Forbidden Love (6 page)

His hands were up her shirt now, rubbing her
and heightening her arousal. She reached down to grasp him, and he
moaned. His tongue was exploring her mouth with aggression. She
felt his fingers inch down the back of her jeans, treading the base
of her spine, her tailbone, the winter sun pouring through a
skylight many stories above them washed her back in warmth.

The creaking of heavy metal doors, once
again, propelled her off of him suddenly. She plopped back onto the
step beside Rusty on her rear end, grimacing with the impact. They
gave one another a frenzied look. Rusty flipped open his courier
bag and whipped out a notebook and a pencil. Footsteps, and then a
shadow, descended on the two of them.

“Hi, Aaron,” Rusty said casually to the man
who nearly tripped over them on his way down to the exit door. “I’m
just explaining to one of my new characterization protégés here the
idea of the emotional plane.”

He was as cool as he’d been in class, not one
wave of hair or piece of clothing out of place. Trisha felt as
though her face was smeared with lip gloss and her bangs were
ruffled like a hyper chicken’s feathers. She smiled awkwardly at
Aaron DuVeigne, whom she knew was a long-time professor at
Melville, and was known for getting his favorite students auditions
in Boston and occasionally in New York City. Her heart had leapt
into her throat and was throbbing there.

“I see,” said Professor DuVeigne, as he
carefully danced between them to continue down the stairs. Doubt
played around his lips, ruffling his silver moustache. “Is this
some contemporary approach I don’t know about?”

Rusty’s grin fell a little. “Pardon me, sir?
I mean, you know, the emotional plane? Living on it, being
spontaneous when you’re on an audition?”

The professor turned and looked back up at
them, one hand on the railing. “I meant your choice of classroom,
Mr. Quirke. A little untoward, don’t you think?” He winked at
Rusty, whose cheeks flushed red.

“I have all the best intentions, sir,” Rusty
stammered.

Professor DuVeigne lifted a hand in
salute—“Carry on, Mr. Quirke”—and went on down the staircase and
out the side exit.

Rusty exhaled, long and loud. “Jesus fucking
Christ.”

Trisha adjusted the neckline of her shirt,
which she had just realized was showcasing too much. “We should
go,” she said. She could head back to her dorm room, and he could
follow thirty minutes later. If he bundled up in enough winter
outerwear, no one would recognize him. He could stay until dark.
They could order takeout together. She could talk to him about
Lucas, and he would get it—he would understand her devotion to her
brother, her frustration with her own parents, and her need for a
romance that would take her away from all of it. They would explore
one another wildly beneath her lavender sheets, their passion
fueled by their undeniable emotional bond. Trisha’s thoughts of
this scenario were reigniting the fiery sensations below her
abdomen that the professor’s untimely intrusion had doused.

Rusty’s fingers crept up the back of her
head, tangling in her hair. “Doesn’t the risk turn you on?” His
blue eyes glinted.

She couldn’t lie. “Yes,” she said softly.

“Then I have a proposal for you, Hot Pink,”
he said. “What do you say to speed things up, you do me a favor
this time, and I’ll do you a favor next time?”

Hot Pink—he had already invented a pet name
for her. She liked it. “A favor?” she parroted, and as she said
this, the understanding dawned.

“I’m all jazzed up.” Rusty was mixing his
words with his kisses against her cheek and neck. “Baby, it won’t
take long at all.” He put his hand on her breast again.

She felt a swipe of dread and grabbed his
wrist. “Why?” she said. “Who told you?”

His eyes betrayed his surprise, which
actually looked genuine. “W-what? Told me what?”

She squinted at him sideways. Now that she
knew her name had been circulating around campus, Rusty’s request
seemed suspect. No, no please let this be a coincidence because
when it comes to wanting head, every guy’s the same.

“Seriously, I don’t know what you’re talking
about,” he said, “but it sounds like you might have a special
talent, sweetheart. Let me in on it.”

