Beck O’Leary’s gaze caught his, shadowed by lazy, thick eyelashes. For a moment, they locked eyes -- it was the first time they’d met in person, Harper realized with a little spark of delight in his belly. He looked like everything Harper, in his pink-and-black corsetry, thigh eyes, and garter belt, didn’t: jeans loose, battered T-shirt too tight, stretched out over his broad shoulders and -- wait. Did he have pierced nips, too?

Hot.

O’Leary’s gaze dropped, first taking in the two glasses of champagne, then down lower, slowly, appreciatively taking in Harper’s carefully selected fit. And, Harper was absolutely certain, the way it showed off so many of his best assets: tits, of course, but also that slutty waist, his long legs, and, if he turned just right, the curve of his carefully crafted bubble butt.

Harper tried to suppress a little shiver as the spark of delight renewed and traveled up his spine. That was not the confused or disdainful look of a straight boy. This was going to be fun.

As Harper approached in full-on prowler mode, O’Leary’s gaze finally lifted again, snagging on his lips before finding his eyes. One corner of his pouty mouth pulled upward as he said, “Look who it is.”

“All alone at the party, O’Leary?” Harper asked sweetly, coming closer.

O’Leary stood but his gaze dropped again, seemingly to the space between the hem of Harper’s tight shorts and the tops of his thigh highs, where the lacy pink garter belt featured prominently. “I’m more of a people watcher at a party.”

“Mm-hmm,” Harper hummed, holding out the second glass. “I brought you a drink.”

O’Leary accepted, his warm fingers brushing Harper’s champagne-chilled ones. He didn’t yank them away quickly or react at all, even. Interesting. “Is it poisoned?” he asked.

“Now why would I do that?” Harper kept it all as disgustingly sweet as he could.

Cameras began clicking all around them as people realized what was happening in the dark corner. Harper chuckled and winked at O’Leary.

O’Leary’s smile reached his eyes, finally, and he said, “Thanks for the ticket. Good show.”

Interesting energy from him, considering the amount of shit he’d talked on Harper and The Rade recently. It was encouraging -- if Fireborn was taking it in the spirit of fun, too, this could end up being a real trip. “Was it?”

“Yeah.” O’Leary raised the glass to his lips for a sip. “A little like going to the circus.”

Surprised, Harper burst out laughing. “That’s funny, coming from a professional clown.”

O’Leary’s eyes crinkled at the corners, twinkling. “Did you come over here to talk shit in front of cameras? Because I’m not really interested.” But those eyes said he was very interested. In all sorts of things.

Harper made a mock sympathetic face and sipped his drink. “Not really interested if I’m here to defend myself? Just when you’re alone with the cameras?”

Snap snap snap. Several of the fans were recording the interaction, though they weren’t close enough to get sound. The body language would tell the story well enough, though.

“Defend yourself? From me?” O’Leary flattened his free hand to his chest. “I’m selling your album for you, here.”

“Our album doesn’t need your help.” Harper moved closer, too close.

It worked; O’Leary took a step backward.

Harper leaned forward, heart hammering in his ears, then reached out, using his free hand to nudge O’Leary’s shoulder back. A gentle but firm push.

It could go either way. The anticipation was exquisite. No script, just two strangers, performing for their fans.

O’Leary sat back down.

Delighted, Harper leaned over him and said, into his ear, “Can I sit in your lap?”

“What?” O’Leary’s breath caught. It was small, barely-there, so a human never would’ve noticed.

But Harper wasn’t human. And oh, he noticed. “No shade if you don’t want me to. But you’ve been fun to play off so far, and I thought you might want to drive them even wilder.”

Blinking slowly, O’Leary leaned back just enough to catch Harper’s gaze again. A slow, understanding smile crept onto his face again. He nodded.

As much as Harper was enjoying giving the cameras and eyeballs on them a great view of his ass like this, he was even more eager to put it in O’Leary’s lap -- for multiple reasons. The game was happening on at least two levels now, if not three, and Harper was here for it. He swung his legs over the arm of the chair, crossing them at the knee to display them in all their glory, and threw his free arm around O’Leary’s neck.

O’Leary’s hand pressed into his back, as if to support him there without anyone seeing. He smelled of tobacco and spice. Mortals had such sweet scents, sometimes. Harper resisted the slightly buzzed urge to lean into his neck and breathe him in deeply, but only just. The cameras were going wild; the chatter was focused on them. They had center stage, which was where they both shone.

O’Leary held Harper’s gaze as he raised his glass to him. “Fuck you, Harper Smith -- if that’s really your name.”

Harper chuckled. You’ll be the last person to learn my true name, boy. He raised his glass in reply, saying, “And you, Beck O’Leary. Sideways.” He leaned in as if to kiss his cheek, but stopped by his ear to whisper, “Thanks for coming. This is fun.”

A moment’s hesitation, barely there, before O’Leary whispered, “It was mesmerizing, if you want the truth.”

Harper flushed with pride. “I did. Thank you.”

O’Leary sipped at his drink, looking away and then clearing his throat. His thighs tightened up beneath Harper.