Off Book

14. Jade

14

JADE

“Now I do wish it, love it, long for it . . .” Act IV, Scene I

Despite all of Dallas’s efforts to convert me, I am not a Shakespeare girlie. Their most desperate attempt to give me an appreciation for Shakespeare involved a weekend in Philly last summer, where they planned a picnic dinner at a local park and there just happened to be a “Shakespeare in the Park” showing of Romeo and Juliet at the exact place they planned for us to go, at exactly the time we showed up. Dallas cried through most of the show, and so did I, but for different reasons.

The snippets of rehearsals I hear while sneaking through the audience of the Main Stage theater confirm I haven’t changed my mind. What hast thou just fucking said? I have no idea.

I tune them out on the rest of my climb up to the stage manager’s booth to see Ian. Not because I have any particular reason to, but I had a few makeup consults for the faeries in the cast and thought it might be nice to go say hi. That’s what friends do—they go say hi to their friends. I’m definitely not going to see him because I like him and I’m not used to not seeing him now that we don’t run lines every day.

I pause to gather my skirt in my hands, because while I never regret a crop-top-and-maxi-skirt combo, climbing steps in a long skirt is never a good time.

“Lovers and madmen have such seething brains . . .” someone says from the stage.

“Damn straight, they do,” I say under my breath, mentally patting myself on the back for being able to follow what they said. That was a pretty easy line, though.

The door to the stage manager’s booth is closed, which could mean anything. Maybe Ian’s here and he just wanted some quiet. Maybe someone else is in there. Maybe it’s locked and no one is in there. Maybe I should turn back around because this was dumb. Or maybe I should walk in and see my friend, because I’m not going to be a weirdo with a crush.

I knock softly twice and try the handle. It gives, and I find that Ian is in fact in here and perched on a tall chair-stool. For reasons I don’t care to explore, I feel relieved that he’s alone.

The stage manager’s booth isn’t a place I come often, but it looks the same as the last few times I’ve been in here. Half the wall facing the stage is just a large piece of glass, tinted so anyone in the booth can see out but people can’t really see in. Under the glass is a counter mostly covered in equipment. A soundboard, a light board, two monitors, a mic that lets stage managers project over the audience, a couple of loose headsets, some cables that don’t look like they belong anywhere, and in front of Ian, a small, cleared space with a notebook and a pencil.

It’s stupid how adorable he is.

“Hellooo?” I say as I push through the doorway.

He spins around in the chair, and when he sees me, his face cracks open with a smile.

“Jade, hi,” he says. “What are you doing here?”

“Is that any way to greet your favorite scene partner?” I ask as I drop my bag by the door.

“But you’re the only scene partner I’ve ever . . .”

“Zzzsst, zzzsst, zzzsst.” I hold up my hand, pinching my forefinger and my middle finger against my thumb to silence him. “Don’t ruin my day.”

“Okay, I’m sorry, you’re right. Definitely not the greeting my favorite scene partner deserves. Do you want to go back out and try again?”

I fight a smile, the muscles around my lips dancing and tugging. Backing out of the room, I close the door, pausing for a moment, and then I knock and reopen it.

“Helloooo?” I say the exact same way I said it the first time, but I’ve barely made it into the room before I’m practically tackled back out of it.

There’s a blur of motion right before getting body-slammed. Ian is squeezing me so tight my face is plastered against his chest.

“Hello, my queen,” he says. I gently slap his back to indicate I need space since I’m sucking in fabric instead of air.

Ian doesn’t let go of me entirely, but he pulls back just enough to give me space to breathe.

“How can I, your humble servant and mere scrap of a scene partner, be at your service today?”

“Well, you could let me breathe. You’re still squeezing me pretty hard.”

“It’s air you need, milady? Breath in your lungs?”

Still holding me with one arm, he plugs my nose with the other hand, puts his mouth over mine, and breathes into my mouth like he’s giving CPR. It feels weird, and he can’t even get a full breath out before a laugh bursts out of me and I’m trying to twist away from him. I’m squealing for him to stop, laughing and thrashing as he cackles and tries to do it again. He’s got a pretty firm grasp on me, but it doesn’t stop me from trying to wiggle out of his grip, which eventually throws me off-balance. I tip right out of Ian’s arms and onto the floor, which sends us both into another fit of laughter that has us wiping our eyes and clutching our stomachs.

