Emeric
Saturday morning, we don’t fly out of New Orleans. I drive Ivory an hour and a half away to catch a plane from Baton Rouge. A city where I know no one. But as we walk through the airport—not touching—I’m suspicious as fuck of every person who casts their eyes in our direction. Do they know me? Are they affiliated with Le Moyne? I could explain our trip as business travel for the school, but that doesn’t stop my skin from crawling with paranoia.
When we step off the plane at our destination, I finally let myself relax.
Ivory sits beside me in the limo, her eyes darting everywhere, her expression a mesmerizing depiction of wonderment. The wide grin, sparkling eyes, and bouncing hyperactivity has been ongoing since I gave her the first-class ticket last night. She’s never been out of New Orleans. Never been on an airplane or in a limo or hotel.
I’ll show her every corner of the world if it keeps that smile on her face.
It’s been two months since Schubert died, and her happiness hasn’t fully snapped back. Until now. Fuck if that doesn’t make all my earlier nervousness worth it.
For the first time since we left Baton Rouge, I touch her, not as a teacher but as the man who loves her. In the privacy of the limo, I wrap an arm around her lower back and pull her against my side. Resting my lips against her temple, I stroke the crease of her thigh and hip.
She sighs, her body melting in my hold. “A limo, Emeric. It’s…unnecessary, but wow.” She leans forward, gaze locked on the side window and jaw hanging open as she takes in the surrounding glass metropolis of skyscrapers. “I can’t believe I’m in New York.”
I capture a strand of her hair and pull. “Can’t?”
She slides me a sexy grin, twists in the seat, and throws a leg across my lap, straddling me chest to chest.
With her hands on my face, she touches her smile to mine. “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.”
I would bend her over my lap and spank her perfect ass, but we’re five minutes away from our first stop. So instead, I pinch her nipple through the dress and hang on.
She grips my wrist and tries to jerk back, but the movement tightens my fingers and elongates the pebble of flesh.
Grabbing my necktie, she yanks hard. That only brings our lips closer together. I take advantage, kissing her greedily while squeezing the hell out of her nipple.
Her body bucks, a devious curve of flesh wrapped in black silk, as she exhales heavy huffs. “I’ll never say can’t again. Just please…my boob!”
Blood rushes to my cock, making it rise.
I release her. “Good girl.”
She rubs her breast. “So mean.”
I spy the smile pushing through her pout. “You love it.”
She slides off my lap but stays close, leaning across my thighs to peer out my window. “Are we going to Leopold first?”
Familiar streets and sights pass by. We’re a block away.
She thinks we’re dressed up for a fancy dinner reservation and that the purpose of the trip is to open her eyes to Leopold campus life.
What she doesn’t know is that I brought her here to open doors.
When the limo stops, she looks at the front of the building and gasps. Her elbow swings an inch from my face in her scramble across my lap to exit on the side closest to the shiny front doors.
I meet the driver’s eyes in the rear view mirror. “We’ll be a couple hours.”
As I join her on the sidewalk, the brisk wind chills the back of my neck. But I barely feel it in the warmth of her blinding smile as she takes in the campus where I spent five years of my life, earning my undergrad and master’s.
“Holy shit.” She hooks an arm around mine, hugging tightly. “This is really happening. I’m really here.”
As much as I loathe our secrecy, I force the warning tone past my lips. “Miss Westbrook.”
“Shit.” She drops her arm, steps an appropriate distance away, and stares straight ahead. “Sorry.” The corner of her mouth twitches. “Mr. Marceaux.”
Smart ass. “Follow me.” I lead her inside and through the halls.
I haven’t been here since I graduated four years ago. Nostalgia pulls at me, but I don’t take the time to look around. We have an appointment.
She walks quickly to keep up with my long strides, her heels clicking against the cement floor. “You’re not a very good tour guide. Slow down.”
“We’ll explore later.” I stop at a closed door in Richter Hall and shift to face her.
