They might not be there, and I’ll be spending Christmas without them for the first time in twenty-eight years.
My birthday is this week too. I absently wonder if I’ll miss that with them as well.
But as we stand, Jasper squeezes my hand and draws me close. And nothing in the world has ever felt more right.
I can’t have them but I have him. And the more time I spend living my own life, the more I think that’s an okay trade to make.
Jasper is worth it.
32
Jasper
Beau: Dad just told me you paid four times face value for a front row ticket to see Sloane dance. They pay y’all too much to run around on ice wearing blades.
Jasper: It’s an investment.
Beau: In what?
Jasper: Us.
Beau: Oh, dude. You’re so far gone.
Jasper: You’re such a dork.
Beau: Only you would have waited this long. I almost feel bad she had to fall for someone as slow to process as you. Do they give Olympic medals for patience? You could give her yours.
Jasper: You know what her dickhead of a dad said to me.
Beau: Yeah. But that was then. That guy ain’t shit sharp now. You’re Jasper fucking Gervais. Olympic gold medalist. Future Stanley Cup Champion. Sports Illustrated cover model material. Cousin fucker.
Jasper: I am really glad you’re alive. But I also hate you.
Beau: Hate you too, bro.
Sloane is incredible. She weaves magic on stage.
I’ve come to know her body well over the last couple of months, but I’m still in awe of the way she moves, the attention to detail. From the tips of her toes to the very ends of her fingers, she’s in perfect control of every movement without even trying.
She’s stepped into this role and made it look effortless beyond compare. She leaps across the stage and lands so softly, and from the front row, I feel like I’m right there with her.
In the moment . . . oblivious to the ornate theater and every person around me.
But she’s always had this effect on me. The ability to pull me out of my head just by chatting, or dancing, or resting a hand on my shoulder.
It’s like she and I are tethered together, but she’s the strong one. The pillar. And when troubled waters wash me downstream, all I have to do is follow the rope that ties me back to her.
It always leads me back to her.
Getting to watch her do something she loves from the front row rather than back in the nosebleeds is something special. The spot where her tattoo sits itches, and I press my arm against it.
I missed her first one, but I wouldn’t miss the rest if I could help it, even if it means a grown-ass man sitting by himself in the front row at the ballet.
Seems like the least I could endure for her.
Because I love having her at my games, and I know she must feel the same. When the dancers line up to take their final bows, her eyes find mine and a heart-stopping grin spreads out over her captivating face.
And I realize it then . . . I’d do anything to see this girl smile.
The minute the velvet curtain closes, I’m up, striding left toward a side door that leads backstage where she told me to wait for her. Except I don’t wait.
I can’t wait.
I push right through that swinging door, fingers itching to touch her, chest aching to have her head rest against it, and cock swelling after so long stuck watching her tight fucking body glide around on stage.
It’s a good thing I didn’t watch her dance much when she first joined this company. I wouldn’t have been able to keep my hands off her, and now I just don’t care.
Now I know my hands belong on her.
“Can you tell me where Sloane Winthrop is?” I ask a woman walking down the dim hallway with a clipboard in her hand, glasses shoved up on the top of her head.
She looks me up and down with a blank expression on her face. “Who’s asking?”
I hesitate but only for a minute. “Her boyfriend.”
She looks me over again, this time more slowly, but with a little twist to her lips. “Huh. Well, good for her. She’s down that way.” The woman turns and points to the area from which she came. “Left when you hit the end and then all the way down that hallway. Last door on the right.”
I offer her a chagrined smile, knowing there must have been talk while Sloane and I were away. They announced her wedding to Sterling in the newspaper. Her colleagues would have known—maybe they even know him.
“Thanks.” I nod my head and pass the woman, sensing her gaze on me as I head down the hallway. Backstage is a flurry of activity. Dancers are everywhere in the hallways, laughing and chatting. I hear the pop of a champagne bottle as they unwind for a Christmas break.
Turning left, I feel the tug. The pull to Sloane. After years of denying myself the pleasure of her proximity, my body has lost all patience with me and desperately wants to be close to her.
My knuckles rap against the door labeled with Sugarplum Fairy.
“Just a second!” Sloane’s voice only ratchets up the tension in my body, and when she finally swings the door open, I’m on her.
My hand lands on her throat, my lips crashing against hers as I tower over her. She tenses momentarily, clearly caught by surprise, but it doesn’t take her long to catch up. Her hands slide up the arms of my suit jacket as I walk her backward into the dressing room, kicking the door shut behind us.
I turn her instantly, shoving her up against the wall beside the door. Because we’re just not getting any further than this right now.
She looked too good. There were too many eyes on her. More than just mine. And I’m feeling a little untethered and a lot territorial.
“Hi, Jas,” she huffs out playfully against my lips, but all I offer back is a low growl as I take her mouth again. My hands slide into the thin cotton robe she has wrapped around her slender body. After a few wellplaced tugs, it’s gone, pooling at her feet on the floor where it belongs.
“You were perfect,” I breathe, gaze raking over her. Wide eyes and heaving chest. Flimsy bodysuit over tights. Slippers off. Ornate costume gone.
“Yeah?”
“Yes.” I thumb the thin strap of her bodysuit before tugging it down, letting it hang off her toned arm. “You stole the show. Every eye in the house was on you.”
She laughs, and my thumb shoots up to press against her lips, silencing her. “I’m not joking. Everyone was staring at what’s mine.”
Her mouth pops open under the pad of my thumb. I smile and tilt my head into her neck, running the tip of my nose up the sloping curve. “And now I want to take it back. Remind you who you belong to.”
She lets out a small gasp as I drop to my knees in front of her, jerk the bodysuit to the side, and use my fingers to rip a hole in the flimsy tights.
I push a finger in and her pussy clenches in surprise.
She’s not ready yet, but she will be.
I tear the hole open wider and then tug one leg up over my shoulder, watching her spread for me as she whimpers and drops her fingers into my hair. I dive in with one long, slow lick. She squirms against my tongue.
“Who does this belong to, Sloane?”
“You, you, you,” she chants breathlessly, and when I glance up, she’s tossed her head back in ecstasy. Already so fucking gone for me.
Me.
I lift her opposite leg to my shoulder so she’s straddling my face as I push her into the wall—one hand splayed across her stomach to hold her in place, and the other wrapped around her right thigh, fingers digging in hard.