by Skye Warren
This is worse. Or maybe it’s better. If he understands the way my heart is already claimed—
“I know he’s your guardian,” he says, his voice low as if imparting a secret. “And I see the way he looks at you. Some men think they can control you. He doesn’t hurt you, does he?”
Oh God. “No. I promise, no.”
“He’s friends with Frans. I’ve heard the rumors about him.”
The rumors about Fransisco? That makes me want to ask Isa whether she’s okay. Maybe she needs help. Then again she seems happy enough. “He isn’t dangerous, is he?”
A small laugh. “Every man is dangerous if he’s threatened.”
“Even you?”
“Even me.” He says it solemnly, as if making a promise. “If you need to get away from him, I can make that happen. I have friends here in Paris who will help me. He has no legal hold on you anymore.”
No legal hold on me. Something far more unbreakable. A hold on my heart.
“I’m not in trouble,” I say, my voice as serious as Alexander’s. Because it’s not entirely the truth. I’m in danger from a thousand different sources. From violence and from heartbreak. It’s not because a man won’t let go, though. It’s because he won’t hold on. “Thank you for your concern. Believe me, it means the world to know you’d do that, but I’m okay.”
He composes a soft, quick ending to our playful music from before. “In that case, I should leave you to your solitude that I so rudely interrupted.”
“I didn’t mind,” I say, repeating the new ending at a higher octave.
A bow doesn’t detract from his open expression. “I’ll see you at the theater?”
“For sure.”
He pauses. “If you never played the violin again, I would say that we would definitely suffer a loss. From a professional standpoint I have to ask you to continue. As someone who admires you, I want you to do whatever you need.”
In the silence after he goes, I look over at the violin.
I could play it now, before anyone else is here to listen. The ghostly imprint of bow and strings touches my fingertips. Silent strains sail through the air. A shiver runs down my spine. It’s not that I’m apathetic. That would be easier to bear. My skill would at least carry me through a concert or two. It’s more that I have a bone-deep repulsion. It’s like asking me to step into boiling lava. My body shies away before my mind can even negotiate.
A coward. That’s who stands up from the piano and leaves the room. Not strong enough to kiss a man who might actually build a relationship with me—one without guilt or sacrifice. Not strong enough to play the violin, the instrument my hands were born to know.
The hallway is as dark as I found it. As empty.
Except that the door to the balcony is open now. Was it closed before? I think so. A chill drifts down the darkened corridor. I take a step toward the end. There, to the side. A silhouette. I recognize him from behind. I could recognize him anywhere. He faces the grounds, his hands resting on the balcony, his shoulders broad, his hips lean. The tuxedo contours to his power, revealing its form.
Without really thinking it through I walk toward him. Then I set my hands on the cool stone beside his. “You could hear the piano inside.”
And he would have had to pass us to get here. Which means he saw Alexander in there with me. Sitting beside me on the bench. Maybe even kissing me. And he didn’t interrupt us?
“It sounded like you made a friend.”
A friend. “I’m surprised you didn’t come in.”
“The way I did during the dance? It isn’t right for me to stop you. If you want a man like him…” He looks away. “He’s the kind of man you’re going to end up with.”
My eyes narrow. He no longer bothers saying that I should end up with a man like Alexander. Instead he thinks I will. Like it’s inevitable. Like I have no choice in the matter. Even if I married him, even if I had three children, he would always assume I’d leave—the way his mother did.
There’s no convincing him, I realize with a sinking feeling in my stomach.
The past has written too deeply into his skin. It made him bleed and left the scars in the shape of the words, proving he’ll always be abandoned by those he loves.
“You let him kiss me?”
Liam flinches. He could not know what happened for sure, but he meant to let me. “It’s your choice.”
“You would have let him make love to me on that piano bench, is that right?”
A low growl escapes him. “Yes.”
“If he had flipped up my skirt and touched me the way you touch me. If he made me come so hard that I called out his name.” I make my voice breathless and high. “Alexander. Yes.”
