Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 104127 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104127 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
He went to all this trouble renting the entire space out. The least I can do is try.
Wrong.
Fear isn’t something so easily overcome. Especially when it’s a fear born from childhood trauma that’s lingered like a ghost for years.
“I want you to play—”
“I can’t—”
“You promised to try. Now, once you’re in position, close your eyes.”
“I—”
“Shh,” he coos. “You can do this, Sasha. You’re brave.”
Me? Brave?
I think of all that I’ve been through. What I’ve overcome on my own through this life. It hasn’t been easy, and I have managed to survive. Maybe I am brave. Or at least, I can play at it for one night.
I fumble with the cello, feeling the familiar strings and curves of the instrument.
His hands trail down my back, down to my waist, his breath on my neck. “Close your eyes, firefly,” he whispers. “And pretend you’re alone.”
I do as he’s instructed. Closing my eyes tightly, I breathe in deeply, trying desperately to pretend he’s not here.
I want to let the music wash over me.
But I can’t.
“What’s the problem? What can I do to help?”
I let out a long sigh, resting the cello against my chest as I turn to look at him. “I can’t get out of my head.”
“Yes, you can.”
“You don’t understand…I get locked in there. I hear the ridicule. I hear the scorn, my fear…”
“Then we just have to find you something else to think about.”
“What do you mean?” I try to look at him, but he shakes his head.
“Close your eyes.” I do.
“Get in position.” I lift the bow up to the cello.
I don’t need to see anything to play. It’s not the first time I’ve played with my eyes closed, but it’s the first time I’m doing it in front of someone.
I’m about to ask what’s next when I feel his hands trail up and down my back. His strong hands knead my tight muscles.
“Play.”
At his words, I take a deep breath, and the bow strikes the strings, a horrible screech slicing through the air.
“It’s okay. Try again. You’ve got this,” he whispers, his lips finding the shell of my ear.
His encouraging words, mixed with his hands caressing my body, give me the nudge I need to try again.
I shiver at the touch but continue to play.
The next chord rings out better, but not quite there.
“Tell me what you thought about when you lay in bed last night. I know you couldn’t sleep. Did you miss me in bed?” His words are like warm honey, dripping over me and making me crave the sweetness only he can provide.
I don’t speak, just shut my eyes tighter, muscle memory taking over as all the thoughts from the night before run through my brain.
The way I missed his warmth.
The way I wanted him to touch me.
Touch me like he is now.
His hands continue to rub at my muscles, trailing lower to find the tension living in my body as I try to play.
His fingers softly skim the side, touching the swell of my breast. My breath hitches, and I stop playing.
“Do you want me to stop?”
“No.”
“Then play, Sasha.”
I continue at his command, the song pouring through me. His hand lowers.
Teasing.
Taunting.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asks again, and this time, I shake my head.
His hand is right there, under my dress, skimming my bare thigh, and then his finger is pushing my panties aside. I stop playing again.
“Do you want me to stop?”
“You just asked me that,” I say on a moan.
“Well…you’re not answering, and every time you stop, I stop. So what’s it gonna be, firefly?”
I might die if he doesn’t touch me.
“No. I don’t want you to stop.”
“Then what are you doing, Sasha?”
My eyes dart around the space, and at that moment, more issues filter in.
“What if someone comes in?”
“I rented the whole building. Nobody is coming in.” He strokes a finger up my center. A moan slips from my parted lips. “Now…play.” I slide my fingers along the smooth curves of the cello, feeling every little groove and dip again.
Closing my eyes tightly, I give it my all.
The instrument is an extension of my body, a part of me that sings with each stroke of the bow, and I play, launching into the sweet strains of Bach’s Suite No. 1 in G Major, all the while, I can feel him.
I can’t focus on the music. But I must, or he’ll stop.
His fingers slide between my legs, and I moan as he finds my clit, rubbing it in circles as I play. I’m on the edge. The music pours through me. It’s muscle memory. I’m no longer here—the song has taken on a life of its own; all that matters to me is Gideon’s touch.
He pushes two fingers inside me, and I gasp. He fucks me with them, pushing them in deep while he rubs my clit with his thumb.