Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Yes. Fucking yes.
As the song nears its end, my expression goes stoic. Intense, as I slide into the role she wants. “Show me ‘Für Elise,’” I demand. “I told you to work on it last week.”
“I’ll play it for you. The way you like,” she says, like a good student, and I stifle a groan from her responsiveness.
She slides right into the Beethoven. With her chin tipped up, her face mostly hidden, but her gaze locked on me, she asks, “Am I doing it right?”
I burn inside. Talk about a double meaning. But I stay in character. “No.”
“What am I doing wrong?”
I lower my voice, move closer to her ear. “You need to play it perfectly…even with distraction,” I tell her.
“Distract me,” she whispers.
Gladly.
I slide a hand across the small of her back over the silk of her gown.
As her fingers caress the keys, mine roam up her body, traveling across the fabric of her dress. I’ve missed this. This kind of touch. This kind of moment.
I reach her neck, tracing a line up her soft flesh all while she plays, and revelers drink champagne, and partygoers dance, and others eat, and some kiss in corners.
And here, behind the shield of the piano, I crave. The feel of her, the taste of her, the scent of her. Like a lush garden, the kind you’d want to fuck in.
But when she speaks again, her voice is a little confessional, and not at all in character. “I don’t want to ruin my chances here.”
Maybe this is her dream job. I don’t want to ruin that for her either. I drop the demanding tone. “Do you want me to stop?”
“No. I want you to keep going,” she says, being vulnerable now. “That’s the problem.”
Then I’d better find a solution, and sometimes the first idea is the best one. “When’s your break?”
“In ten minutes.”
My mind cycles through options then quickly lands on one. “Meet me on the rooftop patio. I’ll clear it. Take the stairs behind the library.”
She shakes her head instantly, then asks, “How about the library instead?”
There’s worry in her voice. But I don’t dwell on it. “The library is perfect. I’ll make sure no one’s there.”
“Will you grab my hand and pull me into a dark corner?”
I’m crackling with desire as I growl out a yes. I leave, heading to the library in seconds.
3
A LESSON
Jules
I didn’t come here tonight for this. But, really, I suppose I did come here precisely for an encounter.
Ten minutes later, as the music flips to a recorded playlist, I slip away from the piano, weaving through the boisterous crowds of randy souls, heading down the hall, scanning for…security? I don’t even know what I’m checking for. Who I’m trying to avoid.
But mostly I don’t want Scarlett to get in trouble for my desires, ones I’ve kept hidden since college a few years ago. Ones I don’t think I’ll be hiding much longer. I shouldn’t act on them. But that shouldn’t isn’t strong enough to stop me.
Servers scurry by carrying trays, but no one gives me a second glance as I head down the hall. I guess the costume does the trick. Perhaps I’m just Aphrodite gliding toward the library, thankful, oh so thankful, that I’m not heading to the rooftop.
I check the time on my silenced phone in my clutch purse. With my heart beating in my throat, I glance around and behind. Coast is clear. With one final check, then just one more, I reach for the knob of the door, open it, and step into the alcove of a dimly lit room that smells of old books and faraway tales.
Before I can turn into the space, a hand tugs mine.
The man can follow directions. My pulse spikes with excitement.
I spin around, my skin tingling as he locks the door, then pulls me away from it, playing the part as I asked. When we reach a corner, he turns to face me, his back to the books.
It’s sensory overload with him, and I want to savor every detail so I can enjoy this moment, but I want to remember them too so I can write them down later, starting with his scent. It’s smoky and floral but also dangerous. His cologne is like orchids and leather set on fire.
It reminds me of something, but I’m not sure what.
More than half his face is covered, so I can’t tell much more about him when I’m looking at him straight on than what I caught from his profile while on the piano bench. Except what I suspected. He’s not a boy. Silver flecks color his stubble, and some crinkles line the corners of his green eyes, hungry behind the mask. For a flicker of a second, his jawline feels familiar. Like a memory of a memory but there’s no time to place him. Besides, I don’t want to be in my head. I want to play a part.