Chapter 4: Opera Boxed

I straightened my tie as we stepped into the soaring foyer of McCaw Hall, Seattle’s opera house alive with pre-show energy. The three-story glass windows curved like a serpent’s spine, flooding the space with evening light, while above us hung An Equal and Opposite Reaction—a wild, 30-foot tornado of aluminum bars and everyday junk, twisting down from the ceiling. No chandeliers here, just that grand sculpture spinning the eye upward, a perfect match for the chaos Coco brought into my life. She stood beside me, a knockout in a slinky black dress that clung to her toned frame, her silver-threaded mane catching the glow. This was a leap from muddy trails or coffee shop sinks—a night to savor my cultured side, with her as the real show.

“Swanky,” she said, her tawny skin shimmering as she eyed the sculpture. “Didn’t figure you for an opera guy, Ginger.”

I grinned, guiding her toward the bar. “I’ve got layers. Let’s grab some champagne—loosen up before the curtain rises.”

We snagged two flutes, the bubbles sharp on my tongue as I sipped. Coco tossed hers back quick, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Bubbly makes me bubbly,” she purred, leaning in close, her breath tinged with alcohol. “You trying to get me frisky?”

“Maybe,” I said, my hand grazing her lower back. “A loose Coco’s a wild Coco—remember that overhang on Rainier?”

She laughed, throaty and low, stirring my cock. “Oh, I remember. Mud and madness. This better not ruin my dress—it’s not cheap.”

“No promises,” I muttered, clinking my glass to hers. The champagne hit fast, a warm buzz easing me up, and I saw it in her too—her shoulders softened, her grin grew wicked.

“What’s the naughtiest thing you’ve pulled in a place like this?”

She smirked, sipping again. “Never been fucked somewhere this fancy. You gonna fix that, big guy?”

“Count on it,” I said, voice dropping as the lights dimmed, signaling the start. We downed our drinks, the fizz lingering, and headed to our private box—a splurge with a view of the stage and just enough shadow for trouble.

La Bohème kicked off, all soaring arias and doomed romance, but my focus was on Coco. She whispered dirty quips—”Bet Mimi’s pussy’s not as wet as mine was at 3rd Culture”—her hand sneaking under my jacket, teasing my cock through my pants. The champagne had us reckless.

The tenor climbed a high note, and I almost lost it—her hand was that relentless, my need that sharp. If I didn’t stop her, I was going to explode right there in velvet and brass.

“Keep going,” I whispered, breath hitching, “and I’ll make you moan louder than her.”

“Prove it,” she hissed, squeezing me. My pulse hammered as her dress crept up her thigh, flashing olive skin. We’d never last the act.

As Mimi sang of dying love, Coco leaned in close. “You’re getting soft on me,” she teased.

Maybe. Or maybe I was just starting to feel something real. The danger wasn’t the box—it was what she was doing to me.

Intermission hit, lights snapping on. I leaned in, breath hot in her ear. “Back of the box. Now.”

She grinned, rising from her seat and slipping into the shadows near the back wall. I followed, the door to the hallway still shut, the velvet curtain drawn tight. This wasn’t about sneaking out. This was about not waiting.

She pounced, her mouth slamming into mine, champagne and lust on her tongue. “Fuck me here,” she breathed, yanking her dress to her waist. No panties—just that soft, curly triangle framing her dripping pink pussy.

I spun her around, bending her over the plush railing, her generous ass thrust out. “You’re a tease,” I growled, unzipping, my cock springing free. I grabbed her ass with both hands, squeezing the warm, tanned flesh, and slammed into her from behind. She gasped—a soft “oh oh”—as I buried myself balls-deep, her steamy cunt gripping tight.