Jude groaned and leaned into me, the shadow of his wings snapping backwards and arching high as he flooded my mouth again. This time, some fluid slipped out of the corners. I pulled away, heaving for air, letting him splash his finish against my breasts—he would like that once he'd settled—and stroked him root to tip. His belly jumped against my lips as I kissed him there, and his weight pressed into me as strength rushed out of him with a final spurt of fluid striking my chest.
I leaned back and caught him against me as he dropped to his knees, the music pounding and the view of the others clear over his shoulders. Everyone was in the throes of release. I didn't care. I pressed my face into Jude's throat, his arms clasping weakly around my back, embracing me, lips murmuring senseless words against my shoulder.
The audience was cheering or coming, and the curtains were sliding shut for the moment, and still the moment was somehow private. Just for me and Jude. I didn't want to pull myself away from him, drag him into the wings of the stage so we could take our bow. I wanted to simply stay here, wrapped up in him, for another hour at least.
"Quick, Hazel," Hugh hissed, brushing his hair out of his face, guiding his besotted guest by the hand.
I would've ignored him too, my least professional choice at the theater in all my history, probably, but Jude heard the words.
He leaned back, a sloppy, boyish grin on his face, and then kissed me once, firm on the lips.
"Thank you," he said, hauling me up from the floor, guiding me after the others as if I were the guest and he the actor. The words were annoying, impersonal, but then he squeezed me close and whispered in my ear, "I can't wait to return the favor in private, Miss Nix."