Liam backs me against the tall stone railing. “Don’t push me.”
“If you didn’t want to hear it, why wait here? Why torture yourself?”
A pleading look in his green eyes. “That’s all I know how to do.”
“I’m tired of being your punishment, Liam North. Make me something else. Show me what it would be like if you took what you wanted, no guilt, no regrets. If you did anything to me. No restraint.”
His expression turns hard. “You don’t—”
I slap him. I don’t know why I do. I’m not really angry at him; it’s more that I’m desperate. Being soft hasn’t done enough. This is a man who works out on a daily basis in ways that would break most men. He doesn’t even feel the softness.
I want a reaction from him—and he gives me one.
His fist captures me wrist. Then my hand’s behind my back. Both of my arms are pinned behind me. The lace overlay with its black dots flutters in the breeze—my wings. He uses them to tie a knot. Netting traps my wrists behind me and pushes my breasts forward.
“You said you wouldn’t touch me until I played the violin.”
“Tell me to stop.”
Please don’t stop. “I did play the piano, though.”
A short laugh. “Will we call this a reward? Or a punishment?”
“I don’t know.” The air feels thin now. My breath comes faster. The bodice that lifted and constrained my breasts now struggles to hold me.
“This is what I’d do,” Liam says, sounding casual. “If I could do anything to your body, without guilt, without regret, without worrying about damaging you, I would keep you tied up. So I could touch you whenever I wanted, however I wanted.”
The words make my thighs clench together.
He studies my breasts, the way they swell over the top of the red satin. I’m not a voluptuous woman, but I might be Venus from the concentration he gives them. His fingers feather over my breast, his thumb fanning my nipple through the bodice. Sparks of pleasure awaken every dormant impulse. The moment in Nantes was more battle than sensual dance. The bathroom on the train an illicit snapshot. This balcony extends a thousand years into the future. A thousand years into the past. There’s nothing else except endless decadence.
“I might have felt guilty for this,” he says, dipping two fingers between my skin and satin. They find my nipple in an indelicate movement, holding the nub between them. Squeeze. My breath catches. “You said not to feel any guilt. Right?”
“Right.” My voice trembles as he tugs down the dress, exposing my breasts to the night air. Anyone could see us. If they walked down the hallway. If they strolled along the darkening lawn.
He frames my breasts, making them look even smaller. The scarred and weather-tanned skin of his fingers, the coarse hair on the back of his hand, it contrasts sharply with pale smoothness. Thumb and forefinger grasp my nipple without the dress to limit him. He tugs hard enough to make me yelp. The sensation fires straight to my center, turning my sex liquid.
“No regrets,” he says, his voice almost regretful. As if he would like to feel bad about the small pain he caused me, but he simply cannot. It wouldn’t be polite at this point, his tone implies. Everything about his demeanor speaks of formality. Which makes the way he licks his thumb more ex
plicit.
The damp tip makes me shiver.
“What if someone—what if someone comes?”
A low laugh. “Are you worried you will? Or worried you won’t?”
My cheeks flush. “Someone else. If they see us…”
“You’re a performer,” he says, his tone musing. “They’ll see you performing.”
“Not like this.” My voice squeaks at the end, because he bends to flick my nipple with his tongue. Such a small gesture. Such a soft touch, but it feels sharp. A hundred knives couldn’t shock me more.
“No, you’d prefer to play the violin. Or would you? It’s an Amati they have in the music room. You wouldn’t know because you couldn’t even bring yourself to open the case.”
My cheeks warm. This man has seen me at my lowest. In an orphanage. Afraid. Alone. He’s never seen me unable to play the violin, though. Until now. “Alexander said I should do what I want.”
“Alexander wants to fuck you.”
I flinch at the crude words. Of course I’ve heard the word fuck before. You don’t grow up on a compound full of ex-military mercenaries without hearing your share of them. Liam doesn’t use them too often. Not around me, anyway. “You don’t know that.”
