I don’t want him to carry this burden alone, but it would be important to him to keep me isolated from the details. Pushing him on it would only make him frustrated and conflicted.
I can be rational on this one thing.
His hand moves over the bend of my knee, his thumb stroking against the covers. “Your brother is leaving.” He looks at Shane and steels his voice. “For good this time.”
Blowing out a breath, I check what I’m wearing—another one of Emeric’s t-shirts. No panties. I shift to sit against the headboard, dragging the covers with me, and meet Shane’s eyes.
He scoots to the edge of the chair and rubs his palms over his jeans, watching the movement. “It’s a little late, but I’m saying it anyway.” He glances at me. “I’m sorry.”
Two words don’t erase years of abuse and bullshit. However, his actions today, his choosing me over Lorenzo, hit hard and true, fracturing the ugly barrier between us.
A fracture doesn’t bring down a wall. But it does leave behind a precious weak point, one that will always be there. Whenever I think of him, I’ll feel that fracture and remember it fondly.
Emeric studies our interaction, his expression neutral, his caresses lingering on my ankle.
Shane lifts a hand and reaches for mine, making an awkward hesitation in the space that separates us before hooking our fingers together.
He smiles sadly, squeezes my hand, and whispers, “Fuck you, Ivory.”
I squeeze back. “Have a nice life, Shane.”
He pulls his hand away, then his gaze, and walks out the door without looking back.
A pang of loss tightens my chest. The urge to stop him tenses my legs.
But he broke into Emeric’s house. He beat me for years. I’m no longer a victim. With those reminders, I let him go.
Emeric follows him out. When he returns a few minutes later, he strips naked, slides into bed behind me, and curves his body around mine. I revel in the warmth of his skin and twine our legs together, melting against his chest with a sigh.
Instead of demanding I talk or eat or take my medicine, he touches his mouth to my shoulder then my neck and jaw. When I turn in his arms, he teases my lips apart and sinks his tongue in to slide against mine. The scruff on his chin rubs softly. Cinnamon flavors his breaths, his lips a firm pressure of sensuality.
His mouth is the best place to get lost in.
With my hand on those sexy indentations in his waist, I nip, lick, and taste, taking my time, following his lead. It’s a kiss without expectation, a melding of lips simply for the comfort in the connection.
We maintain that gentle mood for the remainder of the evening.
The next morning begins with a fight.
He says we’re not going to school. He can do what he wants. I’m going. He thinks I need rest and refuses to leave me home alone. It’s Friday. I can rest over the weekend. If we both miss another day, we might as well announce our relationship over the intercom.
We argue for an hour. I win. It turns out to be an uneventful day. And fruitless. My concentration is shit. Emeric might’ve been right about one thing. I need rest—the mental kind.
By Saturday afternoon, the sore spot on my stomach where Lorenzo kicked me turns a violent shade of purple. Emeric’s horror at seeing it is the impetus for our inevitable conversation.
We soak in the tub, my back against his chest and his legs bracketing mine. As I walk him through what happened, he swirls soap over my skin, his fingers massaging and soothing. I give him every gritty detail, my voice strong at the beginning. When I tell him about my brainless attempt to use my safe word, his body turns to stone beneath me. My voice wavers from there. By the time I recall those final moments with Schubert’s body in my arms, I crumble against him.
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.
I spread my fingers through the spaces between his. My hands are smaller, bonier, and darker-skinned, but they mold around his exquisitely, like our hands are meant to be joined this way, for holding each other, for creating music together.
Fumbling along, I become frustrated by my inability to catch on. I can recreate classical pieces without sheet music, only the ones I’ve played a gazillion times. How does he just pluck mysterious notes out of the air without visual guidance? It’s insane. And brilliant.
“Listen.” He brushes his mouth across my nape. “Feel it.”
