Play It Again Page 2

  “Look, I get why you don’t trust me. If I was in your position, I wouldn’t trust me, either. All I’m asking is that you give me a chance to be brave. Like you.” He takes another step back and jams his hands in his pockets. “Meet me tomorrow night. Lincoln Center. I’ve got tickets to Giselle. The show starts at 8:00. I’ll be waiting by the fountain.”

  Without another word, he turns on his heel and takes off down the alleyway, leaving me hard, horny, and totally off-balance.

  Chapter 2

  Chris

  I’ve performed in front of thousands of people all over the world. Danced the Prince in Nureyev’s Sleeping Beauty at the Palais Garnier. Even nailed the hauntingly beautiful—and extraordinarily difficult—pas de deux from the third act of Don Quixote at the White House. And not once—not even performing for the leader of the free world and his entire family—did I have stage fright. An adrenaline rush? Sure. But nothing even close to the sheer, unadulterated, almost crippling panic I feel now, standing next to the Revson Fountain in the middle of Josie Robertson Plaza in my teal, wool-blend Tom Ford suit, waiting for the guy I’m pretty sure I’ve loved since I was eighteen.

  I check my watch for the hundredth time. Only fifteen minutes until curtain, and the crowd outside the Metropolitan Opera House is getting thinner by the second. If David doesn’t show up soon, I’m going to have no choice but to go in without him.

  Fuck. I’m an idiot. I can’t even text him, since I was too busy making a big, dramatic exit to remember to ask for his cell number.

  Goddamn drama queen.

  But I can send him a Facebook message. If he hasn’t blocked me after I practically mauled him yesterday. You’d think I never kissed a guy before. Which, of course, I haven’t. Except for that one time. With him.

  I pull out my phone and shoot him a quick—and I hope not too desperate-sounding—message. When I’m done, I close the app and glance at the time on the screen. Five more minutes have ticked by. Time to head inside.

  Alone.

  “Nice suit.” David’s voice makes my head snap up and my pulse stutter. “Made it easy to spot you.”

  An intoxicating mix of relief and euphoria floods my veins. He’s here, my heart sings. He came.

  “What can I say?” I tug at the cuff of my jacket, suddenly wishing I’d gone with my more traditional navy Hugo Boss. “I like to stand out in a crowd.”

  “You always did.” He blushes. “Stand out, that is.”

  “Thanks. I think.” I take a second to study him. He looks good, too, in a pair of pale blue linen pants and a simple, classic white button-down. He’s tried to tame his normal mess of dark curls, and while the end result isn’t entirely successful, I’m touched that he made the effort for me. At least, my foolish heart hopes it’s for me, and not the ballet.

  The ballet. My eyes dart to the main entrance of the theater, where the last few stragglers are rushing to get inside before the lights dim. “We should go in. The show’s about to start.”

  “Sorry.” He blushes again. I’d forgotten how easily he did that. And how fucking adorable it is. “The 1 train was running late.”

  “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

  “I almost wasn’t,” he admits as we start toward the theater. “I changed my mind about a thousand times in the past twenty-four hours.”

  “So what was the deciding factor?” We’re walking side by side, stride for stride, and my hand aches to reach for his. I shove it into my pocket instead, not because I’m afraid of guy-on-guy PDA but because I’m determined to take things slower than I did last night. To wait for David to make the next move, follow his cues. “My charm? My good looks?”

  “Neither. It was something you said in the alley.”

  I hand over our tickets to a smiling older woman in a red vest and a “Live, Love, Ballet” pin who directs us to a staircase on our left and tells us to enjoy the show.

  “What did I say?” I ask as we head up the stairs to the balcony.

  “I guess it wasn’t so much what you said, it was what you did. You took a risk. Came all the way here. Apologized. Asked me out. I figured the least I could do is give you the same consideration.”

  “Ask me out?” I tease, knowing that’s not what he means. “Spoiler alert: my answer is yes.”

  He laughs, and it sends ripples of warmth through my body. I’ve always loved David’s laugh. Easy. Hearty. Infectious. David’s the guy you want in the audience at a comedy club, the one whose rich, booming laughter gets everyone else going.

