12. Hellena

12

HELLENA

" I told you to meet me at the car ."

"You're…"

"Pissed?"

"No, I mean, but you're…"

"Too exhausted for this conversation?"

I finally compose myself enough to glare back at his sarcastic remarks. I'm about to try again when his shoulders droop a tiny bit.

"I am a performer . Yes." His voice is velvet. Calm. But his body is locked up, poised like an animal about to run. I wasn't supposed to see this. I wasn't supposed to know.

"That was more than just a performance ." I was moved, swept up in the passion of his movement, his body. It was enthralling. "Fuck, it was euphoric, magical…"

Almost as good as sex. I can't quite get those words out, though. That would be admitting too much to him.

The tiniest bit of shock crosses his expression as my eyes follow a thin, trickling line of sweat down between his unbelievably etched pecs. He's still flushed, his muscles swollen from the dance routine. I swallow hard, trying to keep my eyes to myself.

He's a fucking Greek god . He's a renaissance sculpture.

And he's still very clearly visible through the towel tented below his waist.

It makes my mouth instantly dry. I'm horrifyingly nervous, but also breathless. I can't think enough to say anything else, but looking at him, there's this moment where neither of us knows what to do. I wish he would just…

Suddenly, it feels like another one of his tests, only this time, he's testing himself , too. His control over himself and his control over me.

How will I react? He's waiting to gauge my response.

And I have no idea if what I decide to say next will send him into a fit of rage, or… honestly, I don't know what the alternative is. I have no idea how to navigate the situation. Except that I can't stop thinking about the way his body moved, the way he came so painfully close to making love to his dance partner and how it makes me…

Hot.

Jealous.

No. I am not jealous of anyone sleeping with or almost sleeping with Evan DeSante. He can do whatever he wants to do.

But that's what I realize is bothering me more than anything. Why didn't he?

The rest of the crew indulged in all out sex, if the sounds coming from the theater behind me are any indication of the encore. Moans and cries of climaxing muddle my mind again, distracting me.

In that haze, I fail to notice Evan stepping closer, closing the distance between us and staring down at me. Heat rolls off him in waves that have my nipples knifing the front of my dress. Thank goodness it's so soft.

"I don't sleep with any of my performers. Or my clients." His tone shifts, a hint of defensiveness.

"I didn't accuse you of anything. Besides, it's not any of my business."

"You didn't have to. Everyone always wants to know why. Everyone wants to know how much it costs to get Heaven to break the rules." That's the persona he plays onstage, the godlike creature with the tattoos, the mask. His alter ego.

Or is this his alter ego? The man I see every day.

"And how much is that?"

"There is no price because it's not for sale. It's not something I can allow myself to do."

"Because if you put a price on it, crossed that line…"

"I won't. I can't."

"Because you want to." It dawns on me as I look up into his eyes. The longing is there, to set himself free from the chains he's imposed on himself.

"More than anything," he whispers, forced through gritted teeth.

The admission circles around in my head, first that he is simply lustful, a typical man who wants to fuck anything that moves. Maybe he's an addict? But why would a gorgeous sex addict put himself around all of this sex? And how could he maintain his resolve?

No. That's not what any of this is about.

Otherwise, there would be no reason to refuse making love to the surreal and exotic woman he performed with. Hell, I would have sex with her in his shoes!

"It always comes back to one thing with you… control. " And he doesn't say a word, staring me down with a vicious scowl that makes me shiver, makes me want to tear off my dress and run screaming at the same time.

I'm starting to understand that his control is less for his own sake and more for the sake of others. After seeing him dance, the way he moves, the way he stays perfectly flexed, rock hard from peck to cock…

There is something else to him underneath the tight-laced surface and cool boredom. It's something I've only caught glimpses of, in slips of anger, when he's particularly stressed.

It's powerful. It's seductive. It's outrageous and it makes me unbelievably irate.

It starts a fire in my belly every time we fight.

He's an animal , leashed on a short cord.

The moment slips away by necessity. In another second, he's drying off, throwing his clothes on haphazardly. Silence accompanies us the rest of the night as we gather our things and head to the car.

The ride home is no different.