I close my eyes and focus on the beats, the glide of his fingers, and the sway and flex of his tensile muscles around me. His breaths on my neck and the twitches in his legs make it easier to predict his movements and rhythms. I don’t just feel the music. I feel him as the vocals lead us through each measure, painting passionate imagery about fear being the heart of love.
I don’t know how many times he replays the song. I’m lost in his arms and the meaning of the lyrics. Our love is risky, adventurous, and real. Is it founded in fear? Maybe, but it’s a respectful fear, because our love is almighty and powerful.
The taut skin on his chest rubs against my bare back, the friction erotically pleasurable, his body a conductor of sensual heat and sound. I roll my hips against his, liberated by my nudity, rocking to the music and fucking the notes.
He groans, a seductive rumble, and one of his hands slides out from beneath mine. I carry the tune, missing keys but keeping up as he trails his fingers across my thigh, along my ribs, and around my nipple.
I sigh as his cock swells beneath my ass.
His other hand slips from the keyboard to join the first, and my pulse speeds up. His fingers rove hungrily around my breasts, up and down my legs, over my arms, always returning to my chest. When his lips fall to my throat, my hands falter, ruining the melody, but I don’t care. He’s strumming a better song, our song, set to the tempo of our breaths and beating hearts.
Besides, his erection is all kinds of distracting, pinned beneath me and pumping with blood. I want to take him out of his pants and slide down that hard length as I continue to play.
I spread my legs, hooking them over his, my hands bungling two measures of the song. “Emeric.”
His tongue traces the shell of my ear, his fingers dipping between my thighs, probing, rolling my clit, and sinking into my pussy. “So wet for me.”
Gasping, I give up on the keyboard and grip his thighs where they flex between mine. The diabolical thrusts of his fingers arch my back, make me whimper, and propel me into a boiling crescendo of lust.
I tug at his pajama bottoms. “Take these off. I need you.”
The recording on the phone ends, the sudden silence amplifying the chorus of our heavy breaths.
He pinches my clit with a wicked amount of pressure, shooting painful pleasure through my core. Working both hands between my legs, he slaps and strokes, flicks and dips inside. Whether it’s ruthless or gentle, giving or taking, every touch is a declaration of utter commitment.
With an arm around my waist, he lifts my hips and shoves his pants to the floor, kicking them away. I shiver as he lowers me onto his cock and pushes inside. He’s hard and persistent, thick and aggressive, his fingers digging against my hips and controlling the up and down glide of my body with powerful confidence.
I clutch his strong forearms and hang on, my head dropping back to his shoulder and my inner muscles spasming around every thrust. The deep slide of hot steel stretches my pussy and fills me up. My body sings for him with each pulsing beat between my legs, pulling him in, clamping down, and holding him there. He belongs in me, with me.
“So fucking tight.” He kicks his hips. “Leaking all over me.” He grunts, his fingers tightening against my hips. “Love your hot little cunt.”
I love his dirty fucking mouth.
He grinds against me in tight circles, his timbre low and rough. “Play the song.”
Now? Without the recording? Even if I had total concentration, I would struggle. But while he’s fucking me? No way.
I turn my neck to look at him. His hand plunges into my hair, wrenching my head forward and angling it to the side. The graze of his teeth on my shoulder makes me shudder. The fucking bite that follows rips a scream from my throat.
The stinging burn seeps into my muscles, charging and rolling like liquid electricity. Holy shit, that’s going to leave a mark.
I stab my fingernails against his rock-hard forearms. “You’re an animal.”
He laughs, lifts me all the way off of his cock, and slams his hand against my ass. With a yelp, I fall forward and catch myself on the piano, fingers splayed over the keys.
The man knows exactly how to get what he wants.
He pulls me back down, shoving inside me with a force that brings tears to my eyes. It’s blissful, overpowering pain, the kind that stimulates the mind, arouses the body, and trembles the soul.
He heightens the sensation by rolling into tender thrusting, ensuring I feel every thick inch of him dragging along my sensitive walls.