“I’m so sorry,” he says once he’s partly caught his breath. He holds out his hands to help me up, then finds a second tall chair-stool for me and pulls it over to the counter where he was sitting before.

“You should be! This outfit is new, and now it has floor all over it.” I dust myself off before leaning against the chair-stool.

“My deepest and sincerest apologies,” he says, his eyes sparkling with joy, a hand pressed to his chest. He reaches out his other hand and pinches the material of the skirt between his fingers, the dark navy of the fabric making his pale skin somehow brighter.

He’s so handsome, flushed from our messing about, eyes bright, smile wide.

“Even with ‘floor’ all over you, you look really lovely,” he says, his voice reverent.

No one has ever called me lovely.

That’s all it takes to shatter my self-control. Whatever was stopping me before is not enough to keep me from taking what I want after a compliment like that.

I launch myself across the space at him, standing between his legs, cupping his face in my hands, and pressing my lips to his. It’s not a soft kiss. Nor is it a rough kiss. It’s something in between. It’s the kind of kiss that communicates exactly what I intend it to.

I wanted you so badly that I couldn’t help myself.

When I break our kiss, he’s smiling. A soft, dreamy smile that’s so sincere it breaks my heart. His hands find the backs of my legs and rest there—a tickle even through the fabric of my skirt.

“Did you come all the way up here for that?” he asks, his voice quiet despite the booth being soundproof and the two of us being alone.

“Yep. I just came up here looking for anyone to kiss.”

“Lucky me,” he whispers.

“Lucky you,” I whisper back and lean in again. This time, our kiss is slow, intimate, and intentional. I’ve kissed many people, and this is the kind of kiss you share with someone you enjoy kissing. Someone you want to kiss for the pure pleasure of it. I tell myself I’ve felt this before. I’ve kissed people deeply, and for the pleasure of it.

But if that’s the case, why can’t I seem to think of anyone else I’ve experienced this with? Why does kissing Ian Davidson feel like kissing the first person I’ve ever kissed who actually mattered?

This time, he breaks our kiss, but he pushes his fingers into the backs of my thighs, drawing me even tighter against him.

“If I told you I’ve missed you, would you run away?” he asks.

My heart moves too fast for a couple of beats as if tripping over itself at his words.

“You saw me at rehearsal yesterday,” I say. Now that we’re just two weeks away from the one-act performances, we’re meeting twice a week for rehearsals. “And you’ll see me at rehearsal tomorrow.”

“And yet who is sneaking up to the booth to see whom?”

“I was in the neighborhood,” I say, and when Ian furrows his brow and cocks his head to the side, I clarify. “Very important makeup business.”

He nods skeptically, and I know I’m being called out, but I pretend that I’m not.

“And you? What are you doing here?” I ask.

“I was thinking through some light cues, making notes. It’s easier when I can watch the rehearsals happening.” Ian tilts his head to the side, gesturing to the active rehearsal happening on Main Stage.

The actors’ voices float up to us, barely heard through the thick, tinted glass that separates the booth from the stage.

“Cute,” I say. And it is. Seeing Ian in his element is endearing to me, but I also know what it’s like to need to focus. “Should I let you get back to it?”

I don’t want him to. I want his attention. I crave it in a way that I haven’t with people I’ve liked in the past. What Ian gives isn’t just generous; it’s genuine. He’s the kind of person who doesn’t half-ass anything, and since that night at the bowling alley, I’ve been feeling the full weight of his attention. More than anyone else in my life, I feel like he sees me—like, really sees me. I’ve been trying to ignore it, to shrug it off, but I feel it even when he’s not near me. Like the way your ears burn when someone is talking about you, I carry Ian’s attention in my bones.

It’s unfamiliar and unnerving.

Everything about the way he makes me feel unsettles me. And there are only two ways that I know how to handle feelings like this. Most people say “fight or flight.” I like to call it “fuck or flight.” I’m either going to run, to push him away and keep him at arm’s length, or I’m going to pull him closer. Physically. To vent my feelings the way other people might go to the gym and beat a punching bag until they run out of anger.

“I got a lot done earlier tonight,” he says, not fully answering my question.

“Oh, so . . . you’re free then?” I say, mischief in my voice. I raise my eyebrows at him, slide my hands down his arms, and take his hands in mine to drag him with me as I walk toward the door. “So we could . . . go somewhere . . .”

