You always were a terrible liar, Julian, and that suit is doing things to your integrity that I find personally offensive.
12 min read·2,296 words·21 views
0:000:00
[9:14 PM] Unknown: I see you, Riley. Section 104. You’re wearing that shade of green that makes you look like a forest fire waiting to happen. God, I’ve missed your posture.
I’ve spent the last four years teaching people how to release the trauma stored in their hip flexors, yet here I was, my psoas gripping like a tectonic plate about to shift under the weight of a single 'I see you' text. I didn’t have to look at the name. I didn’t have to check the number. My body knew the cadence of his voice before my brain could even process the pixels on the screen. It was Julian. It was always going to be Julian, the man who treated every conversation like a Shakespearean soliloquy and every touch like a rehearsal for a riot.
I took a slow, grounding inhale—four counts in, hold for two—and looked around the stadium. The Arizona air was still thick with the day’s heat, a dry, pressing weight that made the sequins on the alumni jackets glitter like dying stars.
[9:16 PM] Riley: It’s hunter green, Julian. And you’re supposedly in London being ‘critically acclaimed.’ What are you doing in Tempe? Did you run out of people to brood at?
[9:17 PM] Julian: The West End is cold. My soul was becoming brittle. I needed the desert. Or perhaps I just needed to see if you still hold your breath when you’re annoyed. You’re doing it right now. Exhale, Riley. For me.
THEN: SEVEN YEARS AGO
The costume shop smelled of cedar, old sweat, and the ozone of a hot sewing machine. We were supposed to be finishing the doublets for the winter production of 'Much Ado About Nothing.' Instead, I was pinned against a table covered in scrap velvet. Julian’s hands were under my shirt, his fingers tracing my ribs with the precision of an anatomist.
'You’re too loud,' I’d whispered, even though he hadn't said a word.
'I’m a lead, Riley,' he’d murmured into the crook of my neck, his breath hot and smelling of the espresso he drank to stay awake through rehearsals. 'I don't do quiet.'
He had pulled my leggings down just far enough to reveal the sharp line of my hip bone. He’d kissed it—once, twice—with a reverence that felt like a trap. I was twenty-one, a dance minor with a penchant for overextending my hamstrings and my heart. He was the sun, and I was just trying not to get scorched. When he finally slid his hand into my underwear, his fingers were calloused from guitar strings and stage rigging. The friction was a revelation. I’d arched my back, my heels digging into the wooden table, and for the first time in my life, I forgot to care about my alignment.
'Tell me to stop,' he’d challenged, his eyes dark and hungry.
'Don't you dare,' I’d answered, and the tragedy of us began right there, amidst the pins and the thread.
NOW: 9:22 PM
[9:22 PM] Julian: You’re looking toward the south end zone. Wrong way, darling. Think higher. The VIP boxes are for the pretentious, and you know I’ve always had a flair for the dramatic.
I looked up. There he was. Leaning over the railing of a private box, silhouetted against the stadium lights. He looked exactly the same, only sharper. His jawline could have cut glass, and even from this distance, I could feel the magnetism that had once pulled me across campus at 2:00 AM just to hear him read poetry. He raised a glass of something amber and toasted me.
[9:24 PM] Riley: You look like a villain in a Bond movie. It’s tacky.
[9:25 PM] Julian: And you look like you’ve spent the last hour imagining exactly how tacky I can be. Meet me at the Old Theatre. The side door near the loading dock. I still have the key I stole in 2017.
[9:26 PM] Riley: I’m with my friends, Julian. I’m a professional woman. I have a studio. I have a 401k. I don't sneak into dark buildings with actors anymore.
[9:27 PM] Julian: 401k? How tragic. I’ll be there in five minutes. If you aren't there, I’ll assume you’ve finally become as boring as your spreadsheets suggest. But I saw the way you adjusted your strap when you read my first text. You’re vibrating, Riley. I can feel it from here.
He was right. I was vibrating. My nervous system was in a full-blown sympathetic spike. I told my friends I was going to get another margarita and slipped into the crowd. The walk to the Old Theatre took ten minutes, my sandals slapping against the pavement, the air cooling just enough to make the sweat on my neck feel like ice.
I found the side door. It groaned on its hinges, a sound like a cello being dragged across gravel. The interior was pitch black, smelling of dust and nostalgia.
'Julian?'
'Row J,' his voice drifted down from the darkness of the house. 'The seat with the broken spring. Our seat.'
I walked into the auditorium. The stage lights were dimmed to a low, ghostly glow, casting long shadows over the rows of red velvet seats. Julian was sitting in Row J, his long legs stretched out, his expensive suit jacket discarded on the floor. He looked like a king in exile.
'You came,' he said, his voice dropping an octave.
'I’m only here to tell you that you’re a narcissist for thinking I’d show up,' I said, walking toward him. My heart was thudding against my sternum, a rhythmic, frantic beat.
He stood up as I reached the row. He was taller than I remembered, or maybe I had just forgotten how it felt to be dwarfed by his presence. He didn't wait for a greeting. He stepped into my space, his hand coming up to cup my jaw. His thumb brushed over my lower lip, pulling it down just enough to expose my teeth.
'You’re still doing that thing,' he whispered. 'The yoga breath. Deep in the belly. Trying to stay calm while your pulse is doing a hundred and twenty.'
'It’s called pranayama, Julian. You should try it. It might help with your delusions of grandeur.'
'I don't want to be calm, Riley. I haven't been calm since the last time I saw you in my rearview mirror.'
He leaned in, and the kiss wasn't a question; it was an ultimatum. It tasted like expensive bourbon and the terrifying familiarity of a decade of longing. I didn't fight it. I wrapped my arms around his neck, my fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer until there wasn't a molecule of desert air between us.
