Page 46 of The Drama King (The University Players Duet #1)
thirty-two
Dorian
The costume made everything worse.
I stood in the wings, adjusting the doublet that fit like a second skin, and watched Vespera transform into Beatrice on the other side of the stage.
The period dress—deep burgundy velvet with a corset that emphasized every curve—should have been another theatrical element.
Instead, it was driving me slowly insane.
For weeks, I'd maintained control. Played the long game, used rehearsals to systematically break down her defenses while keeping my own composure intact. But seeing her in costume, seeing her embody the role so completely, was unraveling every carefully laid plan.
She moved differently as Beatrice. More confident, more sensual, like the character gave her permission to be everything she normally suppressed.
And her scent—fuck, her scent had been getting stronger for days now, bleeding through whatever inferior blockers she was using, calling to something primal in my hindbrain that had nothing to do with strategy.
"Places for Act Two," the stage manager called.
This was it: the full dress rehearsal, our final run-through before opening night. Everything had to be perfect, professional, controlled. But as Vespera took her position across the stage, the burgundy velvet making her skin glow in the stage lights, I felt something snap inside my chest.
Want. Raw, desperate, consuming want that had been building for months and was finally threatening to destroy everything.
The masquerade scene was torture.
Wells had choreographed it as an elaborate dance, couples moving in intricate patterns while masked and disguised. The perfect metaphor for hidden desires, secret attractions, the games people played when they thought their identities were concealed.
But there was nothing concealed about what I felt when Vespera's gloved hand touched mine.
The dance required us to move in unison, bodies close, her hand in mine and my arm around her waist. Professional contact, nothing more than the blocking demanded.
But every touch sent fire through my nervous system, every breath brought more of her scent, and I could feel my control slipping with each step.
"You dance divinely, my lord," she said, the line delivered with Beatrice's teasing edge.
"As do you, my lady." My voice came out rougher than intended. "Though I wonder what lies beneath your mask."
It wasn't the scripted line, but she didn't break character. If anything, her eyes sparkled with the challenge, and I caught a spike in her scent that made my Alpha instincts roar with satisfaction.
"Perhaps more than you bargain for," she improvised back, letting her fingers trail across my chest as the choreography separated us.
The touch was brief, professional, completely within the bounds of the blocking. But it left me burning, desperate for more, fighting every instinct that demanded I pull her against me and claim her mouth in front of the entire cast.
The scene continued, other couples moving around us, but all I could focus on was her.
The way the corset made her breath come faster during the more energetic passages.
How her eyes never left mine even when the dance spun her away.
The flush in her cheeks that had nothing to do with exertion and everything to do with the tension crackling between us.
When the scene ended and we took our positions for the next act, I was practically vibrating with need.
Every professional instinct screamed at me to maintain distance, to stick to the plan, to keep playing the long game.
But one look at Vespera—breathing hard, lips parted, her scent thick with arousal she couldn't hide—and I knew the game had changed.
This wasn't about strategy anymore. This was about claiming what was mine before I lost my fucking mind.
The breaking point came during Act Four.
The church scene—the one we'd rehearsed dozens of times, the moment where Beatrice and Benedick finally admitted their feelings. But tonight, in costume, with opening night hours away and weeks of sexual tension reaching critical mass, it felt different.
Dangerous.
"I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest," Vespera said, the words trembling with emotion that had nothing to do with acting.
I was supposed to deliver Benedick's next line, but for a moment I couldn't speak. She was looking at me with such raw vulnerability, such genuine feeling, that every carefully maintained barrier between character and reality crumbled.
"Say it again," I said, the words ripped from somewhere deep in my chest.
"Dorian..." Her voice was uncertain, confused, but I could smell the spike in her arousal.
"Say it again." I moved closer, close enough to see her pulse hammering in her throat. "Tell me you love me."
"I..." She glanced around, suddenly aware that we'd broken script, that the other actors were watching with confusion. "We should—"
"Tell me," I growled, my voice dropping to something dangerous, possessive.
For a heartbeat, she looked like she might. Her lips parted, her breath coming faster, her scent flooding the air with want and confusion and something that smelled achingly like submission.