There’s heavy implication in my voice. He seems to understand. The corners of his mouth tick up in a devilish grin, and unlike the first time we tried to hook up, this Ian looks hungry at the idea of it.

I lean against the door and clutch at the fabric of his shirt, moving him toward me until his body is flush against mine, all his sharp edges against my curves. He wastes no time in putting his mouth to mine, kissing me like a starved man having his first meal in days.

We kiss against the door like teenagers; like we’re sixteen and just discovered kissing. We kiss like we’re pressed for time; like any minute we’ll be forced apart and this is our only chance. We kiss like this is what sustains us. Not oxygen, not water, just his lips and mine.

When his hand slides up my shirt, his fingers skimming my rib cage, I arch my back, pressing myself against him. He leans his body weight into me, the hard door against my back giving me nowhere to go.

As much as I love this—and I do—I already know I want more, and standing against this door isn’t the way I want to do this. I’ve hooked up with people in the theater before. I know all the best places for it.

“Let’s go to the dressing rooms,” I say, drawing lazy loops on his chest with the tip of my finger. It’s arguably one of the hottest places to hook up in the building. I would know.

Groping blindly behind me, I reach for the handle, but Ian’s hand covers mine, and I still.

“This door locks,” he says, his lips hovering over mine.

The click of the lock sends a chill down my spine.

Holy shit.

When I look up at him, all I see in his eyes is a desire so hot it’s molten. He skates his fingers along my jaw and down my neck, resting his hand over my collarbone. He brushes his lips against mine—the softest, most gentle kiss I’ve ever felt. Once. Twice. The third kiss is less docile, more insistent. It’s got all the heat that was in his eyes, and a hunger that’s been waiting just a little too long to be satisfied.

I gather a fistful of his shirt again and lean toward him, forcing him to walk backward. We stop kissing just long enough for me to guide him back toward the counter. Before the backs of his legs hit the counter, I turn us, the edge of the counter digging into the backs of my thighs instead. I release him for long enough to hop onto the counter and pray it’ll hold me, although, truthfully, I don’t care if we break the goddamn thing.

“You know, I always thought this would be a great place to hook up,” Ian murmurs, sliding his hands over my thighs, up my hips and waist, to my rib cage. He dips his head, placing a soft kiss on my collarbone, then the spot between my collarbone and my neck, then the sensitive spot right at the base of my neck. I catch the fruity smell of his shampoo as I thread my fingers through his hair, shivering at the drag of his lips along the side of my neck.

This is exactly what I needed: to get lost completely in the sensation of his mouth on my skin, his fingers leaving dents on my ribs, the press of my chest against his as I arch into him while he drags his teeth against a sensitive spot on my neck, sucking just enough for me to feel it, but not enough to leave any evidence.

“More,” I say—less of a word and more of a groan. I couldn’t give a shit about hickeys.

He sucks harder, teeth finding purchase. It hovers the line between pain and pleasure. A line I don’t mind flirting with.

“That’s going to leave a mark,” he says as he pulls back, his puffy lips forming a sly smile.

“Good,” I say. “Let them see.”

He kisses me then, but it’s more like a claiming. It’s a declaration that everything his mouth touches, everything his hands touch, belongs to him. I’m a goddamn feminist, but right now, Ian can have whatever he wants.

As we kiss, his hands move under my top to my breasts, pulling the cups of my bra down to find my nipples. There’s an urgency to the way he does this, like a hound that’s been released, eager for its moment.

“Oh my god,” I say against his mouth, but the words are more like moans, and the effect of his touch is immediate. My pussy throbs, begging for more. I can’t believe it’s taken so little to get me so wet.

He breaks our kiss only to find my neck again, sucking and kissing and driving me wild. He teases my nipples, rolling them between his fingers, caressing them with his fingertips until I can’t take it anymore.

I reach for the button on his jeans, popping it open and starting for the zipper, but he stops me, covering my hands with his own.

He doesn’t say anything, but he moves my hands back, setting them on the counter, making it clear that he’s in charge. He boxes me in, brushing his lips over my jaw. Our bodies are connected from chest to hips, pressed against each other, and I’m more turned on than I’ve been in a long time.

Ian’s eyes dart past me, out the glass, where the faint sounds of rehearsal can still be heard.