She studies me, glances at the door, and looks back. Her hands rub down the front of her dress. “What are we doing?” She narrows her eyes, suspicion lashing through her tone. “What did you do?”
“You’re here for an audition.”
Her mouth falls open, working to form words. “Now?” She clutches the frog charm on her bracelet, rubbing with anxious fingers, her voice a harsh whisper. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because of this.” I touch her fidgeting hands and drop my arm. “Your excitement about this trip would’ve been ruined by nerves.”
She nods jerkily, her eyes wide and terrified.
The hallway is empty, but I won’t risk a kiss. Instead, I let her see the depths of my support and love in my gaze. “Remember, your sound is the first thing the panel members will judge you on, and they’ll do that in the first thirty seconds.”
“Oh God.” She inhales deeply. “Which pieces do I play?”
“Play what you identify most with, what you feel you play well, and what fits your style and aspirations. Let them see the exquisite heart of Ivory Westbrook.”
I check my watch. It’s time. Turning away, I open the door.
The stadium-style classroom hasn’t changed since all those semesters I spent taking notes right up there in the bleacher seats. The same Steinway grand piano sits in front near the door. It’s like walking into a time warp.
With Ivory at my side, I head toward the middle-aged woman and two lanky old men in the front row. I’ve never met them, but I’ve been in contact with the woman, Gail Gatlin, who stands and crosses the room to greet us.
Her stern gray eyes peer up at me from behind spectacles rimmed in gold. Sandy brown hair combs back from a complexion that probably sees little to no sunshine. Her stature is short and pudgy, yet she radiates confident authority.
She holds out her hand, shaking mine. “Welcome back, Mr. Marceaux.”
“Thanks for seeing us today.” I gesture to Ivory. “This is my protégé, Ivory Westbrook.”
“I’m Mrs. Gatlin.” Gail shakes Ivory’s outstretched hand. “You must be quite something for Mr. Marceaux to bring you all the way here himself. His appraisal of your talent was convincing enough to gather a panel of judges on a Saturday.”
In other words, don’t waste their time. I wouldn’t have brought her here if I thought she would.
Gail gestures at the two men waiting in the front row. “We don’t usually interact with the candidates, but since this is an unusual audition, it will be somewhat free-form. Begin when you’re ready.” She nods at the piano and takes her seat.
Ivory settles behind the Steinway, her fingers rubbing the frog charm. I find a chair off to the side where I have a direct view of her face as she stares at the keyboard.
My leg bounces, and I tense it to stillness. What will she play?
Right now, her smile reminds me of Queensryche’s “Silent Lucidity.” The corners of her lips lift in self-possession, the curved peaks arching into luminous competence as she looks her dream straight in the eye. A dream that has only just begun.
But Queensryche won’t be in her repertoire. She’s researched Leopold for years and knows the audition requires standard pieces from 19th-century concertos, contrasting movements from an unaccompanied Bach partita, and arpeggios in three octaves with double stops.
Whatever she chooses to play, she can nail it with her eyes closed.
Leaning over the keys, she moves her fingers and sways into a slow-burning p
relude. I don’t immediately recognize the piece. It’s not baroque or classical… My breath catches. It’s an Irish pop band.
My entire body locks up, my hands curling around the arm rests. What the hell is she doing?
The despairing chords of Kodaline’s “All I Want” fill the room with heavy undercurrents of sadness and positivity. The unspoken lyrics scrawl across my mind, a message that can only be interpreted as, It’s over, but I’ll find somebody. Life will go on.
It’s a breakup song.
My heart stops, sinking into the snarling pit of denial as the piano notes pound in my head. Why is she playing this? Is it a message to me?
Look at me, Ivory.
Her eyes flicker to mine and return to the keyboard, the fleeting glimpse too quick to read. I ache for her to glance up again, to give me something that will pull me out of this nebulous mindfuck.
I told her I’d follow her anywhere. I brought her here knowing she would get in. I’m fully committed to move back to New York with her. So what the fuck is she trying to tell me? And why is she ruining her audition to do it?
