Amour Amour (Aerial Ethereal #1)(10)

“Thora,” Nikolai says again. “Focus.”

What? I pull my gaze off the surrounding people and back on him. “You said my nose,” I say, wishful thinking, I guess.

He laughs. “No, myshka. I said your nipple.” Again, he’s unflinching. Like he’s done this before.

“Have you done this before?” I question. “Pierced a nipple, I mean.” I grimace at my own words. Why am I grimacing? He said nipple without flinching. I should be able to too. It’s on my body.

“On men, yes. On women, no.” He says, “You’ll be my first.” This lessens what little to no excitement I had. But he seems okay with the idea. “Most of my firsts are crossed off, so you’re lucky.”

Lucky. “I think…that’s a strong word.”

He rephrases, “I may remember you for a while, Thora.” As though that’s a prize people seek with him. Maybe they do. He’s a performer—someone people observe from a distance. To be on his mind for even an ounce of time, that must be special to fans.

“Why my…nipple?” I ask, trying not to scowl or wince or cringe. None of the above.

“You tucked in your shirt before doing a handstand,” he explains. “You didn’t want to flash the crowds. I always choose the hardest consequences, the things people fear. You should know this.”

Because I stalked him and wore sneakers, just so he’d choose me tonight? He’s so off-base, but he never asks. He just assumes everything.

Waiting for my answer, guys start yelling at me to not pussy out and to grow a pair of balls. It makes me mad and angers me enough that my chest puffs out.

I nod to Nikolai, my mind spinning at this agreement. Standing up and leaving in front of this crowd would take more strength than I have right now. It may be the gutsier move than staying here, half-under peer pressure, half-under my own stubbornness.

“Sports bra,” Nikolai guesses.

I inhale. “Maybe.” Yes.

“I’m about to find out,” he tells me, “so there won’t be any maybes between us.”

I’m keenly aware that his hand is on my thigh while the other holds the piercing gun. My legs hang loose around him.

“One piercing,” he says deeply. “If you’re frightened, leave now. I don’t want you crying or suing me or the bar or Aerial Ethereal. We have a verbal contract that you’re consenting to this, yes?” This sounds rehearsed, like he’s said this plenty of times before to other girls and guys.

“Yes,” I nod.

And then he removes his hand off my thigh, slipping it underneath the cotton of my tee. My breath hitches, his fingers skimming the smoothness of my bare skin, up to the line of my tight sports bra.

Without removing my shirt, he rolls up the bra to my collarbone. Okay, I can do this. He moves inconspicuously—thankfully. The sandalwood scent of his cologne dizzies my head.

He searches my eyes for reactions, reading me like an unraveling book. He hesitates for a prolonged second, and his eyes narrow at my blue glow necklace. “You’re single.”

It clicks. It should’ve clicked way before now, but I must’ve had sensory overload to compute the necklaces to relationship statuses.

Blue = single.

Green = ?

Red = ??

I glance at his red necklace, more curious. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m making sure you didn’t lie,” he tells me. “I don’t want an angry boyfriend in my face tonight.”

“I didn’t lie,” I breathe. “You know…you could’ve just asked me if I was single.” Instead of guessing based on my reaction to the statement.

He doesn’t say anything. His hand simply ascends to my left boob. Dear God. And he rubs my nipple between two of his fingers. My back arches in stiff awareness, the tequila from earlier doing nothing but covering me in a hot blanket.

“Your eyes are black again,” he says casually, as though he’s not massaging my boob right now. “Thinking of sucking out my soul?” He actually asks this. A real question. His gray eyes penetrate mine for an answer.

“No,” I whisper. “You already said that you’re the kind of guy who can’t be possessed.”

“But you seem like a girl who’d try, even if it’s a losing battle.” All because I accepted the handstand challenge—that’s how he concluded this.

Even if I could respond, I wouldn’t know what to say. He drops his gaze, and my nipple hardens for him. He slips his other hand beneath my shirt, piercing gun now closer to my boob. And it dawns on me.

“You’re doing this blind.”

He pauses off my fear. “Either that or I remove your shirt.”

I shake my head repeatedly.

“I won’t miss. Trust me.”

“I don’t even know you,” I say softly, adrenaline pulsating through my veins. He has led me to the precipice of a cliff, pushed me off, and now he’s clasping my wrist. He can let go at any moment, and I will fall.

“Every day,” he says lowly, “I hold a person’s life in my hands. The circus is based one-hundred percent off trust. I give it all to someone, and they give it all to me. I’m asking you, right now, to trust me.”

His words seem genuine. His eyes seem confident. And somewhere, I begin to calm. Somewhere I reach into the furthest places of my mind and rewire the responses that say stay cautious. The ones Shay tightened before I left.