  But this laugh is different. It’s softer and sweeter. More importantly, it tells me that, as nervous as he is about this date, he’s starting to relax. And that’s what I want. David to relax so we can get past this awkward are-we-or-aren’t-we stage.

  Because if I have any say in it, we are. We totally are.

  “No, take a risk,” he says, his eyes suddenly serious, their intensity a stark contrast to his laughter. “Give you a chance, like you said. It’s only a date, right? We’re not talking lifetime commitment. Hearts and flowers and all the crap.”

  “Right,” I agree, mentally crossing my fingers behind my back for lying. Every relationship has to start somewhere, right? Or restart, given that ours began almost ten years ago. “Only a date.”

  “One date,” David repeats, as if he’s trying to convince himself of something. “How hard can that be?”

  Oh, it can be hard. In fact, it’s getting harder by the second.

  I pull my mind out of the gutter and show our tickets to the usher, who points us to our seats. We’re in a box on the far left, about twenty feet above the stage. Not the best view if sight lines are your primary concern. But if privacy is your objective—like it is for me—then these are the best seats in the house, off to the side and hidden from view by a heavy red velvet curtain.

  “These are ours,” I say, taking one seat and gesturing for David to sit in the other.

  He sits down beside me just as the lights dim. There’s no more talking for a while—as fellow artists, we know better than to commit that breach of theater etiquette—but about halfway through the first act, right at the point where Albrecht and Giselle do their pas de deux, I feel David’s thigh brush against mine.

  It’s the slightest of touches, but it stops my breath in my throat. It’s a good thing I know this ballet by heart because all my attention has shifted to the man next to me. The way his untamable hair spills into his gorgeous gray-green eyes. The sexy thump of his pulse at the hollow where his neck meets his collarbone. The rise and fall of his chest, in time with Adolphe Adam’s music.

  I don’t know why I thought it would be a good idea to be confined in close quarters with him for almost three hours. Just the two of us. Alone. In the damn dark. I just wanted to be near him, our private box a bubble, insulating us from the rest of the world while we watched one of the most romantic ballets ever created. Kind of our own Pretty Woman moment.

  But this? It’s torture. Fucking torture. I don’t know how Richard Gere managed to keep his hands off Julia Roberts in that box at La Traviata.

  David’s thigh brushes mine again, but this time it stays there. Heat burns through two layers of fabric. A second later, his hand is on mine, too, warm and solid and steadying, even as it makes my heart rate kick up a notch.

  I’m hyper aware of him now. Giselle can go jump in a goddamn lake for all I care. The only thing that matters is David. That he’s here. That he’s touching me. That after all the years and all the miles between us, we’ve managed to get to this place, this point.

  I can’t erase those years. And I don’t want to. They’ve shaped the man I am. Changed me. Matured me. I’m sure they’ve done the same for David. But the miles—that’s something I’m hoping I can change.

  Not that I’m sharing that with David. At least, not yet. I don’t want to scare him off. He’s thinking one date. He doesn’t need to know my mind’s skipped way the hell ahead of that. I didn’t take a red-eye
cross-country for one date. Or even for some between-the-sheets action, although I’m sure as fuck not going to object if we wind up naked and sweaty. I’m already up to the damn hearts and flowers he dismissed so casually.

  Baby steps, Casanova. Baby steps.

  His fingers thread through mine, and he turns his head to catch me staring at him. I should be embarrassed but I’m not because the hunger in his eyes matches what I’m sure is reflected in my own. It’s real. Raw. Almost a living, breathing thing, pulsing between us.

  “Shouldn’t you be watching the ballet?” he whispers, his eyes not leaving mine.

  “Shouldn’t you?” I hold his gaze. The pulsing is so strong it physically hurts a little. But at the same time, it feels so good. Good to know the attraction isn’t one-sided. That the zing we had in college is still there, at least on some level.

  “This is your party,” he says, his tongue stealing out to moisten his lips. “You’re the dancer.”

