I dropped my head back to the pillow and sighed. I felt lighter than I had in years. I hadn’t realized how much I needed to talk to somebody about my past. I would still need time to heal, but fear didn’t grip me as it had.
To my immense relief, when I replayed the night before, shame didn’t come crashing down on me. Only drowsy pleasure. But a niggling something else tickled the back of my mind. Like remembering that you left your curling iron half a day later. No, that wasn’t it. A bigger something. It had been years since I had experienced this. I sat up in bed.
There was no time to wait. When the feeling struck, you didn’t wait. I slid a robe over my nightgown and into some slippers. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. Just move.
It was inspiration. I was desperate to play my cello. It had been such a habit for so many years, I didn’t have time to miss it. Now, I felt it. An excitement to play. I wasn’t afraid of the dark anymore, knowing Devlin was nearby. I shuffled through the dark house and down to basement where my cello waited for me. It glinted in the soft light, winking, like it knew I’d coming crawling back. It was ready. I was ready.
Time to play. I didn’t bother with turning on the brighter overhead lights. I wouldn’t be reading music and the soft glow from the recessed bulbs was enough. The scratch of the rosin along the hair of my bow instantly soothed. The cello tuned perfectly in the climate-controlled room. It nuzzled into my body and I warmed up my fingers with scales and arpeggios. When I was ready, I didn’t even have to decide what to play. His piece had been welded into my brain. I knew every note.
But as it was currently written, it didn’t fit my current state. My mood was a slow gondola-ride through an underground lagoon with swirling mist and stacked candles all around. His piece was written as a roller coaster ride on a sunny summer day.
I took his composition and wrapped my emotions around the music, slowing the tempo to suit my mood. And just like that, the notes flowed out. I was connected to my instrument and the music felt transcendent. For the first time in what felt like forever, I was able to let go of my regret and fear and just focus on Devil’s words. What would be the message I left behind? How did I want people to feel when they heard me play? The message was love. It was the feeling of being cherished. It was pure and unadulterated. It was everything that was good in life.
Heat travelled across my arms and torso as the robe began to rub against my movements, interfering. I forced myself to place the bow down and ripped my robe off, freeing my arms.
My hair fell loose, sticking to my skin, and tugging as my fingers blurred and my arms pushed and dipped and pulled and floated. There was only this moment. This understanding.
This was what I’d been missing these last few years. I’d been missing a reminder of everything I loved about playing the cello. Why I loved music. I was at home. This wasn’t ugly ambition. This was love. As my feelings expanded and ignited, the tempo naturally increased and my body moved to keep up. My eyes were shut tight and all I could do was feel. It was magical. This was what it should feel like. This was what playing was all about. Transcendence. I was the instrument for the message being conveyed. We were one.
Chapter 30
Practice when it’s easy; practice more when it’s hard.
DEVLIN
Sleep never came easy with her in the house to begin with. My body was on constant edge. Her energy vibrated and disturbed me to my very core. After making her come with only my touches and kisses, there was a risk I’d never rest again. Inspiration had struck. New bits of symphonies and tunes haunted me as I tried to sleep. I gave up the ghost hours ago and came down to get it all out of my head and onto sheet music. My head was filled with her scent. Her softs sounds rang through my ears. Her taste still hung on my tongue.
I scribbled a new piece at my desk when the first notes came to me. My pencil stopped moving. I lifted my head from my hunched position, desperate to hear more.
Kim.
It was the same passion I’d heard all those weeks before when I’d listened from my secret office. The music tightened my body, quickened my breaths. As though being summoned, I stood to find the source. The music carried me toward her, stalking like an apparition.
She was back in the rehearsal room practicing.
I gripped the wall to keep from gasping and breaking her trance. She played in the dark but there was enough light to see her eyes were closed. Her entire body and mind were wrapped in the music—as it should be. This was what I had been trying to draw from her these past months. She played as all music should be played. Not how the composer wrote it but as her body guided her. As her instinct drove her. It was perfection.
My eyes drifted shut to listen better. Chills spread over my skin. How were these the same notes I’d thrown together? It didn’t even feel like my music anymore. I didn’t want or deserve the credit. The music sped up—moved from a dream-like state to something more sensual.
In between the notes, her inhales of breath sounded like the gasps she made when I touched her. It was the most erotic sound imaginable.
As much as I told myself to only listen to the music, my eyes opened. They were greedy to absorb every flash of skin. Her hair was down and pushed over her right shoulder. Straight strands stuck to her damp skin. The sheer fabric of her nightgown was barely held up by one hard nipple. Every sway of her body tested the ability of the material to hold on. My body hardened at the sight. Her creamy thigh was fully exposed with her legs spread so wide to accommodate the instrument. What I wouldn’t give to run my hand up that skin. I would give up everything.
I panted along with her. Her head fell back. That neck had taunted me before. I wanted my tongue running up that expanse of skin. I wanted to test the weight of her peaked breasts. I wanted to stand in place of her cello with her legs open. I wanted to sink myself into her. I wanted to lose myself inside her. I wanted.
Her bow pulled across the string playing one last, slow note. Her body heaved as did mine. When I lifted my eyes to hers, her gaze was intent on me.
If that instrument wasn’t blocking her, I’d be able to see everything. Had my music undone her?
“Something like that?” she asked breathlessly.
My gaze returned to her face. I swallowed with difficulty. How long had she known I was standing there?
I walked until I was in front of her. I took the cello and gently lay it on its side. I took the bow and set that down as well. I took my time. Every movement was careful and deliberate. Then I knelt before her.
Her eyes followed my every action. Her eyelids were heavy with what I now recognized as desire. She didn’t shift her position, her legs remained splayed, the nightgown bunched up revealing her. I swallowed.
“Perfection,” I said with a raspy voice.