The staff will see to any other needs Mr. and Mrs. Cormorant have, if they wake at any point in the night in the luxurious master bedroom of the penthouse. In the morning, the maids Evan keeps on call will take care of feeding them and seeing them off, back to their normal daily lives in the hills.

As for me…

My life is far from normal. It gets less normal every day.

Tonight was just a staggering reminder of that. It settles over me as Evan takes the dark, empty streets of Sanctum's richest neighborhoods at breakneck speed.

The rush doesn't even faze me.

Something raw hangs in the air between us. Like he lost something vulnerable and dangerous and doesn't know what I will do with it. In his line of work, it is dangerous, I guess, sharing something that I have a feeling he's never shared before. Useful ammunition, leverage.

Not that he has anything to be ashamed of. It's the opposite. He's incredible on stage.

Neither of us gets out of the car immediately when he pulls up to the office.

"You will not speak to anyone about this." He doesn't look at me as he says it.

"Excuse me?" My eyes bulge at his audacity.

"I said?—"

"Oh, I heard you. I just can't believe you think you need to say so. I'm not an idiot, Evan."

"Well, y–you don't follow orders very well." He's… flustered .

"Right. When they're dumped on me like I can't think for myself. When they are given without context and I'm left like an idiot to improvise. Trust is a two-way street, and I have given you mine so far. The least you could do is give me the same."

"I told you I did." His words before the show ring in my ears. He was trusting me, in a way. But it was still a test, still a challenge.

"Bullshit. You left out key details that would have helped me navigate the night better. You're still jerking me along with your little shock and awe games instead of letting me all the way in." I turn in my seat to face him, hammering him with my glare.

"No one knows that it's me behind that mask. Anyone who does, I chose to tell." Unlike me is left unsaid. "Some of the dancers don't even know who I am. My clients, my employees, none of them are allowed to know anything about my private life. As far as you're concerned, you know nothing about my private life either, and you never will." The piercing stare he lays on me has me shrinking in my seat and at the same time has my hackles shooting up like a feral cat's.

Just like that, he throws the walls up again as he storms out of the car toward the back door of the office.

Not that I care.

He's entitled to his secrets.

That's not what makes me furious . It's the fact that he has all these rules, statements that he uses to tie me up, trip me up, and keep me contained. It feels like lashes around my wrists, my ankles, my mouth. At that, the thought of him tying me up in a different way wedges itself into the mix against my will, sending a flood of desire up along my back and into my hairline, tingling my scalp.

"Evan!" I shout, hot on his heels. He spins on me, his jaw clenched. "I would never betray your trust."

That's what hits me hardest. My trust is sacred.

"Oh, I know," he grits out. "Because no one crosses me."

"Yeah, or else what? You sound just like that piece of shit drug dealer, lording my debt over me. Tell me, Evan. Tell me what you do to people who break your rules!"

"It's the way this all works, don't you get it? When you get in bed with the Sinful, it becomes your life. The good and the bad. Protection, desires, all at a price."

"And what price do you pay?"

"That is not yours to know." It's obvious, though, as I see the fire slowly die in his eyes. This is the price. His control. His unwavering dedication to our work. Keeping everyone around him in little boxes that he can file. Never letting anyone in.

All for what? What did he need so badly that he gave up his life?

We're right up in each other's faces at this point, and I can't help but stare into his eyes. Guarded. Cloudy with rage and remorse. My hand sweeps up to cup his cheek, a moment of boldness and caring.

And he allows it.

For just a split second, his eyes flutter closed and he sighs.

And then he's gone. Turning and rushing into the office, slamming the door in my face.

My drive home to Gavin's is quiet.

Plenty of time to replay the evening in my head from every angle. Plenty of time to get mad all over again, to imagine how I might have handled him differently.

To imagine what I really wanted to do to him when I saw him standing there naked in the dressing room. What I wish he would have done to me…

Those chains he shackles himself with on my wrists, holding me up, completely exposed to him. Completely at his mercy, under his control.

It's a double-edged blade.

I hate the way he lives under it. And when he uses it against me to shut me in one of his cages.

It keeps leading me back to the idea of giving him control and seeing what the animal inside him would do.

It's a kind of trust I've never given and never received.

It would be an entirely different kind of trust, to be able to allow somebody to do as they pleased with me and to know that I would be safe as they did so. It's terrifying. Thrilling.

