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I have to try and wake him. He’ll think I peed myself if I don’t escape his grasp.
“Arman,” I whisper. “Please.”
I try to move away but only succeed in increasing the pressure of my pussy on his erection. He growls deep in his throat and shifts his hand, swiping my nipple with his thumb, and I stop moving, struck dumb by shock and arousal.
“Lilyana,” he murmurs. “Baby girl.”
Oh my God.
Arman fondles my nipple, manipulating it until it’s hard enough to cut glass. I should slap him awake, yell, anything, but my clit is growing more sensitive by the second, primed by Arman’s attention and his cock rubbing against my sex.
I’ve never had an orgasm. I masturbate, but I just can’t get there, and I usually fall asleep with wrinkled fingertips and a twitchy, frustrated pussy. Yet Arman’s gentle but insistent touch pushes me toward a precipice, and I only want to fall apart beneath his hands.
Arman releases me and rolls onto his back, still asleep. I stay still, watching his chest rise and fall. It takes me a moment to realize he truly is asleep—is he dreaming of me?
The storm has moved away now, the thunder a distant rumble. Carefully, I climb over Arman and return to my makeshift nest of cushions, feeling hollow and frustrated. The soothing white noise of the rain washes over me; as I fall asleep again, a thought echoes through my mind.
Maybe being Lilyana Sergeyevna Nechayeva won’t be so bad after all.
The next day…
After what happened last night, I can’t face Arman, so I sneak out of the apartment, heading for Juilliard. Heidi and I still need to review her composition, and I’m two hours late.
A sinking feeling washes over me as I stand on the subway platform; I’ve left my phone behind. Vlad tracks it and checks in with me regularly. It’s one thing to run off without telling anyone where I’m going, but it’s another to be incommunicado for a whole day. It was charging in Arman’s kitchen, but in my haste to avoid him, I got ready in the bedroom and made a hurried exit, grabbing his spare keys and my purse without considering whether my phone was in there.
I cautiously re-enter the apartment, hoping Arman has already left. Apart from a piano somewhere in the building, I can’t hear anything and breathe a sigh of relief. Then I notice the fabric wall hanging has been taken down, revealing an ajar door that I didn’t see yesterday.
Why didn’t he mention a second bedroom? He made a big deal about giving up his room for me, even though we both ended up sleeping in the lounge. I take a few tentative steps, peering through the crack in the door, and a gasp escapes me.
The amateur pianist is Arman. He’s still only wearing the sweatpants he slept in, and he bends over the keys, concentrating on the music. The top of the piano is covered in photos, but I can’t make them out from this distance.
His frustration is evident in the dull thud of the keys. Part of me wants to sit beside him and show him how to let the melody come to him in its own time rather than force it, but it doesn’t feel right to intrude.
I retrieve my phone and leave, Arman’s playing still echoing in my ears.
11
Arman
Idreamed of Lilyana in my arms, my hands tracing her curves. While such dreams aren’t unusual for me, they refused to recede, even in the cold light of day.
Perhaps I only slept so soundly because she was safely here with me. Ironic, then, that she sneaked out while I was out for the count. She was terrified of the storm and fell asleep on my couch, felt awkward this morning, and slipped away before I could tease her about it.
There’s no way I’d ever mock her. She needs to have the utmost confidence in me, so I keep my insecurities to myself. Some things scare me more than storms, but I’d rather die than show her a weakness.
After a brief moment of reflection, I send her a message.
Tell me when you’re done, and I’ll pick you up. We’ll talk then.
After tidying up the couch and restoring my bed to order, I unlocked my private study, my sanctuary. It’s here that I calm my soul and find peace.
The baby grand piano was a real find. It’s almost identical to the one in the Kislev mansion’s foyer that once belonged to Stefania, Lilyana’s mom. She taught her oldest son Vlad to play, and, in time, he taught his little sister.
Playing the piano makes Lilyana feel close to her mother. I understand that; I play because it makes me feel close to Lilyana.
I begin with a few warm-up arpeggio exercises. I’m not a natural pianist, but over the past year, I’ve improved significantly. Some of my favorite pieces are the arias Lilyana adores, and I’ve grown particularly fond of one.
O Mio Bambino Caro. I know it so well that I could write the sheet music from memory, but my playing is stiff, and I curse as the song I love so much loses its verve under my labored hands. I can’t bear to torture this wonderful music; luckily, I don’t have to.