She thought a moment, then shook her head.
“No,” she said, and smiled snarkily. “You need to earn that
privilege.”

“You
bitch
.” He grinned and clutched her
closer, scooped his hand between her legs. “I like your fire. All
right, then. I’ll earn it. Come to my place this weekend. We’ll
work on some techniques.”

Another whine from the doors above them, and
they were on their feet. Trisha was riled, maybe just as much as he
was. But they couldn’t stay there.

“I have to wait that long?” Trisha pouted.
She didn’t think she could take the disappointment of another
unfinished tryst.

“Not if you don’t want to,” he said, and his
eyebrow flashed upward. “Let’s just go somewhere less public.”

He walked ahead of her, back straight, down
to the basement of Bernstein, where the modestly-sized black box
theatre and theatre-in-the-round were located. She followed a few
steps behind. One of the prop workshops was bustling with a class;
Professor Shepley, who taught costume design, was humming around in
her studio, organizing scrap material and beads. But otherwise, the
hallway was quiet. Trisha watched as Rusty passed the empty black
box on the left, and strolled ahead to the theatre in the round,
situated in the corner on the opposite end of the building. He took
out his key chain, looked at her seductively, and winked.

Trisha glanced back over her shoulder. Still
no one. After Rusty, she hastily stepped through the double doors
and into the theatre. He shut the doors behind them and locked
them. All of the blackout shades were down, cutting out the
sunlight. She could barely see.

“Follow me,” he said, and pulled both of her
arms behind him. She moved with her face pressed against his back,
inhaling the fragrance of his freshly washed shirt and feeling the
movement of his muscles beneath it. He led her down one of the
sloping aisles toward the stage. They walked up three or four
steps. This whole sensation was eerily exciting, imagining that
they were on display to an invisible audience. He turned around to
face her, and took both of her hands in his.

“Okay, Ms. Barron,” he said in a deep voice.
“Now, what we’d like you to do is put yourself in the place of a
girl who’s in love with her leading man in real life. For weeks,
doing these scenes with him has tortured you. You know he has a lot
of girls competing for his attention—”

She swatted his chest, half-playfully,
half-not.

“—
and you need to make him
realize that you’re the best choice. So, how do you convince him,
Ms. Barron? Show us.”

Trisha thought about the
possibilities of rebellion, standing here with this stunningly
gorgeous man who was choosing
her
, who thought that she was the
most appealing option out of all of the striking girls on campus.
What a thrilling semester this was going to be, stealing moments
like this—hiding the heat for each other in their eyes during
class, restraining their instincts to reach out and touch one
another at any time. Trisha gathered his shirt in both hands and
drew him closer.

“Look. I can’t take it anymore. I come here
every day and have to pretend like I’m just acting…when I’m not.
And I know it’s not just me. I can feel the way you feel, in the
way you put your hands on me, the way you hold on to me just a
little too long…”

“You’re very perceptive,” he said.

Trisha wanted to laugh at his soap-opera
swagger, but she forced herself to play the game. “So I’m giving
you a crossroads, Rustic Quirke. You need to follow through with
those signals you’ve been sending me. You either commit to me now,
or I’ll never speak to you again outside of this theatre.”

Rusty stepped back. She could make out only a
faint outline of him. “Well, that’s a pretty big demand, Hot Pink.
I don’t know if I can oblige, unless you give a little bit more of
yourself. You know, you really need to open up.”

In one swift motion, Trisha rolled her shirt
up and over her head. In another, she unhooked her bra and dropped
it to the wooden floor. She reached out for Rusty’s hands and
guided them to her breasts. “Let’s start here,” she said.

Rusty kissed her deeply, sending all of the
frustration from the staircase back into her body with a gritty
sigh and a probing tongue. With his hands still occupied, squeezing
her breasts, she found his belt buckle and unlatched it. His right
hand caressed her all the way down her side, to the front of her
jeans, which popped open easily; the button hole was worn. And in
an instant, his hand was cupping her bare buttocks.