“You know the booth has tinted glass,” he says, one of his hands making its way up my thigh so slowly I have a renewed understanding of the term “sexual frustration.”

Just touch me already, goddamn it.

“Mm-hmm . . .” I make a noise so he knows I heard him. His neck is an inch from my mouth, close enough to just . . .

I brush my lips over his jaw at the spot just under his ear. A noise escapes from the back of his throat, encouraging me. I do it again—for my own enjoyment and for his.

“But someone could see if they looked hard enough,” he says, his voice strained.

Something about this sends pleasure signals through all of me. Little sparks of excitement burst under my skin, and I grip his hips, crushing him against me. The hand he’s been sliding up my thigh pauses right at the top, squeezing hard enough that I’ll look for small, fingerprint-shaped bruises tomorrow.

“It’s soundproof too,” he says, and his breath catches as I sweep my hand over the front of his jeans, curiosity ever knocking at my door. It’s no surprise that I find him hard, his jeans straining and tight. What is a surprise is how much of him there is even through his jeans. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t that. I want to take him in my hand and stroke him until he forgets anyone else who touched him before me, but I think he’ll move my hand away if I try, so I settle for my over-the-clothes exploration.

“Soundproof. Really?” I murmur against his neck. I feel drunk on this man, on his woodshop and Old Spice scent, on the way his skin feels against my lips. The way his breath catches as I kiss his neck, tongue and teeth, is more intoxicating than any drink I’ve ever had.

“So you can be as loud as you want,” he murmurs as his hand crawls the last few inches to the part of me I’m most desperate for him to touch. He strokes a knuckle over the front of my thong to find me soaked, and the way he bites his lip and leans his forehead against my shoulder tells me he likes what he found. He does it again, and those small movements send such a rush through me—a wave of pleasure so delicious I don’t even fight the moan it elicits from me.

He kisses me, taking that noise into his mouth. And when he moves the lace aside to slide his finger along my opening, I worry my heart is beating too hard, that I might pass out, because it all feels too good. Every movement, every stroke and graze, sends blossoms of pleasure to every corner of my body. There isn’t an inch of me that doesn’t feel the expert movements he’s making. It’s all too much, and it’s building to something that’s going to make me lose myself.

I start to unzip his jeans again, needing an outlet for my own desire, but with his free hand he plucks my hand away, setting it back on the counter.

“Ladies first,” he says with an authority I’ve never seen in him but find so deeply attractive that I do what he says. A smile flits across his lips, and then he’s studying me, his eyes drinking me in. “You are so fucking gorgeous,” he says, holding my gaze as he slides a finger inside.

I groan, forgetting anything but the feel of him inside of me. I cover my mouth, suddenly remembering we’re not entirely alone, but Ian looks unfazed.

“It’s soundproof,” he reminds me. “But even if it wasn’t . . . let them hear.”

We’re both panting, soft moans punctuated by kisses as he pumps a finger in and out of me, circling my clit with his thumb. He presses his forehead against mine, eyes closed, and I take the opportunity to watch him.

Pleasure is written all over his face—the one language I have no trouble reading. He looks like he’s the one close to an orgasm; like he’s enjoying touching me as much as I’m enjoying being touched. There’s something else on his face too, though, that I can’t quite read, but he opens his eyes, and my secret study of him is over.

He slides a second finger inside of me, eliciting another, louder noise from me, and I clutch his arm, certain that any second now I’m going to tip right over the edge. But I don’t want to finish like this. I want to finish with him inside me. My need is a fuse barreling toward explosives, and despite being scolded last time, I reach for him again—but Ian is quick. He swivels his hips and steps back, taking his hand with him. I gasp as his fingers leave me, the sudden absence of him a shock to my system.

“Uh-uh,” he chides. “I said . . .”—he leans close, his lips almost touching mine—“ladies first.”

He takes my hands in his and steps back, pulling me off the counter. The moment my feet touch the floor, he spins me, holding me to him with my back against his chest, one hand pinning me to him by my hip. Gathering my skirt, he hands it to me, and I hold it up while bracing myself against the counter. He wastes no time, pulling aside the fabric of my thong again to stroke me with two fingers.

“Oh my god, Ian.”

