After the standing ovation, which she wasn't even sure how she'd gotten to her feet for, Mel had shown that same usher her pass. She told herself she was still pissed, that he needed a serious attitude adjustment. How dare he rouse these feelings in her!
She had been led through the maze that was backstage and to a door with an actual honest-to-god star on it. Inside there is a costume rack behind the door and a vanity mirror surrounded by those classic round lights sat opposite. The table below holds a tray of makeup, brushes, tissues, a dogeared script, and a small amber bottle of what looked like essential oil. There is a narrow door next to the table.
She stands for a few minutes, checking her hair and makeup in the mirror. No harm in wanting to look good as she roasts him. Exasperated, she sits on the edge of the black leather slipper chair right next to the door. Her legs crossed and waiting, waiting to give this arrogant son of a bitch a piece of her mind. Where the hell was he anyway?
She hears the door across the room click. She takes a breath, revving up to give this man the what-for.
"Listen you-" she starts to say.
Steam pours out from the tiny bathroom. He emerges in nothing but a towel slung low around his hips. His head is covered in a second towel, with which he is vigorously drying his hair.
It's an insanely intimate moment that she is sure she should not be witnessing. Seeing him in yoga class was one thing, but his naked torso did more than hint at just how many hours this man has spent at the gym.
Mel's fury is stopped in its tracks. The spattering of blonde chest hairs and freckles across his defined pecs and the half moon of his belly button set in the middle of his furrowed abs makes her mouth hang open. The 'V of his transverse abdominis and the trail of wet hairs leading under the knot of the towel makes more than her mouth water. She knows she should stop staring, but she just can't.
Camus visibly jumps when he pulls the towel from his head.
"Oh hey! I'm sorry, I didn't know you'd come so fast," his hand automatically holds onto the makeshift waistband.
"I don't usually, wait, um No, I'm sorry, I didn't know you were ....," She turns beet red, gesturing to him and still staring.
"It's ok, what happens backstage, stays backstage," he jokes, still in theater mode. His smile is disarming, charming even. It could be the little dimple adorning the left corner of his mouth like punctuation, or the way the apples of his cheeks pop or the light teasing in his eyes, but she feels like she is falling down some kind of rabbit hole.
He steps a bit closer, reaching towards her. She is frozen, eyes wide. Shit, what has she agreed to? What the fuck is happening here? She is about to come unglued, how many women does he invite back here, no LURE here. FUCKING MEN! She is on the verge of shoving him back and bolting for the door when he points behind her.
"Can you hand me those?" She turns and his belted jeans are draped over the back of the chair.
"To tell the truth, I'm hurt," he says casually as if he's not less than a foot from her and nearly naked.
"What?" it was the last thing she expected him to say. Somehow his pants were in her hands.
"I really am. I tried helping you in your endeavor to stay away from me," he takes the pants from her, "but you seem to have spectacularly failed, twice," he nods at the pass around her neck. "I am beginning to wonder if you are really committed to your goal here, Miss Missy."
She should be furious at his condescension, she should be standing up and storming out, but she can't breathe.
The memories of her beloved father teasing her in the same way, of always 'helping her' in that unhelpful but secretly helpful way, and of his greeting of "Miss Missy, how I missed you!" all slam into her heart. Heat flashes her face and a lump immediately forms in her throat. She covers her face.
"You bastard," she's muffled with her hands. If she's talking to her dad or to Camus, she doesn't know. Tears well up and she just can't stop them. She bows her head trying to hide them.
"Hey, hey," he steps even closer, gently touching her shoulder, "I'm sorry, I thought we were just playing here, flirting, being silly. I didn't mean to make you...I'm sorry." He's not sure what he said or exactly what happened but he never meant to make her cry.
"No, it's not that," she sniffles, "well it is - but not like that."
"Here," he hands her a tissue from the nearby box.
The real, honest moment begins to crack all barriers between them. Mel looks up at the tissue and takes it from him.
