Behind the Green Curtain by Riley Lashea Page A

anything,
Caton shifted away, crossing her own legs to remove herself from Amelia’s
range, as distant as she could make herself in the limited space. When Amelia
looked over at her in the darkness, Caton could feel it, the amusement in the
eyes sliding over her face, before Amelia’s fingers reached out to feather her
hair out of the way.
    Arm sliding across her shoulders,
Caton was torn by equal urges to lean into Amelia and away from her, to settle
comfortably into the embrace and tense within it. Her body decided for her,
suddenly so rigid against the back of the chair, she had a better view of the
stage. If she went through life more aware of her posture, she suddenly
realized, she would have a completely different perspective on the world.
    Undeterred, perhaps even
encouraged, by the attempt at defiance, Amelia’s hand curved around Caton’s
arm, sliding up and down the exposed skin in a calculated caress. The goose
bumps formed against her will, but what Caton could control, she did. Eyes
locked on the stage, she saw nothing, felt everything, and pretended the
opposite.
    Amelia’s hand trailing over her
shoulder to the sensitive skin of her neck, Caton’s eyes closed on instinct,
and, when Amelia’s fingers moved up a vein, it throbbed wildly in response,
belying where Caton’s real attention lied. It was futile trying to resist
Amelia when her body offered nothing but encouragement, so she decided to
surrender, head falling to the side, giving Amelia more skin to explore.
    The featherlight touch traced
Caton’s jawline to her ear, skimming around its shell and pressing into the
hollow behind it, a spot Caton didn’t know was that erogenous for her until her
breath turned choppy in response.
    Slowly retracing the path, Amelia
started again and again, sometimes with the soft pads of her fingertips,
sometimes scratching Caton’s skin with her nails, until Caton couldn’t remember
where she was or why she was supposed to be refusing to let Amelia touch her.
    It might have been minutes or hours
later that the curtain fell on the first act, and by the time the lights came
up, Amelia had already moved away, shawl back in place to cover the most
revealing parts of her dress, at the ready before Mr. Argo and his colleagues
got to their feet in the front of the box to stretch.
    Turning around, Mr. Argo smiled
widely at the sight of her, as if he’d forgotten how stunning Amelia was in the
short time he’d been turned toward the stage.
    “You let me buy you a drink,” he
said.
    “Of course.” Amelia flirted like a
professional.
    “Both of you,” Mr. Argo added,
glancing Caton’s way.
    “Caton,” Amelia coaxed, holding her
hand out, expecting obedience.
    Staring at the hand as if it was
loaded, Caton refused the offering, steadying herself on the back of her chair
as she got to her feet. “I have to go to the restroom,” she responded. “I’m
sorry.”
    Moving around the outside of her
chair, despite the limited space next to the railing, she succeeded in avoiding
Amelia’s spellbinding touch as she fled the box. Behind her, she could hear
Amelia giving an undoubtedly perfect explanation, and imagined her sliding her
hand into the crook of Mr. Argo’s waiting arm and being escorted to the lobby
by the same man who would later donate millions of dollars for the privilege of
having had exactly this moment with her.
    The long line at the restroom gave
Caton time to partially recover, to mentally prepare for more of Amelia’s
special brand of torture. This Amelia, Caton knew well though, and she didn’t
doubt her little display would be long forgotten by the time they returned to
their seats. Waiting for Amelia’s next touch without answer was a familiar
feeling, much like praying to a god who didn’t exist.
    The need to relieve herself of the
pressure Amelia built inside of her was also painfully familiar, and, while she
convinced herself that compassion for those at the end of the line was