finger dipped into my channel, into the wetness and the heat.
 

“God, Kyrie,” he murmured. “You’re wet. So wet. I love how wet you are. You’re tight, too.”

His words had me blushing even as his finger withdrew to flick against my clit once more, making me flinch and writhe, biting my lip. He circled my engorged nub with his thick finger, and I wanted to moan, to groan, to swear, to say his name. Anything. But I couldn’t. Somewhere, out beyond the bubble of this box, someone was singing. Her voice was powerful, rising and falling, lush and rich, the song growing louder and faster, other voices joining hers. The song was reaching a crescendo, voices overlapping and competing.

His finger slid into me again, going deep, withdrawing, slathering my own juices over my clit, dipping in, moving over me, circling once, twice, three times, dipping in, never letting me find a rhythm, never letting me get too near the edge of climax. He added a second finger, and I wished I could tell him how much I liked that, but I didn’t dare, because if I made a sound, he’d stop, and then I’d die.

I was writhing now, lifting my hips up off the plush seat, seeking release, biting down on my lip so hard I thought I tasted blood. My breath was coming in short, sharp gasps, grating past my teeth, rasping from my throat. Keeping quiet was proving impossible, and the fact that there were people just a few feet away in the adjacent boxes made this all the more frightening and risky and exhilarating, making my need to stay silent that much more imperative. Yet I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. I heard a slight, nearly inaudible whimper slip from my throat, and Roth’s finger stilled immediately. I felt the burgeoning swell of impending orgasm recede, making me panic, frantic. I writhed, gripped his hand in mine and tried to make him move.

“I couldn’t…couldn’t help it…couldn’t help it….”

“I know, lovely girl. I know.” Roth’s voice was in my ear, rough and low. “You’re so close, aren’t you? You want to come. You
need
to come. But you can’t. Not unless I let you.”

He wanted me to beg. I knew this. I wouldn’t. No. I wasn’t that far gone. I wanted to come, but I wasn’t prepared to beg him for it. I tossed my head from side to side, clenched my thighs tight around his hand, pinning his hand in place.
 

“Oh, Kyrie. You won’t beg, will you? Too proud for that.” His finger, still inside me, curled, twitched, and I jerked, my body spasming as he brushed my clit. “You’re right there, Kyrie. A few more of
these
” —he brushed my nub again, and I felt heat and pressure coiling in my belly— “and you’ll come all over my hand. All you have to do is say ‘please, Roth.’ Two little words. It’s not even really begging. It’s just…asking me nicely.”

It was acknowledging his control, his power over me, and we both knew it. But then, that was the entire point of this game, wasn’t it? I had his blindfold on. I was playing his game. So why not this, too? I wanted it, and I was right there, so close. I was on the verge of biting clean through my lip at that point, my hips fluttering in desperation I couldn’t control. Two words. Let him have his control.
 

“Please…Roth.” Who needs dignity when you can have public orgasms?

 
At that moment, as the words tumbled from my lips, the song coming from the stage reached its pinnacle, climaxing even as Roth’s fingers pinched my swollen clit and sent rockets of ecstasy firing through me. I clenched my teeth together and let my hips roll violently in time with his two circling fingertips. Just as the pressure in my core reached critical mass, Roth’s fingers dove into my channel, slipped out, dove in, and then resumed circling. It was just enough of a disruption in rhythm to pull me back from the edge. He was making me crazy, making me wild. Growls boiled in my throat, just barely held back, primal sounds of frustration at his games. He could make me come whenever he wanted, and I knew it. He was teasing me. Once more, he slid his fingers deep into me just as I was about to explode. I dug my fingernails into his forearm with all my strength, a plea and a warning. I fisted my other hand into his shirt, jerked him toward me, felt his mouth crash against mine.