He cooled his tone. “You’re holding that cello like you’re dismantling a bomb. Your whole body is tense.”
I couldn’t imagine why I looked tense.
“I’ve been playing my whole life. I think I know how to hold my instrument,” I said.
“That’s the problem, isn’t it? Youthinkyou know.”
My skin burned from anger; I was boiling from the inside out. “Is there any way you could be more specific? Because Iamlistening and quite frankly, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I gripped the neck of my cello so hard the strings cut into me.
“I’m talking about listening to the message. Really listen. And play that. You are a conduit.”
I shook my head. I had no clue what he thought or what he was trying to convey. I was a human, not a “clucking mind reader,” to quote Suzie.
“Your way isn’t working. You’re the professional,” my words flew out. I’d never been so short with somebody before. He brought it out in me. I demanded more than being yelled at. “Try something else.”
Something about that sunk in. Wheels turned behind those dark eyes.
“Stand up,” he demanded.
I shot up. The neck of my cello was in my left hand, the bow in my right, once again wielded like a weapon.
“Put your cello down,” he said with steady calmness, but anger flashed in his dark eyes.
I felt a wave of uneasiness but listened.
He stood from the piano and cracked his neck by tilting his head side to side. He shook out his hands. Next to him, without the protection of my cello, I was reminded of his massive size.
He took the bow from my hand and hung it on the music stand so the rosined bow hair wouldn’t be ruined from the oil of our hands. Then, in the world’s most surprising switch up, he took my right hand in his. My hand felt tiny and cool against his large hand, calloused with the knowledge of a dozen different instruments. His thumb pressed circles into my palm. It moved to the thick muscles of my thumb pad.
“Wh-what are you doing?” I asked stupidly, because he was very clearly giving me a hand massage. And oh my, it was amazing.
“Your instrument should be an extension of you.” His words were low and rumbling. “Not a weapon you aren’t comfortable wielding. Relax.”
Sure. Relax. Please, tell the woman ten feet under water to breathe deeply.
I took a deep breath in and out and worried if my coffee breath reached him. I worried about what to do with the other hand. I worried how to stand in a way that looked comfortable when, in fact, I was freaking out. He was so close that if I leaned forward a little, I would collapse against his chest.
“Close your eyes,” he demanded with a harsh edge.
Maybe he sensed I couldn’t get passed the fact that he was currently giving me a massage that made me tingle all over. With my eyes closed, I could pretend the hands rubbing mine were those of a professional’s at a spa.
It was amazing. #MagicFingersDevlin could be trending on Twitter. I hadn’t realized how sore and tight those muscles were. He lowered my right hand and did the same thing to my left. His thumbs dug into the aching muscles of my forearm. He found a muscle that made my middle finger jump as he rubbed it. Tension that I hadn’t even been aware I’d been holding melted out of me. I sunk into sensation. It was heaven, but I couldn’t fully relax, because what if I made an embarrassing groan of pleasure?
He released me, and I let out a long breath. Thank goodness maybe we were done, because my heated cheeks couldn’t take much more. I was already panting way more than a relaxed person should be. But then, to my utter horror, he stepped behind me.
“You’re rigid,” he whispered. I heard it clearly because he was so close to my ear. The air tickled my neck and goosebumps spread down my neck to my chest.
He was slow but deliberate as he pressed down the muscles connecting my shoulder to my neck. Sweet Lord, I was gonna die like this. Let me go this way. It was a good life.
“Relax,” he said again.
I wanted to relax but the second his hands touched me again, a different sort of tension took over—sexy-man-proximity tension. His scent encompassed me. He smelled like cooking dinner, and relaxing by the fire, and good conversation. He should smell like death and regret; that would make this easier.
The image of his naked, glistening skin popped back into my mind. It had been there most of the night while I’d tried to sleep. It was the first thing I saw behind my eyelids when I woke with the blankets tangled between my restless legs. Wow, this was not the best time to remember that. But, well, since we were here …
“It’s a little hard at the moment,” I said to break the tension. When he went stock still, I realized my mistake. “To relax,” I added as quick as possible.
“Hmm,” he rumbled out.