“I do know that, because every man in that ballroom wanted to fuck you. When you walked down the stairs, when you smiled at those old fuckers in tuxedos, they were thinking about how you’d look on your back, your legs spread wide for them.”
The words should be offensive. They are offensive, but a strange fever has taken hold of me. I find it exciting that so many men would want me. I don’t know if it’s true or not, but it feels true. The dress has turned me into a siren. I’ve had admiration from grown men for my talent since I was a child. This is different. This is desire.
Liam bites down gently on my nipple, making me squirm. “I wouldn’t normally explain that, but it’s the same thing I thought about you.”
“Are you going to… you know?”
He smiles, though it’s not really with humor. It’s more like he’s mocking himself. “Am I going to fuck a young woman who can’t even bring herself to say the words? I wouldn’t have, but you don’t want me to feel guilt. You don’t want me to feel regret.”
He makes no move to lift my skirts or to open his pants. I’m standing in front of him like a sacrificial offering, my hands tied behind my back, my breasts bared, and all he does is touch. Each move is careful, pausing for… what? For me to say no? He thinks I’m going to give up. He thinks I’m going to cry off. God, he still thinks I’m going to leave. This whole thing is a challenge. Maybe I’m the one who issued it when I pretended to moan Alexander’s name. Anything less than completion won’t satisfy me now. Not only the kind he gave me by the ocean. He made me come but left himself unfinished. He left himself invulnerable.
“Does guilt own you that much?” I ask, taunting. “Does regret? You talk a good game.”
He looked half-feral most of the days in the small town, a few days’ growth on his jaw, his hair mussed by the ocean breeze. Now he looks smooth. Polished. His square jaw freshly shaven. His hair ruthlessly styled so it will fit in with the crowd. He probably thinks he’s anonymous as he walks through the ballroom. As if every woman doesn’t turn her head to watch him from behind.
“You own me,” he says, his voice low. It carries on the wind. Green eyes flash—not with guilt or regret. They flash with a kind of resignation.
It isn’t a pleasure, this possession I have of him. But it’s real.
“Alexander,” I say, not loud enough to really reach the ballroom. I pretend to call for some other lover. Someone who will finish what Liam started.
A real laugh then, and it’s worth it. Whatever happens next, whatever sin he visits on my body will be worth it to see the genuine way he throws back his head. “Quiet now, Ms. Brooks. Let’s see if we can put that pretty mouth to better use.”
CHAPTER TEN
Sonatas were at first written mainly for the violin. Over time a binary form emerged, with most modern sonatas featuring both a violin and a piano.
Liam
Folded over, my tux jacket provides little support from the marble floor. Her dress will probably shield her better. Regardless, she may end up with bruises on her knees. She may be the one filled with regret at the end of the night, but I won’t deny her. I can’t deny her. I wasn’t lying before—she owns me.
“There was something else,” I say, helping her kneel, every movement overly courteous, as if I’m being the consummate gentleman instead of a bastard. “Something else you didn’t want me to use.”
Her eyes shine with anticipation as she looks up at me. And fear. Not too much of it, but enough. I have never been interested in Fransisco’s kinky games, but I understand the edge of uncertainty and how it can sharpen lust to a spear. “Restraint.”
“That was it. Restraint. You don’t want me to use any?”
She’s trembling, whether from the fear or the cold I don’t know.
God help me, I don’t even care. Desire beats a tribal chant in my head. To take her. To claim her. To stretch her with my body so she always remembers who was inside her.
Her lids drop to her cheeks. “Maybe a little bit of restraint.”
“Don’t back down now.” I brush my knuckles against her cheek. “Not when you’re being so brave. Isn’t that what you want? Something rough to remember me by?”
She looks up, her eyes flashing. There’s no demure young woman now. Even on her knees she looks powerful. “That’s what it would take, is that it? Any woman would have to be brave to accept who you really are? Fine, then. Call me brave.”
I don’t know what she means about any woman. I only want her. My dick doesn’t care what she’s talking about. It likes her brave and powerful. It likes her on her knees.