I shouldn't give it so much purchase in my thoughts, letting it eat away at my confidence, make me second-guess everything.

The thoughts haunt me all the way to the couch as I eat a snack, brush my teeth, wash my face, and crawl under the sheets. I can't shake the way he makes me feel under all the foolish fighting, the bickering, and all of my childish refusal to obey him.

Tossing and turning, I flop on my side, trying to get comfortable, trying to force away the pent-up frustration I built up from watching the show, from our fight.

I need it to go away. I need release .

Quivers of anticipation shoot up my thighs, begging me to just give in and let my fingers do what they're itching to do. Or better, the little toy I keep in my nightstand. Back at the house. Shit.

There's one thing I forgot.

I stare into the dark, at the wall across from me, chewing on my lip.

Gavin's door is closed, as usual. He was asleep when I got home.

I imagine bursting into his room, slipping into the covers, running my hands down into his shorts…

No. He warned me never to wake him suddenly. He'd probably snap my neck in his sleep. And I can't just jump my dad's best friend because I'm horny. Not that I don't want to most days, anyway…

But that confusing thought is a bedtime mind game for another night.

Tonight, the thought of Gavin being right there, ten feet away, while I touch myself is enough to get me panting, tugging at my ponytail and pressing my legs together so tightly that I want to scream.

It's anger at Evan, anxiety over everything . It's fooling around with Tell, close proximity to Gavin, Ora's party, and the Cormorants' sex show… Evan's tattooed body as he dragged his impossibly curved and rock-hard erection between his partner's ass cheeks, through her slick folds…

All added up to the most aroused I've probably ever been in my life.

One finger slides down my belly, from my sternum, across my belly button and toward my clit. I can barely wiggle that single finger into the crease, my legs and ass flexed so hard and tight with wavering control.

I want it to be him , feel like it's his orgasm to give me when I come.

I want that control to be in his hands.

His decision.

That fine line between giving permission and having him take what he wants, how he wants it. Fighting back just slightly, resisting enough to make the pleasure slow and painfully drawn out.

That single finger slips down, dragging my arousal back up from my entrance to swirl up over my peaked bud.

Once. Twice.

Inching around the lip, top to bottom. Teasing down, deeper, but not inside. Not yet.

The pressure inside me doubles, triples with each flick of my finger, his finger.

Better, his tongue…

The tension in my muscles becomes pain, fatigue piling up with the rolling waves of ecstasy cascading up and down my back, demanding that I fill my desperate need.

Give in.

Give up. Let it all out.

Unbearable sensation shudders across my skin, just underneath the surface.

My toes curl against the soft cushions, my shins press down, shoving my back and ass into the back of the couch, gaining my purchase to fight my urge to drive my fingers lower. I don't have any resolve left as I curl one, then two fingers inside me, slapping my other hand over my mouth to suppress a squeal.

My legs are practically crushing my hand as I keep driving them in, dragging them out, hooking them to press against that spot just inside, each stroke forcing me closer to letting go.

I'm squeezing so hard my hand hurts.

But it's not my hand I'm hurting, it's Evan's.

Roaring, rushing noise rise in my ears, my brain buzzing as I soar to the brink. I debate going over, finishing myself off, but I hesitate, hearing Gavin grumble in the next room, talking in his sleep.

The thought of his being awake and walking in on me does me in.

Or better, awake and watching me, gripping himself and trying not to make a noise as he comes to the sight of me writhing on his couch. Watching through the crack in his door.

Thrills of shock-fright and nervousness spiral together with my orgasm, zinging down the backs of my legs, up along my back, surging through my head, out into my fingertips and toes. Everything tightens, and I bite down on my pillow to keep from screaming, my whole body pressed against the couch, one hand stretched out, twisted in the sheets like a lifeline.

Gavin moans one last time, the bed creaking as he turns over, and I imagine him curling up behind me in the wake of the storm, the swells of my release throbbing like my pounding heartbeat, ebbing as I relax, gasping in the dark.

With my last bit of energy, I tear my damp T-shirt off, tossing it aside, desperate to cool down.

In the quiet of the early morning, I imagine Evan's eyes tracing the shimmer of the porchlight reflecting off the sweat on my breast.

And I want him again. I want him for real .

What is Evan DeSante doing to me?