“Such a tight ass,” he murmured. “Why didn’t
you use this weapon on me before, Hot Pink? ‘Tits…and ass…got
yourself a fancy pair,’” he quoted. One of his fingers touched the
top of her crack and tickled her.

Trisha wrangled his jeans down his hips. They
slumped around his ankles, and he kicked them away. He was wearing
boxer briefs, she noticed—her favorite. Just as she’d anticipated,
his thighs bulged in her hands, carved and taut. He played her
vertebrae like a bass, fingertips tapping up and down her back,
making her breasts round and firm with titillation. She slid one
hand over and found the tender parts of him, which had become just
as firm as her breasts had, and then slid the other hand over and
felt his husky, strong manhood straining against the front of his
boxers.

“You gonna do something about it this time,
Chickie?” he said smoothly. “Because you’ve left me high and dry a
couple of times now.”

Trisha was getting used to Rusty’s humor. She
didn’t fall for it. “Fuck you,” she said.

“Fuck me?”

“Yeah.”

“I want you to, baby. Go ahead.”

In another moment, Trisha was out of her
jeans and straddling Rusty on the varnished stage. Only two layers
of thin cotton separated them. Trisha smattered his broad, sculpted
chest with wet kisses as he massaged her shoulders. She liked the
way her breasts felt, skimming his skin as she moved down, down,
down. She stopped over the open fly of his boxers with her mouth,
touched her lips down, and breathed a current of hot air. He
grunted in pleasure, rubbing her head. She went lower and blew
again. She let her lips hover there for a moment or two.

“Come on, baby,” Rusty said. His tone was
impatient. “Let’s do this.”

Trisha folded down his boxers and shimmied
them from his legs. She let her hands feel for him in the darkness,
and found herself dizzy with the prospect of his being inside her.
How would this even work? She smiled to herself.

“Let me assist you, Hot Pink.” Rusty slipped
his fingers into her panties. He burrowed one of them into her
tauntingly.

Before she knew it, nearly every inch of
Trisha’s body, from head to toe, was in contact with his. She was
safely cloaked in the black unconsciousness of the theatre…the
sensation made her think of what the beginning of time must have
felt like. When he entered her, she could sense her whole self
expanding. Involuntarily, she released a series of squeals as they
pressed closer and closer. They took their time at first. His hands
explored her, fumbling and scratching as though they’d never
touched a woman before. Trisha’s miniature waves of delight began
cresting higher, higher, and faster. She sat up, and the pressure
and bliss intensified. She knew that he was close when he squeezed
her hips and rocked her more forcefully. She worked until she knew
the final break was near and she halted her movement and bore down
and waited for it to come. Finally, gloriously, the fiery cascades
of climax spilled over, making her whimper, and at the same moment,
Rusty arched and let out a groan.

She stayed on top of him for a couple of
minutes, tracing her fingers over his abdomen as he breathed
heavily, enjoying the faint ripples of sweetness that lingered
between her legs.

“Thank you, God,” he said.

“God didn’t do anything,” Trisha
protested.

Rusty closed his hand over hers. “Okay. Thank
you, Trish, for having God-like powers.”

She lay down on his chest, her head under his
chin. She started to think about how difficult being in Rusty’s
class was going to be, concentrating and listening and pretending
that she didn’t know him at all. She started to think about how,
maybe, sometime in the future, she and Rusty could maybe go on some
auditions with one another. They would share this chemistry that
would blow everyone’s mind. And last, she started thinking about
how at some point soon, acting students would have their feet,
maybe even their bare feet depending on the exercise, right on the
spot where Rusty’s ass had been. She grinned, and inhaled his
smoky, woodsy scent.

“I think there’s a four-thirty class down
here,” he said, and lifted his wrist to click the light on his
watch, and tapped Trisha so that she’d sit back up. “Shit. It’s
twenty past.”