He backed me into the seat—the one with the broken spring—and I sat down hard, my legs falling open instinctively. Julian dropped to his knees between them, his hands sliding up my thighs, bunching the green fabric of my dress.
'Julian, here?' I gasped, my head hitting the back of the velvet seat.
'Nobody comes here, Riley. The ghosts are the only ones watching, and they’ve seen us do worse.'
He didn't waste time. He unzipped my dress, the sound loud in the silent theatre, and peeled it down to my waist. The cool air hit my skin, making my nipples harden instantly. He looked at me—truly looked at me—with an intensity that made me feel more exposed than the lack of clothing did.
'Beautiful,' he muttered, his voice thick. 'You’ve gotten stronger.'
'Yoga,' I managed to choke out as his mouth found my breast.
He sucked a nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the tip before he applied a sharp, sudden pressure with his teeth. I let out a sound that felt like it had been vibrating in my diaphragm for six years, sharp and wet. My hands found his shoulders, my nails digging into the fine wool of his waistcoat.
He moved lower, his hands reaching for the waistband of my lace thong. He didn't ask. He just hooked his fingers into the fabric and dragged it down, his eyes never leaving mine. Then he saw how wet I was. The silk was soaked, a dark stain that spoke louder than any of my witty rebuttals.
'You were vibrating, weren't you?' he mocked, but his hands were trembling.
He spread my knees wider, his chest pressing against my inner thighs. He leaned forward, his face inches from my heat, and inhaled. 'You smell like jasmine and wanting me. It’s intoxicating.'
Then he used his tongue.
It wasn't a gentle lick. It was a broad, firm stroke that started at the base of my labia and ended right on my clitoris. I bucked, my hips lifting off the red velvet, my toes curling against the floor. He caught my hips, pinning me to the seat, and went to work. He used his fingers to open me further, exposing the slick, pink folds to the dim light. He flicked his tongue against my clit with a rhythmic, unrelenting speed that had me sobbing his name into the empty rafters.
'Julian, please,' I whispered, my fingers clutching his hair, pulling him harder against me.
'Please what, Riley? Please stop? Or please remind you why no one else has ever been enough?'
He slid two fingers inside me, stretching me wide while his thumb continued to grind against my clit. I was so tight, so primed for him, that I felt my internal walls pulsing around his knuckles. The friction was incredible—the contrast of his cool fingers and the heat of my own body. I reached for the fly of his trousers, my movements frantic. I needed him inside me. I needed the weight of him to anchor me before I floated away.
I got his pants open, and his cock sprang free, hard and heavy against my palm. He was thick, the skin smooth and hot, a vein pulsing under my thumb. I gripped him, sliding my hand up and down the length of him, feeling the pre-cum bead at the tip. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through my thighs.
'Now,' I demanded. 'Julian, now.'
He stood up, shedding his trousers in one fluid motion, and hiked my legs onto his shoulders. He was still wearing his dress shirt and tie, a chaotic image of formal and primal. He guided himself to my opening, the head of his penis rubbing against my clitoris for one agonizing second before he lunged forward.
He buried himself in me in one long, devastating thrust.
I screamed, the sound echoing through the house. He was so big, so much more than I remembered. He filled every corner of me, stretching my entrance until it burned in the best way possible. He didn't move for a moment, just stayed there, buried deep, his forehead resting against mine.
'You’re so tight,' he panted. 'Like you’ve been holding your breath for years.'
'Just... move,' I begged.
He started to pull back, slowly, almost all the way out, before slamming back in. The red velvet seat creaked under us, a rhythmic accompaniment to the wet, slapping sound of our bodies meeting. I wrapped my legs around his waist, locking my ankles, pulling him deeper. Every thrust hit my cervix, a blunt, heavy pressure that sent sparks through my nervous system.
I felt my orgasm building, a tidal wave starting in my heels and rushing toward my center. My breath became shallow, the 'ujjayi' breath I taught my students forgotten in favor of ragged, desperate gasps.
'Look at me,' Julian commanded, his voice a rasp.
I opened my eyes. He was watching me with a raw, terrifying vulnerability. This wasn't a performance. This was the man behind the curtain, the one who had broken my heart because he didn't know how to hold something so real.
'I’ve got you,' he whispered, and then he increased the pace.
He was hitting my G-spot with every upward surge, his thumb finding my clit again and pressing hard. It was too much. It was the perfect alignment of stars and skin. I felt my muscles seize, my internal walls clenching around him in a series of violent, exquisite spasms. I cried out, my back arching, my entire body humming like a live wire.
Julian followed me seconds later. He let out a low, shattered moan, his body stiffening as he came deep inside me, his pulse thudding against my interior. He held me there, his face buried in my neck, as the world slowly stopped spinning.
Minutes passed. The only sound was the distant roar of the stadium and our synchronized breathing.
'That was quite the encore,' I whispered, my voice trembling.
Julian pulled back, his eyes soft. He reached down and tucked a stray hair behind my ear. 'It wasn't an encore, Riley. It was a prologue.'
I sat up, my dress still bunched around my waist, the velvet of the seat feeling rough against my damp skin. I felt heavy, grounded, and utterly terrified.
[10:42 PM] Riley: I’m back at the bar. My friends think I got lost. You still have the key?
[10:44 PM] Julian: Always. And I still have your earring. You left it in Row J.
[10:45 PM] Riley: Keep it. I’ll come get it tomorrow morning. Breakfast. 9:00 AM. And don't wear a suit. I want to see the man, not the character.
[10:46 PM] Julian: 9:00 AM. I’ll bring the poetry. You bring the 401k. We’ll see which one survives the desert heat.
I locked my phone and took a sip of my melted margarita. My psoas was finally relaxed, but my heart? My heart was just getting started.
