Chapter 18

EIGHTEEN

Colin

I 'm flipping through my homework, prioritizing what I need to finish first, when Owen pops up behind me.

"We need to go on a date."

"Is that right?" I turn to look up at him. Gods, he's beautiful.

"What are you thinking?" He cocks his head like the words are written on my skin in a language he doesn't understand.

"Trust me, you don't want to know."

He nods and doesn't push it. "Yes, we need to be seen in public, and you need to be romanced." He shrugs.

"Romanced?" My heart flutters at the very idea.

"Isaac's word."

I chuckle. "Of course, he is a romantic. Though how he ended up with Oliver, I will never understand."

"Oliver has his moments, he just doesn't show them to you."

"That's fair." I turn in my chair to face him. "Where are you taking me on a date?"

The skin around his eyes tightens, and he slides his hands into his pockets. "I was hoping you would have ideas."

I cock my head and look at him for a moment. "Have you ever been on a date?"

"I'm not answering that if you're going to be an ass about it."

I try to hide my smirk, but if the look on his face is anything to go by, I failed. "It's cute, and I like being your first date."

"You have ideas then?"

"Yes, I have ideas. Anything you want to veto?"

He thinks for a moment, which I appreciate. "Opera. No opera."

"That's an interesting one, but okay." I stand and reach for his hips. "When is our date?"

"Is tonight too soon?"

"Nope, I can make that work."

Owen smiles and kisses my forehead. "Thank you."

Two hours later, I have tickets booked.

"Shower, let's go." I snap my fingers at Owen.

"What?"

"You can't go on a date with me smelling like yesterday." He thinks about that for a minute, then gets up and goes to the bathroom. I head to the closet to pick out our clothes and lay Owen's out for him. Something about it is more intimate than I expected it to be. I've grown to like doing it for him.

The blue Tom Ford Mohair crew neck sweater with black slacks will be a killer on my husband. I find him a black belt with silver accents and Saint Laurent boots as well. I'm half hard just picturing it on him. He has a one-of-a-kind Tom Ford cologne that was specially made for him that I set next to his clothes. At this point, I'm torturing myself.

Owen's footsteps are quiet on the rug as he leaves the bathroom, probably in just a towel. The heat from his skin presses into my back, and he nuzzles the back of my neck.

"Thank you," he whispers, his lips on my skin, making me shudder.

"You're welcome."

His palms burn my skin when he holds my hips. He's fucking with me, and he knows it. There's no way he can't.

"Your turn in the shower."

I groan and walk away. I'm going to need to come before we leave, or I'm not going to make it through the night.

By the time we make it to the August Wilson theatre, Owen has invaded my senses. The warm, erotic scent of that damn cologne is going to be the death of me.

The show doesn't start for almost an hour and a half, but since this one has an all-new prologue, I made sure we are here for it, plus, I need a fucking drink. Owen offers me a hand as we get out of the car and doesn't let it go when I'm standing.

"Have you been to this theatre?" I ask him.

"Not in a while."

"They did some renovating for the show, so I'm curious to see it."

"Have you seen Cabaret before?" he asks, looking up at the lit-up sign in the front of the building. I love this section of New York. Art and music permeate the air. Style is all over the place, from casual jeans and t-shirts to three-piece suits. There's excitement for first timers getting to see a Broadway show, children falling in love with the glitz and glam of the production, and those who have been here before, helping the tourists find their way.

"Do you like the theatre?" I can feel Owen's gaze on me, but I'm taking in everything around me.

"Yes, there's a magic in it that we don't get anywhere else."

He doesn't rush me, which I appreciate. This is one of the few places I could outrun my father's words. It's comforting getting lost in the crowd, where being over the top isn't a bad thing. Here I fit in.

When I'm ready, we follow the crowd down an alleyway lit with red neon lights. It's the first step of many that will take us back in time to underground Berlin in the 1930's and immerse us in the show. It's intoxicating, exciting. Like leaving the world behind for this trip to the past. As we move through the building, it's amazing to see the detail they put into the remodel. From the eyes in the decor, to the fabric, to the beading details. It's impossible not to get caught up in it, in the underlying sensuality humming along the surface.

Throughout the bars and lobby area, dancers and musicians perform the prologue. Some are set up on raised platforms, others are working through the crowd. It's an entire experience being here. I find myself pressed against Owen, my back to his front, moving to the beat of the music as I watch.

He's lost in it too, gripping my hips and kissing my neck. Arousal lights up my nerve endings, wanting so much more but reveling in the slow seduction and teasing touches.

We make our way to the table I was able to snag on short notice. I place my drink down and lean toward my delicious date.

"What do I earn for this?" The urge to touch him is strong.

"Did you earn something?"

"Excuse you, I planned a fantastic date with very short notice." I put my hand on his thigh and slide my fingers up a few inches on his inner thigh. "I earned a reward."

"Perhaps. Later." He lifts his drink to his lips but keeps his eyes on mine while he takes a sip. "If you're good."

"Good? That could mean so many things." I slide my hand higher up his thigh, and he cocks a brow.

"Princess." It's a warning.

"You should call me that the next time you come for me."

"Is this being good?"

A wicked smile turns up my lips. "Exceedingly."

Owen grabs my jaw and pulls me toward him. "I'm not rewarding you for being a brat. Promise to behave and I'll kiss you."

My breathing skyrockets at the touch. "Promise," I whisper.

He holds me for another second, not letting me close the distance. His breath is hot against my lips as he makes me wait. Three seconds, five seconds until he presses his mouth against mine. I don't hold back the groan at the contact. I need it like I need air.

If we were anywhere else, I would climb into his fucking lap and grind against him, but I doubt that's what he meant by ‘behave.'

We're brought wine and a menu for the three-course meal before the show starts. The waiter takes our orders and disappears to get the appetizer. I'm hungry, but not for food.

We get a charcuterie, and I find myself wanting to feed Owen, needing to touch him. Gathering a piece of meat and cheese, I offer it to him. He smirks but leans forward to accept the bite. His teeth graze my fingers, and my eyes lock on his mouth. On the possibilities of what he can do to me with it.

The tension between us is heavy but in the best way.

As the show starts, I get lost in the story, the music, the emotions. I'm captivated by it. I don't realize I'm rubbing my fingertips on Owen's inner thigh until he grabs my hand and grits out a "stop it." He laces our fingers together, probably to keep mine still, but maybe he needs the physical contact too.