Anton kept watching the curtain of the private box, waiting for the authorities to burst in and arrest him. Or maybe she wouldn’t turn him in. Maybe she and Janette would just run. Somehow that was the worst of all options.
A moment later the curtain parted, and he jumped. But it was only Annette. That crazy fucking…
When Annette saw Katya sitting in her chair, she visibly stiffened.
“Katya, we’ll see you at the party,” Anton said. He used the tone he’d used with her their one night together—the tone he took with subs.
She looked hurt, but she took the hint and got up—once again the graceful ballerina—and left.
When she was gone, Annette sat back down.
Anton moved his chair closer to her. “Why did you come back?”
“My sister...”
He shook his head. “No. You could have gotten you and her to safety by now.”
“Do you want me to go?”
Anton reached over and gripped her wrist, holding it hard against the arm rest, so hard he was sure she would have a bruise the next day. “I want you to do whatever I tell you every single fucking day for the rest of your life.” The force of his words surprised even him.
He couldn’t let her see the million little weaknesses that could crush and destroy this fucked-up thing before it was off the ground. He let go of her wrist, and she pulled it swiftly onto her lap where she proceeded to rub the soreness out, watching him warily like some wounded animal.
“Why did you come back?” he asked again.
She shrugged. “Are you bored with me already?”
“Never.”
The lights flickered their warning, and people down below scattered to find their seats.
“Master, is Katya…?”
“Is Katya what?”
“Never mind.”
But he thought he knew. She seemed jealous, but that was crazy. He had to just be seeing what he wanted to see. Maybe he would test the theory at the party.
The lights stopped flickering, and the theater went dark. The orchestra began to play, the curtain raised, the stage lights came up, and a new Giselle flitted onto the stage. She resembled the other dancer closely enough that few were likely to notice the change. This one was still no Katya, but not an embarrassment to the company, either.
By this point, Anton had lost interest in the ballet, his gaze turning repeatedly to Annette. She sat so still and stiff, staring at the stage that he knew she was only pretending to watch. He wondered if she could feel his eyes on her. Either way, she would feel his hands.
He scanned the audience below and found his friend, Sergio, sitting in the middle of the orchestra seating. Sergio had been born in Russia to an Italian mother, not one street over from Anton, though somehow they hadn’t met until they were both adults and Anton had been living in America for quite some time.
Not a bad seat, Anton mused, but definitely not comparable to the box. The lights from the stage lit his friend’s face up, and a few moments later, Sergio looked up, seemed to see Anton, and gave a small wave. Anton waved back. There were a few small overhead lights on in the box. They were too dim to read by, but perhaps bright enough to be seen.
A moment later Anton’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket.
I thought Katya was dancing tonight, the text read in Russian.
Not tonight. Injury. Sprain, Anton replied.
Who is your date?
So Sergio could see into the box.
Annette. My new sub. It wasn’t exactly the truth, but Anton was sure he would lose the few friends he had if they knew the truth. His friends at the ballet had no idea of the birth of his recent criminal enterprise, and he was determined they never would—which made bringing Annette here to meet his friends a dangerous game. It was yet another proof that he wanted to get caught to be freed from the many crimes he was sure to commit if his life continued down its current path—crimes that had seemed no big deal when this was all only talk.
Can we play with her at the party?
We’ll see.
Then a moment later, Anton texted Sergio again. Do me a favor?
Sure.
Glance up at the box every few minutes. I’m about to give you a show much better than the one on stage.
Nice.
Anton closed his phone and looked over at Annette in time to catch her watching him. Her gaze went quickly back to the stage. He moved his chair even closer to her, so that the arm rests touched. Then he leaned in to whisper in her ear.
“Kiska, look down into the audience. I have a friend down there who has noticed you.” Anton stroked the side of her throat where her pulse jumped into his hand as she looked down into the audience just in time for Sergio to look up and catch her gaze. “This box is not so very private. Anyone could just look up here and see...”
He slid the straps of her gown down her shoulders and tugged until the dress was around her waist. Only a black lace bra guarded her modesty from anyone in the audience below who might look up. She stayed statue still as if in such stillness she could remain invisible to those in the audience.
Anton kissed the side of her neck and felt her lean into him. “You seemed bored with the ballet,” he murmured against her skin.
“N-no, I wasn’t bored.”
“Then what were you?”
She didn’t reply. In truth he knew she hadn’t been bored. For whatever reason she’d seemed hurt that he wasn’t paying more attention to her. But he’d been trying to make her comfortable. He’d thought to slowly ease her into tonight’s play at the party later.
At first he only stroked on top of the bra, pausing every few moments to trail his fingers over her décolletage. Her breath deepened in response. His hand went under her bra to touch the nipple underneath. It was already erect, yet there was unmistakable tension coiled through her body—tension he typically destroyed on his massage table.
Sergio hadn’t taken his eyes off her from the moment they’d locked. His friend could always be counted on for the intense lustful stare. His desire for her was unmistakable, as was the blush flooding into Annette’s cheeks so bright it was visible even in so much darkness. She should be grateful she wasn’t under a spotlight. Soft dim lighting, barely perceptible outlines. But when the bra came off, her pale skin would call attention to itself, maybe from more than Sergio.
Most of this cultured, pretentious audience would be scandalized for a moment and then look away, stiffening in their distaste, pretending to watch the ballet as fiercely as Annette had.
“Spread your legs.” He kept his voice so low he wasn’t sure she’d understood him with the accent until finally her legs parted, spread wide in her chair so that her thighs touched the bottom edges of the arm rests.
“Good girl.”
He stroked between her thighs for a moment, pushing one finger inside her. It was just as he thought. She was enticingly wet. And yet, despite the arousal, there was still the bit of fear on her face and the discomfort with the exposure.
Anton pulled a tube of the arousal cream from his pocket. Michael’s effusive praise of this product had still fallen short of its almost magical abilities. Anton liked to think of this little tube as permission for her to let go. She was already aroused, but she wasn’t so out of her mind with it that her self-consciousness was gone. He showed her the tube, watching her reaction carefully.