In the music he could allow himself freedom, an abandonment, and he swept into the breathless speed of arpeggios fearlessly and without hesitation, understanding its intent, feeling it. He was lonely, and there was a lovely woman who desired him, both physically and intellectually, and he couldn’t have her. He couldn’t touch her. Even when he craved her body, her mind, her heart, he couldn’t have her.
So instead of pouring himself into her, he poured himself into the music, the passion increasing, the notes feverish and frightening, unexpected outbursts of emotion before it slowed down again, shifting from fast and angry to melancholy, resignation. Gabriel was resigned.
And he suspected so was Sara.
He glanced over at her, realizing that she had been quiet since he had started playing.
Gabriel’s fingers paused when he saw her. Bloody hell. She had reclined onto the sofa on her back, knees up in the air, eyes closed, and her chest was rising and falling rapidly, her thumb brushing over the taut nipple beneath her tank top. Her lips were open in sensual abandonment, like a woman being stroked and aroused and loved by a man’s hand.
“Don’t stop,” she whispered, a tiny moan of disappointment that lacerated his control and sent his fingers tripping sensually over the keys the way he wanted to touch Sara.
God, he wanted to touch her.
He stroked the piano instead and hoped his control would hold.
Sara lay back on the couch and let her eyes flutter closed. She didn’t feel drunk, not in the way she was used to. Wine made her giggly, mixed drinks made her stumbling, shit-faced drunk, and beer made everything seem extra loud. This wasn’t like any of those. She felt alert, wide-awake, completely in control. Everything felt sharp and focused and real, and like everything seemed so much more logical than it had before. She was feeling prosaic about her mother’s death, dissecting the path of her mother’s life, and seeing how, like Anne Donovan, when a woman flirted with danger, drugs, alcohol, stripping, prostitution, her risk of harm increased. It didn’t mean she deserved it, but it meant simply that her odds of tragedy were greater. Sara could see that. She thought it sucked, but she could see it.
And she could see that coming to New Orleans had been a brilliant idea. It truly had. She was facing the past, the present, the future. She actually felt confident that when the book was finished, she could go back to work. Move forward.
Gabriel’s piano playing was beautiful, the strains of the music flowing around her, over her, in her. It rose and fell, a desperate, frustrated piece that reminded her of the man himself. He was locked inside himself, an introvert. Yet what was in there was passionate, creative, demanding, sexual. He wanted her, she was sure of that. She could see that in his eyes, hear it in his music.
Never in her entire life had she wanted a man to fill her body as rabidly as she did right at that moment. Lying there, her body ached for him, every inch tingling and aware and raw, wanting that touch, that brush, that push, that possession.
It didn’t occur to her that she wasn’t alone and maybe it wasn’t the time or place to touch her nipples. She just accidentally brushed one, and it felt good, right, so she did it again. If he wouldn’t, she could. There was no harm in that, and maybe it would ease the ache.
When he paused for a moment, she asked him not to stop, and he continued, the notes harder again, louder. Sara looked over at Gabriel, watched his profile from her angle, studied his fingers moving. He had elegant, gorgeous fingers, long and tapered, strong and masculine, commanding in their control of the music, but artistic. Fingers that brought beauty and pleasure.
Fingers that she wanted on her. As she stared at him, watched in awe the quickness of his playing, the confidence, the grace of those long fingers, she imagined what it would feel like to take one into her mouth, to suck it to the tip, pull the entire length into her mouth. To have it pluck at the tightness of her nipple, slide smoothly down her abdomen. To slip into the heat of her body, his length giving her the satisfaction of depth, his elegance the pleasure of skilled stroking.
His lips were pursed, a scowl on his face–of concentration, irritation, frustration–she wasn’t sure. It didn’t seem like he was struggling with the music. There was no hesitation, no trips or pauses or bad notes that her uneducated ear could detect. Sara let her knees fall apart, onto the couch, because it seemed like they needed to be open. Everything ached and desired and she inched her skirt up past her knees, feeling hot and aroused. Gabriel wasn’t going to touch her, she knew that. He was playing the piano, and he needed to do that. She really knew he needed to do that, for his sake.