The judges shift uncomfortably in their seats. Any second, they’re going to shut her down.
This is going all wrong. No, not wrong. There’s so much passion and depth in the way she hits those keys. Her execution is perfect. But the song doesn’t show off her technical talents. It most definitely doesn’t meet the audition requirements.
Gail holds up a hand in a stopping motion, annoyance biting through her tone. “Miss Westbrook.”
Ivory pauses, peering at the woman expectantly.
With a bothered sigh, Gail gestures at the surrounding walls. “This is Leopold. Not School of Pop.”
Subtly, slowly, Ivory’s eyes shift and connect with mine. In that fragment of a second, I see the heart of the woman I love, and it’s smiling at me with radiant resolve. It’s merely a moment of eye contact, but I feel her as if she were right beside me, assuring me that all is right in our world. My pulse thrums through my veins.
She knows exactly what she wants, and she’s not just telling me. She’s showing me in the most earthshaking way possible. In an audition for her dream. Through a song she identifies most with.
I maintain an expression of indifference and calmly fold my hands in my lap. But inside, I’m shaking beneath the shock of realization. She’s not breaking up with me. She’s saying goodbye to Leopold. What I don’t understand is why? What changed?
Gail leans back in the chair. “Why do you want to attend this school?”
Shoulders back and spine straight, Ivory lifts her chin. “To learn from the best of the best.”
“I see.” Gail adjusts her glasses. “What are you looking for in an instructor?”
Ivory smiles, her eyes alight. “Expertise, of course. A firm hand to push me. An untraditional mind to expand my own. And discipline.” Her gaze flicks to me and back to the judge. “When it’s needed.”
Her answer is directed at Gail, but I know those words are for me. I embody every trait she mentioned. I am her ideal instructor.
Gail’s mouth forms a flat line. “Leopold is a traditional school, and our training concentrates on classical, baroque—”
Ivory turns to the keyboard and busts out the hardest section of Balakirev’s Islamey.
If she doesn’t intend to go to school here, I don’t know what she’s trying to prove. Nevertheless, the shivering intensity of her performance bangs through the room with gusto. There are no rhythm, note, dynamic errors. Every sound she produces is flawless.
All three judges lean forward in their chairs, eyes wide, mouths parted. Yeah, they’re impressed. They fucking should be. I bet they’ve never seen someone attempt Islamey in an audition, let alone pull it off with immaculate skill.
Ivory cuts the piece short and raises a brow at them. I feel my pride all the way to my toes.
Gail rests her fingers over her mouth then smooths back her hair. “Okay, Miss Westbrook. You have our attention.”
Wearing a private smile, Ivory rises, straightens the black dress, and steps toward them. “I’ve spent my entire life saying, ‘I want to get into Leopold.’ Most musicians do, you know? But I’ve been selling myself short. There are some brilliant piano instructors outside these walls. I can happily spend the next however many years perfecting my skill without moving to New York.”
My heart thumps so loudly I wonder if they can hear it across the room. I climb to my feet and step beside Ivory, hands clasped behind my back in silent support.
Gail stands, her expression etched in determination. “I need to converse with my colleagues…” When both men nod to her, she hardens her voice. “We would be honored for you to join us.”
Ivory nods. “Thank you, but I’ve made my decision.”
Extending an arm, Gail hands her a business card. “It’s an open offer. If you don’t find the instructor you’re looking for, this year, next year, or anytime in the future, we’ll have a seat for you.”
Goodbyes are exchanged, and Ivory and I walk silently through the halls, my head pounding with questions.
When we reach an empty courtyard outside, I can no longer hold my tongue. “Tell me why you did that. What the hell changed your mind?”
She wraps her arms around her waist and shudders against the chill in the air. “I don’t want to live here. It’s too cold.”
I hear the smile in her voice and shrug off my jacket, draping it over her shoulders.