  Cheeks scorching, I fight the urge to throw my high-minded notion to wait for David to make the first move out the window. It’s the lip licking. It’s like an open invitation to plant my mouth on his. But I’ve been there, done that last night, and I want tonight to end differently. So I tear my eyes off those infuriatingly tempting, way-too-kissable lips and stick to my game plan.

  “I’ve seen Giselle. I’d rather watch you.”

  “Creeper.”

  The word would hurt if it wasn’t for the smile that accompanies it, reaching out and enveloping me through the darkness. I’m strangely content, cocooned in a haze of sweet sexual tension—until he slips his fingers from mine.

  My body screams in protest at the loss of contact, but it’s not screaming for long. His hand moves to my thigh, slowly inching toward the growing bulge between my legs until it’s only centimeters from my dick. It twitches in anticipation, and I silently will him to wrap those long, nimble pianist’s fingers around it and stroke. Pump. Squeeze. Something, anything to relieve this pressure, this ache that only he can satisfy.

  It’s decadent. Dangerous. I know some people get off on public sex. The risk of getting caught gives them a thrill. It’s never been my thing, but I’m starting to see the appeal.

  “Please,” I hiss just as the lights come up and he jerks his hand back.

  Fuck. Intermission.

  “Intermission,” he says, echoing my thoughts. He stands abruptly, almost falling over himself in his rush to escape the box. “Bathroom break. Be right back.”

  He disappears through the curtains and I’m left stewing in uncertainty, my cock at half-mast and still throbbing. Did he mean it when he said he’d be right back? Or did he cut and run? I don’t know whether to follow him and make sure he’s okay or give him some space to figure things out on his own.

  I’m not a fucking mind reader, unfortunately, so there are no easy answers. I’m just going to have to trust my gut. And my gut’s telling me to go after him—as soon as my damn dick calms down and I’m not sporting a woody.

  I adjust my fly and try some surefire erection killers. Like counting to one hundred by threes. Reciting the preamble to the Constitution. Picturing my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Bindus, naked. But I’m still hard as a steel pipe when the curtains part and David waltzes through.

  “Here.” He tosses me a pack of candy. “I saw these at the concession stand and thought of you.”

  I flip it over in my hand and smile. “Gummy worms?”

  He shrugs and sits. “They’re your favorite, right?”

  “Yeah.” I clear my throat. I’m getting choked up. Over a bag of fruit-flavored gelatin shaped like invertebrates. Could I be any more pathetic? “I can’t believe you remembered.”

  “How could I forget? You practically lived on them. Your mom used to send them to you in bulk.” He glances down at my lap, where my cock is still straining against my zipper, and swallows hard. Damn, even his Adam’s apple is sexy. “Did I do that?”

  My first instinct is to try to hide my obvious erection, but I stop myself. No use denying his effect on me when the evidence is staring him in the face. I rip open the bag of gummies, pop a green one in my mouth, and hold the bag out to David. “I guess some things haven’t changed since college.”

  “Since college?” he echoes, waving off the candy.

  I hunt through the bag for an orange one—they’re the best, no matter what anyone else says—and slurp it down. “Yeah. I might not have wanted to admit it back then, but I had a huge-ass crush on you. I used to stalk the practice rooms, hoping to run into you.”

  “No way.”

  “Way.”

  “All this time I thought it was my music you liked.” He gives me a shy smile that fades as quickly as it appears. “I mean, that one time we kissed, you couldn’t get away fast enough. And the next week at graduation, Sonja had a ring on her finger.”

  Yeah. Not my finest hour. I force myself to look right at him, so he can see the sincerity in my eyes when I apologize. Again. Not that I mind. I’ll apologize a hundred times over if that’s what it takes for him to trust me. “That was a dick move. I was afraid of what I was feeling. So I took the easy way out. Or what seemed like the easy way at the time.”

  But denying my sexual orientation had been anything but easy. Eventually it became impossible, and denying changed to hiding. Lying. Sneaking around. Jerking off to gay porn when Sonja was out with her girlfriends. Surfing Grindr on my cell phone, half wishing I could work up the nerve to do more than just scroll through the profiles of guys looking to hook up. It was like living two separate lives—one public, the other private, neither satisfying.