But she couldn’t just lie there, alone, wanting him so desperately that she could feel the dampness in her panties, feel the tug and pull in her womb for sexual fulfillment. It was just impossible. And while her fingers weren’t his, she could touch, so he could play, and they could both have what they wanted.
It made perfect sense to her in his dark apartment, the absinthe convincing her that all her ideas were amazing ones, while Gabriel’s music danced around her, an expression of his giving in, his freedom, his creative joy. His sensuality. Sara slid her hands along her inner thighs, sighing. Not the same at all, but it still felt good, especially when she brushed the back of her thumb over her panties.
Gabriel made a sound, and she glanced over at him. He still played, but his eyes weren’t on the keys. They were on her, and they were burning. He had seen her touch herself, could see her white panties, that was obvious. He looked a little shocked, but mostly, he looked like he liked it. Sara moistened her lips and his eyes narrowed. Oh, yeah. He liked it.
So she turned away, looking up at the ceiling, and touched her chest with one hand, squeezing and rubbing her nipple, while she stroked across the front of her panties with her other hand. It felt so good that she sat half up and yanked off her tank top, dropping it to the floor so she could feel her skin, reach inside her bra and free her breasts, cupping with both hands. Maybe she was drunk, because it seemed perfectly natural, and she didn’t hesitate. It felt amazingly good, heady and voyeuristic to know he was watching her, wanting her. Instead of being angry that he wouldn’t take, she felt the power of that tease, the heightened titillation of knowing that everything she did could both bring pleasure to herself and acute arousal to him.
She pulled her skirt up all the way to the waist and slipped her hand inside her panties. The warmth heated her skin and she lay still for a second, just feeling the anticipation, feeling the heat of Gabriel’s eyes on her, feeling the cool breeze from the air conditioner propped in the window a few feet away tickling over her bare stomach and thighs. Even though she knew nothing about music at all, particularly classical music, she could hear and feel what the piece Gabriel was playing was intended to convey. It was passionate, wild, no longer angry, but not melancholy either. It was a song of seduction, a challenge to continue, to ignore convention and propriety and embrace pleasure.
Closing her eyes, she stroked inside her panties, rushing along her clitoris and into the moistness of her body. The first touch tripped off intense need, and she moved more urgently, stroking in and out, her breathing turning into a low pant, her back arching, her heels digging into the couch cushion. She wanted to ask him to help her, to come over, to replace her finger with his, but she couldn’t speak, couldn’t make the words come out loud and be heard over the music. Couldn’t spoil the moment, the pleasure, the feeling that in a way, he was the one touching her. It was his finger, his music, his creation, the swirling rise of ecstasy in her body the result of him, all him.
And when she came, when her inner muscles convulsed around her finger, it was him she came for, and the image of his fingers deep inside her. That way, he could play, fill the room with the sound of his music, at the same time she could shatter in pleasure, her hips lifting up in the air, body tensing everywhere as she rode it out.
She wasn’t sure if she made any sound, but she felt the moans, heard them echoing in her head, the tight pulses
settling down as she relaxed her legs, her back. Prying her eyes open she swallowed hard. Wow. She had never been so aggressive before, so frantic in pushing herself to completion. That had been hot and exciting and unexpected and she wanted more. She was sitting up, ready to strip completely, yank off her bra, ditch her skirt, go in for a second time, longer and deeper, up on her knees, when she saw Gabriel.
He was watching her, and she couldn’t read his expression. It was tight and he had stopped playing.
Then he said, “Get over here.”
“What?” Sara reached for her glass, emptying the last few drops, her mouth dry, throat sore and hoarse. She wasn’t sure what he was saying exactly, if he intended to yank her bra back over her nipples, lecture her, or fuck her.
“I said, get over here. Right now.”
