The music poured from her, the notes swirling around them and binding them together. He never wanted it to end. As the music crescendoed, building to the final high note, he slipped his free hand around her waist, pressing her hips back against his, his thumb swiping at the bare skin at the waistband of her jeans where her shirt had ridden up. He held her as though he could physically guide her between the notes.
She pressed her hips back against him, his hard cock pressing into the softness of her ass, and he exhaled in a fast burst against her neck. He shouldn’t be holding her. He shouldn’t be grasping at the edges of his restraint to keep himself from grinding his erection against her. But Christ. She felt too good to let her go.
The recording ended. As she caught her breath in the silence, she met his eyes in the mirror and leaned back against his chest, her head tilting to give him access to the length of her neck in an unmistakable invitation. It would be so easy to kiss her, to let his hand slide beneath her jeans. It would be so easy to take what she was offering. And fuck, he wanted to. The more he surrendered to the weight of her resting against him, the less he cared what it would cost him.
A door slammed down the hall, pulling Liam back to his senses. He cleared his throat and stepped away, dropping his hands from her as if he’d been burned. He moved behind the piano, placing a physical barrier between them, and didn’t meet her eyes as he closed the score and turned off the speaker. But he ran his hand over the cover of the score in a slow caress, as if he could touch her by touching the music.
“I knew you had the notes,” he said.
“I have a good coach.”
For a moment they were frozen, that invisible tether that linked them pulled taut, urging him to go to her, to fall to his knees and worship her.
“Your French needs work,” he said, his voice an octave lower than usual. “I can make you a recording to practice from."
“That would be great. Text it to me?”
He smiled, the warmth reaching all the way to his eyes before he tapped the outside of his jeans pocket lightly as if to confirm that his phone was there, nestled against his hip. To confirm that her number was still stored there. Because of course it was.
At one o’clock in the morning, he used that number for the first time in over a year. He’d recorded and re-recorded the lyrics to Min’s workshop pieces, trying to keep as much of the huskiness out of his voice as possible. After the third try, he’d given up and sent it as it was.
Almost instantly his phone dinged in reply.
Min:You’re up late.
Liam:So are you.
Min:Someone gave me a new book of poetry. It’s easy to lose track of time with a good book.
He scrubbed his hands over his face. No good could come from texting with Min after midnight.
But he hadn’t been able to sleep. And the recording on his phone, his own voice reciting French for her, had been taunting him. He’d thought that if he just sent it and got it over with he could shake off the restlessness he’d been fighting ever since she’d left their coaching earlier that afternoon. He’d come too close to tearing her clothes off and throwing everything away. For both of them.
What was it about this woman that made him feel downright feral, incapable of controlling himself? He was always in control. Always. But Min had made him feel out of control from the moment he met her. And every time he touched her, that feeling only increased.
Liam:I’m glad you’re enjoying it.
Min:Which poem is your favorite?
Liam:Someday I’ll tell you.
Liam:Goodnight, Min.
He threw his phone on the bed and, as he’d done so many nights before, reached into his nightstand and retrieved his own copy of the book he knew she was reading. He read the words of his favorite poem, imagining that she was somehow reading the same one, as if their mutual attention to the text could bridge the physical space between them, knit them together. Even if she never knew he lay alone in bed at night, clinging to this one fragment of connection with her and imagining they were lying together as they read.
Neruda’s words washed over him, spliced together with the memory of Min’s sinful curves against his body. He let the book fall to his chest and slipped his hand beneath his sheets, beneath the soft jersey of his boxer briefs, and took himself in hand. His cock throbbed as his hand skated over the hard ridges and veins, angry and demanding.
He knew it was wrong. He shouldn’t be remembering the feel of her ass against his cock that afternoon in his office, the way she rocked against him in that garden in Italy, the taste of her when he’d licked her pleasure off his fingers in a dark bar hallway. He shouldn’t – but somehow that just made him even harder, more desperate.
He imagined Min lying in her bed, reading the book he’d given her and listening to his voice. He imagined her delicate fingers sliding beneath the waistband of her panties. Would they be cotton, or silk? He imagined her fingers drawing lazy circles over her swollen clit as she pretended it was him, his hand teasing her and coaxing orgasm after orgasm from her. Because, with this woman, one climax would never be enough.
He stroked himself harder, faster, his hand slippery with the precum leaking from the swollen head of his cock as he imagined her touching herself to thoughts of him. Would she go hard and fast, drive towards her orgasm with single-minded focus, or would she tease herself, edging and backing off until she couldn’t stand it anymore. His cock swelled in his hand as he thought of the way her hips would buck, how her needy pussy would weep for want of him. The telltale electricity sparked at the base of his spine and he jerked himself harder, imagining it was her, picturing her lying spread open for him, soft and pink, wet and begging for him to fill her.
He bit his lip to keep from screaming out his release as he spurted thick ropes of cum all over his hands, and still he kept going, his hips driving up into nothingness as he came in wave after wave of ecstasy. His cock pulsed in his hand until every last drop was expelled in offering to the image of Min in his mind, leaving him tired and empty and craving his student more than ever.
Chapter Sixteen
By Monday morning Min was crawling out of her skin with wanting Dr. Jacobs. She’d spent the entire weekend listening to his voice reciting French, trying everything she knew to relieve the ache of missing him. But nothing worked.