From this position I can see the crown of her head and the silhouette of her face. I can see her breasts in their glory, framed by a wide spill of red silk around her. It’s the sight a man needs for a complete life. I could die having known this pleasure, even before her mouth touches me.
I open my pants with unsteady hands. Relief. It’s short-lived relief. Even freed from my briefs my cock throbs in hungry pulses. The night air might as well be sandpaper. Anything but her body will be painful. Part of me still expects her to turn her face away. It’s an ugly sight, the red, veined cock. An intimidating one, especially considering her hands are still tied behind her back. She’s completely at my mercy. If I shove too far, too fast, if I push down her throat, she can’t stop me.
No restraint.
Maybe a little bit of restraint.
She’s smart to temper the command. I’ll try to find a little bit of restraint. Though it will be hard when her lips are so full, so plump. Her tongue flicks out, a flash of pink, before it retreats.
I press my cock to her lips. She doesn’t open for me. No, she wants me to work for it. To fight her. That only makes me harder, and I grasp her neck, tilting back her head. She opens on a gasp, and I use the opportunity to press inside. Wetness. Heat. Velvet. It takes herculean effort to continue standing under the onslaught of her mouth. Christ. I push inside her, a little too far, a little too fast—exactly what she was asking for, begging for. She wants to be a little afraid tonight.
Her tongue rolls around the head, and I curse under my breath. “You’re so fucking beautiful, Samantha. So fucking perfect. I’ll never forget you like this.”
The flash of anger again. She wants me to believe she’ll stay by my side forever. I might as well believe in fairies and dragons and magic. There isn’t forever for us. A graze of her teeth to the underside of my cock. My balls tighten in instinctive warning. That’s her punishment for my lack of faith. It should be terrible, but instead I laugh towards the moon. Sex has been a form of physical relief for so long. Like running twenty miles until I collapse. The euphoria comes because it’s over. It’s always been different with her. More meaningful. More sweet. Only now has sh
e learned to make it… fun. Playful. It’s a game where the stakes are more than her body. More than her heart. They might even be her future.
From somewhere in the house a large grandfather clock chimes ten times.
Ten o’clock. Have the guests noticed she’s missing from the ballroom? It’s large enough that they may not. Between the dance floor and the refreshments there’s enough places she could be not to think she left completely. There are even private sitting rooms for those who want smaller groups. Or parties of two. The doors can be closed. Locked.
The equivalent of a sock on the knob.
We’re not supposed to be down this hallway. Not supposed to be fucking on the balcony, but I don’t think Frans will mind. “Stay still,” I tell her, touching her jaw so she understands. “I want to fuck your mouth. It’s different than sucking me.”
Her eyes look impossibly wide as she looks up at me, like she’s some anime drawing instead of a flesh and blood woman. The sensation around my cock leaves no doubt as to her composition. The slide of her tongue turns my cock to stone. I thrust my hips toward her. A rude gesture. Unworthy of her. It’s what I want to do to her every time I look at her lips, so I indulge myself. No restraint. I find a steady rhythm, allowing her to suck in breaths between my thrusts.
Christ, I want to come down her throat.
No. I want to make this last forever.
It’s too good to decide. Too perfect to last.
Over the eddies of pure sensation I feel the buzz on my watch. It’s time to do a security check. That takes precedent over ecstasy. Only, I can’t push her away from my cock. Self-discipline evaporates under the onslaught of her agile little tongue.
“Report,” I say into my watch. “Webb.”
“Clear.”
Samantha looks up at me, pure mischief in her eyes. A sweep around the crown of my cock. A broad lick over the head. My knees almost buckle. “Rogers,” I grind out.
“Clear.”
I warned them when I followed Samantha and that Alexander not to let anyone into the hallway. And to keep the south side of the lawn empty. No one’s going to see Samantha’s breasts except for me, but she doesn’t know that. The excitement makes her chest rise and fall in rapid rhythm. The sight of her plump tits makes my mouth water.