Hoping it was the latter, Sara stood up and walked over to him, letting her skirt fall down over her thighs on its own, her body still moist and slick with want, her breasts still spilling over the top of her bra. She pushed her hair back off her forehead and went to him, enjoying that walk, enjoying the way his eyes watched her, the way his fingers stayed tight, poised over the keys, but not playing. His hair fell over one eye and he shook it off by jerking his head.
She went up to him, right to the bench, and slid in front of him until she touched his arm with her thigh. “Yes?”
Gabriel moved his arm until he was surrounding her, holding her, enclosing her. Then he shocked her, literally yanked the air right out of her, by gripping her waist and lifting her up, clear off the floor, and slamming her ass down onto the keys. Her back collided with the top of the piano, and she teetered, unbalanced, startled by the angry vibration of a dozen keys hitting at the same time, and by his unexpected action, her toes struggling to touch the floor and keep her from falling over in a tangled heap. “What are you…”
Then she lost her thought, her words careening into a cry of shock and ecstasy as he yanked her skirt up, shoved her panties to the side, and bent over, plunging his tongue inside her. “Oh, holy shit.” Reaching left and right, slapping her hands around for something to hold onto, anything, Sara felt the force of his tongue in every inch of her body. She instantly had a mini-orgasm, an aftershock of the one before, and a reaction to his aggressive behavior.
It was so intense, so sensitive, her clitoris tight and hard, the pleasure almost painful, that she tried to retreat, tried to back up. But the piano ground into her, held her in place, held his tongue deep inside her, and she glanced down, finally dropping her hands to his shoulders for help in keeping her upright. His hair fell forward, covering his face from her view, and those silken strands, in their curious variety of colors, caught the light, looking ethereal, preternatural, surreal like the moment itself, the sensation of his moist tongue sliding along her hot flesh too real, too intense, for anything else to feel normal. It all seemed glossy and shiny, strange and crisp, like she was inside a painting, like the wall behind him was a canvas that could shift at any moment, like the only thing that she could trust in as real was the feel of his shoulders beneath of her fingers, the smell of his cologne, the hard press of the piano in her back, and the touch of his mouth on her desperate, over-stimulated, agonized body.
She wanted to say something but she couldn’t think, grab on to any words. It was all just sensation, sound, want, reaching for a release, which came suddenly in a tumultuous wave that had her gripping his t-shirt, her head snapping back as it took her under. Sara bit her lip so hard she tasted blood, rocking forward, vaginal muscles vibrating and straining, her mind empty, breath held. The intensity overwhelmed her, the pleasure all consuming. As the last spasms subsided, she had to force herself to relax–fingers, legs, shoulders, abdomen–to suck in air and remind herself to breathe, to remember who and where she even was. “Jesus Christ,” she said, loosening her death hold on his shirt.
Mouth thick and in desperate need of water, she took another deep breath, swallowing hard, suddenly aware that the hair on her forehead was damp, and that her legs were trembling from the position. She wanted to say something, needed to say something, but she just looked at him, waiting for him to either flip her entirely onto the top of the piano, which struck her as a bad idea, or yank her down to the floor or the couch to finish what they had started. To fill her with him, to take both of them into that ecstasy, that completion, together.
But one glance at his face had her amending what was going to happen next. Gabriel wasn’t going to have sex with her. It was obvious in the tightness of his shoulders, his face, the frustration she saw etched in every muscle, in all of his body language. He was already pulling away, literally and figuratively. As he retreated, he pulled her skirt down, covering her, his hand wiping his mouth dry.
She refused to feel ridiculous, slighted, annoyed. She had known why he was resisting, known it was too soon. She hadn’t intended to force him into action. He had done that. She would have been content with what she had done on the couch. Knowing he was watching, getting aroused, had been enough for her, and this was his choice.
So she decided to take the upper hand, instead of waiting for him to embarrass her by reminding her he wouldn’t have sex with her. “I’m going to take a shower,” she said, peeling herself off the piano. She trailed her fingers across his cheek, through his hair, as she moved past him. “Thanks for playing. I really enjoyed it.”
He opened his mouth. Then shut it. Then opened it again. “No problem. My pleasure.”