I can’t figure out where my surprise ends and where the pure ecstasy of this moment begins. He knows exactly where to touch me and finds the right pressure and speed without my having to guide him. His fingers stroke my swollen, aching clit, while his other hand slides up my body and into my bra. Taking one of my nipples in his fingers, he pinches and circles it, doubling my pleasure.

I can’t control my breathing at this point, and if I was even the slightest bit self-conscious, I don’t know if I could enjoy this moment. I’m entirely at his mercy. Putty in his hands. I’m close to my climax, and I think he can tell, because he slows down.

“Are you watching me touch you?” he asks, his lips right against my ear. The lighting from outside the booth creates a mirror effect on the glass, and facing away from him, I don’t just see the actors onstage—I can also see Ian and myself. It’s so fucking hot, watching him work me in multiple places just to bring me to the end of my pleasure. The only things I can manage right now are the sounds of pleasure he’s coaxing out of me and a weak nod of my head. We make eye contact in the glass, our reflections just barely there, and for a second, everything else disappears. It’s just me and Ian and his hands and my pleasure, and if I had it my way, I’d stretch this moment out far past its limits.

There’s a loud bang and some laughter onstage, and both Ian and I tense, freezing. I’d forgotten there were people down there. Our peers and our classmates are mere feet from me and Ian, and once again I find myself in the position of potentially getting caught. The idea should scare me. It should have me straightening my clothes and getting the hell out of Dodge. But for some reason, the idea of getting caught with Ian like this just sends a throb of desire through me.

“Keep going,” I say quietly.

He slides his hand out of my shirt and moves it up my chest. For a second, I think he’s going to cover my mouth, like maybe he got spooked by the noises onstage. But his hand comes to rest over my neck, his fingers draped against my vocal cords and my pulse as if to amplify my noise. As if maybe he’s as thrilled by the idea of getting caught as I am.

His fingers work faster, a little harder, and my moans grow bolder. He buries his face into my neck, and I gasp as his teeth sink into a sensitive spot.

“Jade,” he murmurs against my skin, and that’s all it takes for me. I’m over the edge, not caring who hears me say his name wrapped in pleasure.

He slows his strokes, teasing me still, riding out my orgasm to the very end. Then Ian moves his hands to envelop me in a hug, holding me against him as I catch my breath.

I close my eyes, leaning my head back against his shoulder. “Holy shit.”

He smiles against my skin as he presses a kiss to the top of my shoulder.

I turn, still in his arms, to rest my hands on his hips and take him in. He’s flushed like he’s the one who just climaxed in the stage manager’s booth, and there’s a delightful brightness to his smile. His boxers still cover his boner, and even as I eye it, ready to reciprocate, he zips his jeans, tucking himself away.

“Hey, what if I wanted to return the favor?” I ask and reach for his jeans.

He takes my hands in his. “Then you can do it another time. But I like to take things slow, and I have a feeling you don’t let yourself receive as often as you give,” he says, taking a seat on the stool but staying close enough to me that he can keep holding my hands.

“Yes, I do. I love to receive,” I say. And it’s true, but it’s not the whole truth. I generally feel obligated to reciprocate as well, especially with men. Ian might be one of the first men to reject my offer.

He raises his eyebrows at me, seeing through me. Seeing the things I’m not saying.

Seeing me.

He looks at me in the way that scares me, and it takes me a second, but I realize something that scares me even more. What I’m seeing in Ian’s face is a mirror, his desire reflecting my own. His feelings reflecting my own.

“You hungry?” he asks, and I nod, but it’s hard to tell if I really am hungry or if the ache I feel deep in my gut is a knowing that I’m in way too deep with Ian and that even if I did run, it might be too late.

I thought I could vent my feelings for him by being physical, maybe release some of them like a balloon losing air, and I see now it’s done the opposite of what I wanted. Somehow, this experience has brought us closer, and the instinct to get out feels near impossible to resist.

If it were anyone else, I’d grab my things as quickly as I dropped them and say an even quicker goodbye. I’d text him tomorrow and call it a day on this, whatever it is, and go through all my levels of sadness as I mourn what could have been.

But I’m still his scene partner. I still have to see him at rehearsal. I can’t leave yet, and now I fear I’ve made an uncalculated error.

What scares me the most is there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to leave at all. The small voice asking if this time we can stay, because maybe Ian is a safe place for us to land.

It should feel like a promise. Like hope, like joy.

But it doesn’t.

It feels like a threat.