“Look at me, ma fleur.”

The backstage of the opera house was dim, but even then you could flawlessly make out Lyney’s figure, on his knees before you, clothes strewn across the floor.

Even in the limited light, you could see the desire in his eyes as he fondled with himself, hands between his legs, itching for every ounce of your attention.

“I need you to look at me,” your boyfriend driveled between heavy breaths, his lavender gaze locked on yours.