The irony of that nonchalant statement made her laugh.
And Sara headed for the bathroom, stopping to scoop up her shirt on the way, feeling more relaxed than she had in a year.
* * *
Gabriel watched Sara head down the hall, her tank top swinging back and forth in her hand, her light laughter carrying as she gave him one last glance over her bare shoulder. The look was saucy, pleased. She had gotten what she wanted and didn’t seemed offended that he wouldn’t take it to the next step.
He wasn’t feeling at all pleased. He was sick with self-disgust, at his complete lack of control. The taste of her was lingering on his mouth, and he could still feel the warmth of her thighs as he gripped her, keeping her legs spread, her panties pushed to the side, as he had moved his tongue in and out of her receptive body. She had been wet, eager, easy to orgasm, and he had known when he’d seen her sit up on the couch and reach for her skirt that she was going to peel off her clothes and pleasure herself some more, and that he was going to take her himself instead.
It had been stupid. She was drunk, dancing with the green fairy, and had let down all of her inhibitions. She was going to regret touching herself in front of him the next day. He should have left it alone, just concentrated on the notes and not even watched. He should have stepped out of the room to give her privacy. He should have resisted the urge to touch her.
But he felt a kinship to Sara, an intense longing and lust that superceded any and all common sense, and he suspected that he was succumbing to the very angelic emotion of love. He had thought that since his fall, since his plunge into selfishness, he was incapable of stepping outside of himself and caring about another person but maybe he had been wrong, because his desire for Sara was complex. It wasn’t just lust, but was a need to connect, to feel her, to touch, to please, to protect, to make her happy.
Gabriel pushed D above middle c with his thumb. The note rang out, than faded. It had felt good to play again. He had heard the music once he had touched the instrument. But it had made him lose control.
Or maybe he had never been in control.
He didn’t know what he was doing. Who he was. Why it mattered to solve Anne’s murder.
He didn’t know how to prevent Sara from falling victim to his sins.
And he didn’t know how to move beyond his purgatory into a better life, one where he could have a positive impact on the world, humanity. One where he didn’t stand around motionless in the muck of his sins, but took action.
Gabriel
played Bach idly. He didn’t know any contemporary music, or anything twentieth century, for that matter, since he hadn’t played in a hundred years. But he liked the traditional intricacy of eighteenth and nineteenth century composers.
He needed to stay away from Sara.
But he knew he wasn’t going to.
“Gabriel?” she called from down the hall. “I forgot a towel. Can you bring me one?”
Without hesitation, he got up and went down the hall.
He was fallen, after all.
No one expected him to have a halo anymore.
Chapter Thirteen
DONOVAN WITNESS DEAD!
January 11, 1850- In a shocking twist to the willful murder trial of Anne Donovan that has the city riveted, witness Molly Faye, former lover of elusive and charming defendant, Jonathon Thiroux, is dead, by her own hand.
After engaging in a heated and illustrious argument with another witness, also an lewd and unfortunate woman, just two days past, in which Miss Faye learned she was not the only object of the defendant’s affection, Miss Faye took her life in the decisive manner of slicing open her own throat.
Found by the proprietress of The House of Rest for Weary Men, Madame Conti, in the victim’s own bed, the vision first conjured up images of the scene last October when poor Anne Donovan was found in a similar state just two rooms down the hall. But whereas Anne had been sliced repeatedly, with such brutality and force as to render her unrecognizable, Molly Faye suffered merely one wound, from the left side of her throat to the right, approximately six inches in length and of a shallow depth. Dr. Raphael, the coroner, has concluded her death a suicide, as the weapon was in her hand and the slice tentative, as is often the case when a person hesitates on the threshold of death. The deceased’s personal affects were tidy and in order, and no note was left, though that can be explained by the simple fact that Miss Faye was not literate. Next to her bed, on the nightstand, was a torn out clipping of the newspaper article written by this reporter, detailing the courtroom scuffle involving Miss Faye and Miss Swanson. There was no money in the room, no evidence of next of kin, and possessions only enough to fill a small satchel.
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