  “I get it.” David shrugs and steals a gummy. “You weren’t ready to come out. Maybe you’re still not ready. It’s a personal decision. One only you can make.”

  I reach across the armrest and grab his hand. Even though I’m pretty sure no one can see it, there’s something about the gesture that seems important. Emotionally charged. A sign of wanting to be close, and not just in a sexual way. “If I wasn’t ready, I wouldn’t be here.”

  The lights flicker, signaling that intermission is almost over and the second act is about to begin. Dammit. Just as our conversation is getting good. Talk about shitty timing.

  I suck down one last worm and fold the bag over. I’m sticking it into my inside jacket pocket when David leans closer and whispers in my ear, his hot breath caressing my skin.

  “Do you want to get out of here?”

  Cue the goose bumps.

  A muscle tics in my jaw. “Don’t you want to know what happens to Albrecht and Giselle?”

  “You can fill me in on the cab ride.” He stands, holding out a hand to me. I take it almost reflexively, and he yanks me to my feet. His grip is sure and strong and warm, steadying my shaky nerves.

  “What cab ride?” I ask, my voice thick.

  He weaves his fingers between mine, making it impossible for me to pull away. If I wanted to. Which I don’t.

  “To my place.”

  Chapter 3

  David

  This is either the best move I’ve ever made or the stupidest. It’s sure as fuck the boldest. No risk, no reward, I remind myself as Chris hails a cab, which pulls to a stop at the curb in front of us.

  “514 East 5th Street, please,” I instruct the cabbie as I slide into the back seat.

  “The Village?” Chris slides in next to me and pulls the door shut. “Sweet.”

  It is. My tiny, third-floor walk-up is nothing fancy, but it’s mine. No roommate. No hour-long commute from Brooklyn. It’s taken me almost five years and more auditions, self-tapes, and resume drop-offs than I can count to get to this point. I may not have hit the big time yet, but I’m busting my ass to get there, and I’m working steadily enough to afford the exorbitant Manhattan rent for the first time since moving to the Big Apple.

  I wonder if that’s why I suggested we go to my place and not Chris’s hotel room. To show Chris what a good catch I am. That I may not be a wo
rld-traveled danseur noble, but I’ve done okay for myself. That I’m worthy of him, as worthy as any of the handsome, hard-bodied dancers he works with on a daily basis.

  If only I believed that myself.

  “You got awfully quiet,” he says, biting his lip. Fuck, that’s sexy. My dick feels heavy and full. “Having second thoughts?”

  “No.” I put a palm on his forearm and squeeze. Touching him, even somewhere as innocuous as his arm, feels good. Feels right. I want this—us—so bad, I literally ache for it. “Far from it.”

  “Thank fuck. You scared me for a minute there.”

  My hand glides up to his shoulder. His muscles are tight, hard knots under my fingers. “Damn, you’re tense. Sure you’re not the one with second thoughts?”

  “Hell, no.” He does that sexy lip biting thing again. Now my cock’s like a goddamn lead weight in my pants. “Just nervous.”

  “Well, you can’t smoke to calm yourself down this time,” I say, half teasing. “It’s against the law in New York City cabs. But maybe I can do something to help you relax.”

  “Oh, yeah?” His shy smile turns seductive and his eyes get heavy-lidded and dark with desire. “Like what?”

  I know where his dirty mind is going, but I’m not quite there yet. Okay, that’s a lie. I’m there, but I don’t want to rush things. It’s his first time. With a guy, that is. It should be special. Something he’ll never forget. Whatever happens after tonight, at least I can give him that. And me, if I’m honest. I like knowing that even if I’m not his last, I’ll always be his first.

  “Turn around.”

  He blinks, confused. “Huh?”

  “You heard me. Turn around.”

  He does, and I put both my hands on his shoulders, grip them hard, and dig in with my thumbs, working out the stiffness in his neck and upper back.

  He groans and lets his head fall onto his chest. “Not exactly where I thought this was going, but . . .”