"Wanna talk about it?" he offers quietly.
It's the gentle way his voice caresses her and the real concern in his eyes that sets her whole self buzzing. Suddenly she is intensely aware of the fact that he is so close, that he is still gently touching her. That despite all her pushing at him, he is still being kind. Every self-imposed boundary crashes down and all that's left is desire.
"No," she whispers as she stands. Before she knows it, her hands run up his chest and around his neck as she closes the distance between them.
It's without hesitation that he envelopes her in his arms. He'd been trying to keep it light, keep it fun, keep her at arms distance. He should be stopping her, asking what made her cry. He should be concerned with her emotional swings. But his own desire flares as their lips meet.
She presses her body close to him, abandoning the facade of not liking him. The slight grind of her hips loosens the tuck of the towel under his belly button. Neither of them notice or care.
He kisses down her neck. "God, I've wanted you from the moment I laid eyes on you," he says into her ear.
"Me too," she confesses, pulling back to look into his eyes, "I've just been...a cow, things have been-"
"Shhh, doesn't matter," he grabs her face, wiping her tears with his thumbs.
His molten blue pools are spellbinding, not one hint of malice in them. He devours her mouth as the world falls away. She lets him. Mesmerized by his eyes, she knows exactly what she wants.
'This isn't dating,' she rationalizes as her shaky fingers pull on the oversized gold zipper down the front of her black dress. His fingers slide it off her shoulders, revealing a dusty pink bra and wispy panty set.
He takes a step back, both towel and dress falling to the floor in a heap. He reaches over and locks the door. She looks down when she feels the substantial bump of his cock against her thighs.
"My god," she says under her breath. He's even more gorgeous fully naked.
"Fuck me," he breathes, dragging a gentle fingertip over her smooth skin and voluptuous curves.
"Yeah, ok," is all she can get out before she pulls him down into a kiss.
Camus' arms close tight around her and thank goddess, because the kiss he unleashes on her would have dropped her flat. Need and want are an amalgamation of desire between them. Tongues tangle, finally unfettered by willful egos.
He lays her back onto the vintage armless chair. The slightly cold surface is welcome on her suddenly hot skin. He straightens up, looking down through half lidded eyes, drinking in the sight of her. His lips tingle with the searing quality of her kiss.
Holy shit, he needs a second. This was not at all what he had expected when he asked her to the theatre. She is just unbelievably sexy, lying nearly naked in front of him.
Mel is biting her lip and looking up at him towering over her with his rock hard cock. Her hands rub unconsciously against her inner thighs, parting them further. The look on her face says it all. 'Fuck me, if you dare.'
His nearly contrapposto stance is so natural with his gorgeous frame. He takes a breath, then another just trying to control himself. His eyes flicker across her.
Suddenly it strikes her that he might be weighing whether or not this was worth it, weighing if she was worth it.
"I mean if you don't want to...If I'm repulsive or something..." she shrugs, her negative self-talk and defensiveness beating him to the potential punch.
"Brat," he says, shaking his head. "I thought it might be a good moment to garner some consent," he says pointedly, "besides, does it look like I am repulsed?" He waves, indicating his own arousal.
Her eyes travel down his body and it's like his gesture has given her permission to stare, finally, at his cock. He is thick and straight and his tip is starting to turn red. The ridge facing her casts his long, upright shaft half in shadow from the mirror lights. It looks delectable.
No, he looks delectable. As if in a trance, her fingers lightly stroke over the soft skin of his shaft without a thought.
He pulls a breath in through his teeth at her touch, breaking her reverie.
"Um Sorry, " she says, recovering and pulling her hand back like he was forbidden, "Sorry, I'm defensive sometimes."
"Yes, I have noticed," little puffs of air slip from his nose. His smile then slips into something far more salacious when he decides to throw caution to the wind. "You know what I think?" he leans down closer to her. "I think you could do with someone either fucking or spanking it out of you. I am just trying to decide which."
