Total pages in book: 767
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
It hurts. That little fur ball was such an essential part of my life, and I ache in his absence. But I’m not broken. Not like I was when I lost my dad. It’s easier this time. I feel it in every touch and glance Emeric gives me, that much-needed support of another person holding me up during those times when I struggle to stand on my own.
That night, he snores softly behind me, his chest pressed to my back, our limbs entangled, bodies aligned. I can’t join him in sleep, my mind too restless, thinking about his reaction to using my word with Lorenzo.
Nothing has changed between Emeric and me. We haven’t had sex since that day, but I’ve had a bladder infection. His lingering glances still make me purr. His kisses curl my toes. What I don’t know is how I’ll respond when he straps me down, grips my throat, or raises that belt. I trust him, unequivocally. But do I trust a word—any word—enough to use it again?
Before I met him, Scriabin’s sonata was a black mass in my mind, the place I went to when terrible things happened to my body.
Over the past five months, those dark notes have become synonymous with Emeric and the safety he gives me. Did I ruin it by using it with the wrong man?
I play the sonata in my head, but I don’t feel it. I need to hear it.
Sneaking out from beneath the heavy weight of his arms, I listen for his even breaths then tiptoe to the music room.
With the door shut, the room is supposed to be soundproof. I sit behind the piano, soaking in the silence and clearing my head. After a few calming breaths, I run my fingers over the keys and ease into Scriabin’s Sonata No.9.
It’s rough at first, the melody banging through the room in a disjointed rhythm. But I keep at it, transforming my interpretation from eerie and neurotic to something more nebular and meditative. The sonata drifts around me in a cloud of notes. My mind absorbs it, reflects it.
It feels safe. The kind of safe that enwraps me during my darkest times. It’s doing that now, melting away the room, fogging my headspace, and immersing me in dissonance.
Except I suddenly don’t feel like playing it. I rest my hands in my lap. The sonata is a place to go to, a word to speak, when I’ve reached my limit. But do I enjoy it? Not really. It doesn’t…thrill me.
I want to try something different. Something beyond Chopin, Rachmaninov, and Debussy.
My attention shifts toward the door, and I startle.
Emeric leans against the frame, arms relaxed at his sides, his phone in one hand. He’s been in constant communication with his PI over the past couple days. Probably tracking Shane. Maybe something involving Lorenzo, as well. He doesn’t tell me, and I don’t ask.
Black pajama pants sit seductively low on his trim hips, the V of his abs pointing like an arrow to the soft bulge beneath the cotton.
I raise a brow. “How long have you been there?”
“I followed you.” His brows lower, his eyes dark, haunted. “You played Scriabin.”
“Yeah. I needed to know.” I glance at the keyboard. “I won’t be afraid to say no. With the word.” I return to him. “Trust me to use it.”
He straightens, studying me intently. “Be sure, Ivory.”
“I’m sure. It’s safe.” I wrinkle my nose. “And kind of boring.”
His eyes light up. “I’m intrigued.” He prowls toward me. “Name a song that’s not boring.”
The tick of your watch. The harmony of your breaths. The tempo of your heart. The notes I feel whenever you’re near. “‘I Will Follow You Into The Dark.’”
He stops behind me and places his phone on the bench beside my hip. “Death Cab for Cutie?”
I nod.
“Interesting choice.” He moves my hair aside and traces his knuckles along the line of my neck. “Play it.”
“I don’t have the music sheet.”
“You don’t need it.” His lips touch the path of his finger, his breath stroking my ear. “You have the world’s greatest teacher.”
I shiver. “So cocky.”
He gives my neck a warning bite and steps back. “Raise your arms.”
I do, recalling his words the night I sucked his cock in Le Moyne’s theater.
I want you naked, sitting at my piano and rolling your hips like you’re fucking the notes.
He pulls the t-shirt over my head and drops it, leaving me completely bare beneath his gaze. With his hands on my waist, he lifts me, takes my seat, and positions me on his lap, facing the keyboard.
This is different. I’m up a little higher, but as his arms come around me and his hands guide mine to the keys, I relax my weight on his powerful thighs. Knees together between his, I tremble in anticipation.
He cues up the song on his phone and sets it on the bench. In the next breath, the inspiring arrangement of music and lyrics trickle from the speaker. His hands move beneath mine and guide me through the simple complexity of chords.