Page 47 of The Drama King (The University Players Duet #1)

Her hands tugged at my shirt, clumsy with need, and I helped her, pulling the costume pieces away until there was nothing between us but thin fabric and desperate want. When she ran her palms across my chest, I groaned against her mouth, the simple touch setting every nerve ending on fire.

"This is insane," she repeated, but her hands were exploring, learning the shape of me, and her scent was thick with arousal that made my Alpha instincts roar with satisfaction.

"Say my name," I demanded, hands sliding down to grip her waist, pulling her harder against me.

"Dorian," she breathed, and the sound went straight to my core.

"Again."

"Dorian." This time it came out like a plea, like worship, like everything I'd been desperate to hear.

I lifted her onto the dressing table, stepping between her spread thighs, and felt her wrap her legs around my waist with gratifying desperation.

Every kiss, every touch, every soft sound she made was confirmation of what I'd known for months—she was mine, had always been mine, was finally ready to admit it.

"Tell me you want this," I said against her throat, hands sliding up her thighs. "Tell me you want me."

"I want..." She broke off with a gasp as I found sensitive skin, but I needed the words.

"Tell me."

"I want you," she admitted, the confession raw and honest. "God help me, I want you."

The admission broke something inside me, some last vestige of control I'd been clinging to. This was it—the moment I'd been working toward for months, the surrender I'd been systematically orchestrating.

But as I looked at her—beautiful and desperate and finally, finally mine—I realized it had never been about the plan at all.

It had been about this. About her. About the way she made me feel like I was burning alive and drowning and flying all at once.

"Mine," I said against her mouth, and felt her shiver with want.

"Yours," she whispered back, and the words were everything.

But then something shifted in her expression—a flicker of the old defiance, the resistance that had been driving me wild for months.

"I hate you," she breathed, even as her hands pulled me closer.

"I know." I kissed her harder, teeth catching her bottom lip. "I fucking love that you hate me."

The contradiction broke something in both of us.

This wasn't tender love-making: this was war by other means, months of antagonism and sexual tension finally finding an outlet.

When I spun her around to face the mirror, pressing her hands flat against the glass, she didn't protest. She met my eyes in the reflection with a look that was equal parts fury and desperate need.

"Look at yourself," I commanded, one hand fisting in her hair while the other worked at lifting her skirts. "Look at how much you want this, how much you want me."

"Fuck you," she gasped, but her hips pushed back against me, seeking contact.

"That's the plan." I found the ties of her undergarments, ripping them away with more force than necessary. "But first, you're going to admit what we both know."

"Which is?" Her voice was breathless, defiant, everything I'd been craving.

"That you've been thinking about this. About me. About letting me take you exactly like this." I positioned myself behind her, letting her feel how much I wanted her. "Haven't you?"

She tried to turn away from the mirror, but I caught her chin, forcing her to watch as I pressed against her entrance.

"Haven't you?" I repeated, my voice rougher now.

"Yes," she hissed, the admission torn from her throat. "Yes, damn you."

"Say it properly."

"I've been thinking about you fucking me," she said, the crude words sounding obscene in her refined voice. "Happy now?"

"Getting there." I pushed into her slowly, watching her face in the mirror as she took every inch. "God, you're perfect. So tight, so wet for me."

She was watching too, I realized—watching us in the reflection, seeing the way her body accepted mine, the way she looked with her hair disheveled and her dress bunched around her waist while I claimed her from behind.

"You like watching," I observed, setting a hard rhythm that made her gasp. "Like seeing how good we look."

"I hate how good we look," she corrected, but she couldn't look away.

"Hate it all you want." I gripped her hips harder, pulling her back onto me with each thrust. "You're still mine."

"I'm not..." She broke off with a cry as I hit something that made her legs shake.

"You're not what?" I didn't slow down, didn't give her space to think. "Not mine? Not desperate for this? Not coming apart on my cock?"

Each question was punctuated by a harder thrust, and I watched in the mirror as her resistance crumbled piece by piece. Her eyes were glazed with pleasure, her mouth open as she panted my name, her body moving with mine in perfect rhythm.

"Look at yourself," I demanded again. "Look how beautiful you are when you stop fighting me."

She did look—really looked—and I saw the moment she stopped seeing Vespera the scholarship student, the victim, the girl trying to survive. In the mirror, she saw a woman being thoroughly claimed by an Alpha who worshipped every inch of her, and the sight broke something inside her.

"Dorian," she moaned, and my name had never sounded so sweet.

"That's it." I reached around to touch her where we were joined, feeling her clench around me. "Come for me, Vespera. Let me see you come."

She shattered beautifully, crying out as pleasure overtook her, and watching her fall apart in my arms sent me over the edge.

I buried myself deep, fighting every instinct that screamed at me to knot her, to mark her, to claim her completely.

Not here, not like this—but fuck, it took everything I had to maintain that control.

We stayed connected for long moments afterward, both of us breathing hard, her back pressed against my chest as we watched our reflection. She looked thoroughly debauched, and I looked possessive and satisfied in a way that should probably have concerned me.

A sharp knock on the door made us both freeze.

"Five minutes to places!" The stage manager's voice carried through the wood. "Five minutes!"

We disentangled quickly, both of us moving with the kind of practiced efficiency that came from years of quick costume changes.

But even as we straightened our clothes and tried to make ourselves presentable, I couldn't stop touching her: a hand on her waist as she fixed her hair, fingers trailing across her shoulder as I helped with her corset ties.

"This changes everything," I said quietly, meaning it.

She looked at me in the mirror, her reflection showing swollen lips and a flush that had nothing to do with stage makeup. "I know."

She turned in my arms, rising on her toes to kiss me softly. "After opening night," she said against my lips, "we'll see what we are."

"Vespera Levine and Dorian Ashworth to the wings, please!" The stage manager's voice was getting impatient.

We broke apart, both of us breathing hard, and I saw my own desperation reflected in her eyes. This wasn't over—couldn't be over, not after what we'd shared.

"After the show," I said, and this time it sounded like a promise we both intended to keep.

The rest of dress rehearsal passed in a blur of sexual tension and barely controlled need. Every scene we shared crackled with the memory of what had happened, every touch sanctioned by the script felt loaded with promise.

And when Wells finally called places for our final bow, when I saw Vespera transformed back into Beatrice but with my marks still visible on her throat, I knew tomorrow night—opening night—would change everything.

She was finally ready to be claimed.

And I was finally ready to stop pretending this was about anything other than love.