“Play the song, Ivory.” He nips at my shoulder, his hand lifting to knead my breast.
With focused strokes, I launch into the parts I remember, mentally looping through chords and letting my fingers follow along.
He kisses my neck, tasting my skin, our bodies rocking and shuddering together as the music coaxes us into a languorous dance. He fucks me slowly, sensually. The motion of our hips wave in sync with my fingers on the keys as the sounds of our love-making hum a passionate rhythm.
We are the ultimate love song.
The tip of his tongue circles my earlobe. “Come.”
My body obeys instantly, and I moan through the vigorous ripple of pleasure, clenching around his length, my fingers depressing aimless keys.
“Ivory.” He groans, holding my hips against him as the hot pulse of his cock swells inside me, marking me, claiming me.
I twist my neck to watch him in the throes of his pleasure.
The air rushes from my lungs at the sight of his dilated pupils encircled by intensely beautiful swirls of blue fire. I used to hate his eyes, unable to imagine gentleness or safety in those crystalline depths. I was so very wrong. This is the only view I want, when I wake, when I go to sleep, and all the seconds in between.
I rise off of him and quickly spin to straddle his lap, sliding back onto his cock. The kiss that follows is a mutual seeking of lips, met in the space between us and prompted by a shared need to connect in every way.
He’s it for me. The zenith of my happiness. All roads, however perilous and winding, lead to this man, my teacher, the music of my soul.
I want to go to Leopold to learn from the best of the best, yet here I am, sitting on the cock of one of their most brilliant alumni. Whether it’s dumb luck or some kind of magical destiny that brought me here, I won’t squander it.
Leaning back, I frame his sculpted face with my hands. “Teach me how to play.”
“Miss Westbrook.” His lips form a firm line. “I am teaching—”
“No.” I kiss that hard mouth, because seriously, it’s too sexy to ignore. “Teach me the way you did tonight. Without classical music theory and technical books. I want to play…whatever I want to play.”
A very male smile breaches his
lips, his cock jerking inside me. “Turn around. Hands on the keys.”
And so it goes. For the next few weeks, he teaches me how to play whatever rock or pop song that suits my mood while holding, touching, kissing, and fucking me.
Some songs are harder than others. All of them challenge me. I don’t use music sheets, but I don’t need them. Not with his fingers beneath mine, showing me, and his voice at my ear, instructing me.
Mastering modern music won’t help me get into Leopold, but man oh man, it exposes me to a whole world of composers outside of classrooms and textbooks. I discover a passion for blending classical masterpieces with top forty hits. There’s something about the originality and distinction in putting my own twist on the music. It strikes a glowing, breathing note inside me.
Of course, Emeric’s enthusiasm in teaching and disciplining me isn’t a surprise. He gets off on it, especially when I slip up. God, that man loves to spank my ass. But it’s his endless encouragement that reminds me why I’m so fiercely, deeply, crazy in love with him.
My eighteenth birthday falls on the last Friday in April. That morning, I wake with him straddling my hips, hands planted on either side of my head, and blue eyes filling my horizon. Perfect.
He puts his face in mine, his expression serious. “I’m going to ask you some questions, but before you answer… Take me out of the equation. I go where you go. We stay together no matter what.”
Okaaay. I nod.
He searches my face. “Do you want to go to Leopold?”
“Of course.” I raise my eyebrows. “What else would I do with my life?”
“Anything you want.” He kisses me, his voice a silken tempo of notes. “What does Ivory Westbrook want?”
Well, that’s easy. “I want to play piano, with you at center stage beside me.”
He grins, evidently liking that answer. “How will you get there?”
Hmmm. Is this a trick question? I’ve always believed rigorous training, persistence, and prestige will help me reach my dream. Isn’t Leopold the best way to obtain those things?
I purse my lips. “I don’t know.”
He reaches for something above my head and hands me…an airline ticket? “Let’s find out.”
Falling for the Forbidden: 10 Full-Length Novels Page 34