She burrows into the wool, keeping her steps in pace with mine. “When I sat behind that piano, I imagined what it would be like learning from an instructor, a mentor, who isn’t you. Then I played the song that fit me instead of the requirements. A song that expresses passion and voice, something I’ve never felt through the textbook pieces. The judges didn’t approve, and that’s when I knew.” She stops and blinks up at me. “If I enrolled here, I would be forced to conform under the instruction of someone who doesn’t know me while practicing music that doesn’t touch me.”
Tendrils of warmth spread through my chest, but I wonder if she’s considered all the ramifications. “You won’t receive a degree under my tutelage. If you’re still aiming for that seat in the symphony, you won’t have the pedigree and prestige to put you there.”
She shrugs. “A symphony, a theater, a stadium…the where isn’t important. I want the lights, the audience, and the music. I guess I have a lot to figure out, and if it turns out that the degree is necessary, I’ll get it.” She holds up the business card and smiles.
“That’s why you played Islamey.”
“Backup plans are good to have. You never know. My current instructor might set his eyes on another student.” She smirks. “High school teachers have a way of falling fast and ignorantly in love.”
My hand flexes, burning to slam against her ass. “You amaze me.”
She grins. “I try.”
As we meander into the next building, I give her a proper tour. Her interest in the campus focuses on where I spent my time rather than how the facilities would help her if she ever changed her mind. She seems well and truly at peace with her decision.
Since it’s the weekend, the halls are dark and vacant. Still, we maintain a professional distance, walking side by side as I point out my favorite stomping grounds and share memories about the people I hung out with.
“I don’t get it.” She follows me into a dead-end hallway. “I’ve known you for eight months, and I’ve only ever heard you play old-guy rock on the piano.”
“Old-guy rock?”
“Guns N’ Roses, Megadeth, AC/DC… I mean, that’s your jam, so how did you handle the classical training here if you’re not into it?”
“I was just about to show you.”
At the end of the empty hall, I wiggle the handle on the last door. It opens, and I herd her inside, shutting and locking it behind me.
My hand hits the light switch in reflexive memory, and the overhead fluorescent buzzes to life.
> The spartan, soundproofed practice room is big enough to hold the upright piano and two people. She glances around and gives me a confused look.
I lean against the upright. “I spent every day in here, practicing the songs I enjoyed without the rigid instruction of my mentors. I sat right there with my headphones on and my playlist on repeat. This is where I fell in love with metal on the piano.”
She runs a hand along the covered keyboard, inching toward me. “Every day? On this piano?”
“Yes.”
Slipping off the jacket, she drapes it over the bench. “Alone?”
“Of course.”
She stops just out of arm’s reach. “Did you ever bring a girl in here?”
“Just one.” My cock twitches. “Her panties are in danger of being ripped off.”
“I’m not wearing panties.”
Fuck, I’m hard. How did I miss her bare pussy when she was straddling me in the limo?
I glance at the door and remember I locked it.
A wicked grin twists her lips. “Did you jack off in here?”
I cough through a laugh.
She steps in front of me and grips my tie. “You did.”
I totally did.
She glances down at the piano, nibbling on her smile. “I bet you squirted on the keys. I wonder if there’s still—”
“You want to see my come?” I grip her wrist and hold her palm against my erection, desperate for relief. “You can watch it drip out of your cunt.”
My other hand goes to her hair, tangling in the thick strands as I pull her mouth to mine.
The kiss slips past gentle and plunges straight into hard, aggressive strokes. Her fingers squeeze me through the slacks, spurring my hips into motion, rocking against her hand as my tongue lashes and licks in her mouth. I bite down hard on her bottom lip and holy fucking hell, her nails dig into my balls.
I spin her toward the carpeted wall, chest to chest, and pin her arms above her head. She gazes up at me, her lips pouty, sensual, and swollen with lust. It’s that sexy-as-hell look she always gives me after I’ve kissed her into a daze. The kind of kiss that makes her entire body heavy and limp with desire.
Grinding my cock against her pussy, I trail my tongue along her neck. “Remember the first time we were in this position?”
Falling For The Forbidden Page 35