Then Wells's voice cut through the moment.
"Excellent improvisation, but let's stick to the script for dress rehearsal. From 'Come, bid me do anything for thee.'"
The spell broke. Vespera stepped back, professional mask sliding into place, but I could see the tremor in her hands as she smoothed her skirts. Could smell the lingering arousal she couldn't quite suppress.
We finished the scene according to script, but the damage was done. Every look, every touch, every word felt loaded with subtext that had nothing to do with Shakespeare and everything to do with the claiming I'd been denying myself for months.
By the time Wells called for intermission, I was hanging on to sanity by a thread.
I found her in the small dressing room she'd been assigned, struggling with the ties of her corset.
She looked up as I entered, her eyes widening when she saw my expression. Whatever she read there made her take an instinctive step back, but there was nowhere to go in the cramped space.
"Dorian." Her voice was carefully controlled, but I could smell her awareness, the way her pulse had spiked the moment I appeared. "What are you—"
"You felt it too." I closed the door behind me, turning the lock with deliberate precision. "Out there, during the scene. You felt it."
"I don't know what you mean." But her protest was weak, unconvincing, and we both knew it.
"Don't lie to me, Vespera. Not now." I moved closer, close enough to see the way her breath hitched. "I can smell how much you want this."
"This is insane." She pressed back against her dressing table, trapped between me and the mirror. "We can't—there are people—"
"Let them hear." The words came out rough, desperate. "Let them know you're mine."
Something flickered in her eyes: fear, yes, but also want so sharp it made my Alpha instincts sing with triumph. Her scent was intoxicating, rich with arousal and the kind of need that couldn't be faked or hidden.
"You're not thinking clearly," she whispered, but her gaze kept dropping to my mouth.
"I'm thinking clearer than I have in months." I reached out, fingertips tracing the line of her jaw, and felt her shiver. "Tell me you don't want this. Tell me your body isn't screaming for my touch, and I'll walk away."
She opened her mouth, probably to do exactly that, but when I leaned closer—close enough that my breath ghosted across her lips—the protest died unspoken.
"Dorian," she breathed, and my name on her lips sounded like surrender.
I kissed her.
It wasn't gentle, wasn't careful, wasn't any of the things I'd planned when I'd imagined this moment.
It was desperate, consuming, months of denied want poured into the connection between us.
She made a sound—surprise, protest, pleasure—and then her hands fisted in my shirt and she was kissing me back with equal desperation.
She tasted like everything I'd been craving, everything I'd been denying myself. Sweet and sharp and perfectly, intoxicatingly her. When I deepened the kiss, she melted against me, her body fitting against mine like she'd been made for this.
"We shouldn't," she gasped against my mouth, even as her hands slid up to tangle in my hair.
"Tell me to stop." I traced kisses along her jaw, down her throat, feeling her pulse flutter against my lips. "Tell me to stop and I will."
But she didn't. Instead, she arched into my touch, her head falling back to give me better access, a soft moan escaping when I found the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder.
My hands found the ties of her corset—the ones she'd been struggling with when I entered—and began working them loose. Each loosened lace revealed more skin, more of her intoxicating scent, more temptation than any Alpha should be expected to resist.
"Someone could come in," she whispered, but her protests were growing weaker, more breathless.
"Let them." I pushed the loosened corset down, exposing the thin chemise underneath, the curves I'd been fantasizing about for months. "Let them see who you belong to."
She shuddered at the possessive words, and I caught the spike in her arousal, the way her body responded to the claim even as her mind fought it.
"I don't belong to anyone," she said, but the words lacked conviction.
"Don't you?" I pulled back to look at her—hair mussed, lips swollen, eyes dark with want she could no longer deny. "Then why are you here? Why are you letting me touch you?"
"Because I'm losing my mind," she admitted, the confession torn from somewhere deep. "Because you've been driving me insane for weeks and I can't think straight anymore."
"Good." I kissed her again, deeper this time, claiming her mouth with all the possessive hunger I'd been suppressing. "I want you lost. I want you desperate. I want you exactly like this."