‘Stay,’ she said.‘Please.’
Once he had stripped, he slipped in beside her.His arm rested heavy across her waist, his breath caressing her nape, his chest expanding and contracting against her back.He felt too familiar.Too comforting.Too permanent.As he kissed her behind the ear and whisperedgoodnight,the moment throbbed with domesticity.Odette caught him, twisted around, and made him kiss her deeper.Soon, she was without a chemise and he without underclothes, his hands, mouth, and breath everywhere—but even this felt too familiar.They understood how to make one another sigh and gasp, whimper or cry.Odette kissed a line down his torso, already knowing he would like it.He teased her everywhere except between her thighs until she grasped a handful of hair and guided his mouth to her, and then he licked and indulged her.And when he pressed his chest to hers, allowing his weight to push her into the sheets even as he slid his cock inside her, she shuddered at the completeness of it.His grunts, every rocking motion of his hips, every rise and fall of her body… whatever they did, they moved in sync, chasing what they wanted, giving what they could give.Odette gripped his shoulders as pleasure raced through her body, digging her nails into his taut muscles as he plunged deep inside her, then pulled back just far enough to search her face.
‘Louder,’ he said, each syllable a thrust.‘Sing.For.Me.’
A warbling note full of lust, underscored by a moan far, from any semblance of order or precision, burst from her lips.It was a song for him, lit by the spread of fire from her belly to her fingertips, for her racing heart as her climax engulfed her, and for the dark warmth of his storm grey eyes as he wrung every pleasurable feeling from her.Perfect peace, bliss, and a sense of utter completion… they flowed through her and washed all the loss and the sadness away, if only for tonight.A heartbeat later, he withdrew and spent his seed on her thigh.Then, still breathless, he cleaned himself and her body with a cloth from her basin.
Afterwards, they lay together like interlocking puzzle pieces, his shoulder the perfect shape to rest her head, her body slotting into his side.Cassius traced circles on her shoulder.He placed her hand on his chest and hummed a song, and the vibration made her fingertips tingle.Then he kissed her senseless, and when she begged, he made love to her again.
They fell asleep somewhere near the point where the May night sank into pitch black, and when the spring sunshine inched into their world just a few hours later, he crossed to the windows completely naked, drew the curtains, then curled up beside her again.
They slept until midday.Ate bread with cheese and drank coffee, lounged in bed talking, laughing, and watching the light stain the walls.
‘You will come to the Constellation?’he asked her as he dressed.‘You swear it?’
Odette swallowed her impulse to call him back to bed.To tear off his coat and prise open his buttons, to strip him and claim him over and over again.To beg him to stay.To hold him here, and selfishly, greedily, keep him for herself.But she had to let him go.She had never held another performer down, and she would not begin with Cassius.
And, holding on to the thought of having one last opportunity to see him, to please him, she said…
‘Perhaps.’
Chapter 24
Cassiustuckedafullbottle of bad vodka beneath his podium.Tonight of all nights was begging for some extra luck.He always hid it on opening night—not on closing, like he’d told Odette—so that it could soak in the applause and the good tidings of the entire run.Tonight, instead of leaving it there when the show was finished, he would grab it, pack it in his case, and take it to Vienna with him in the morning.A small piece of her luck in the city of song wouldn’t hurt.
Maybe not so much as a wish for luck, but as a hope that, in time, she’d follow.
‘Mr Zadora?’
‘Anton.’Cassius leant against the podium as the runner wove between the chairs and stands laid out in readiness for the orchestra’s arrival that evening.He was carrying a small package, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a length of twine.‘Who is that from?Not Miss Delaney?’
Anton shook his head.‘A man left this for you with the ushers at the ticket booth.They offered to fetch you, but he saidno thank you, and run off.’
With a rush of relief, Cassius took the package.He tugged on the bow and loosened the wrapping to reveal a thick board printed with an ornate script:Jones and Son, Photographers, London.He turned it over.
The image wasn’t as sharp as those he’d seen for sale, or even as clear as the one of Odette that had made its way to the stationers on the high street.They must have moved a little during its capture, because her features were soft, as were his.It lacked the crisp style and elegance of thecartes de visitesof rivers and cathedrals and seemed more suited to a mantelpiece or the corner of a desk.Regardless, Cassius sucked air between his teeth as he looked down on the photograph of himself and Miss Odette Delaney, darling of the stage, operatic angel.
A million papers, a million members of the audience, dozens of nobles and a handful of lovers—not a single person who had met her would profess to her being anything other than an exceptional beauty.Her stunning features, ready smile, and a silhouette she was only too ready to use in her favour made men crumble.Every day Odette rendered men, musicians, nobles, and even princes useless in her presence.
Weeks had passed since the piano rehearsal and the visit from the photographer.The memory lit up brightly inside him.How she had posed beneath the stage lights.How he’d made her laugh on a whim, then caught her by the waist, how they’d posed together.She’d been so beautiful… it had been worth bullying the photographer into making him a copy so that he could keep a tiny piece of her, just for himself.Of her when she was his.
In the decade and a half since they’d met, he must have seen her perform hundreds of times.During operas they’d both worked, him before the orchestra, her before the world, he’d witnessed every possible expression of emotion on her ever-so-beautiful face.Obsession, loss, pain, death, and elation.But had he ever seen her like this onstage?The way she looked, captured in sepia, while he was holding her in his arms?
A playful twist to her lips, eyes bright and daring.Her hand light on his arm, trusting that he would not let her fall.A moment when he’d caught her out, when his own guard had fallen… Now, he could see that hers had, too.
Was it possible she felt the same?
All these years he’d jealously guarded his heart, always fearful that she’d fling it to the ground, bloodied and still beating.He’d never been brave enough to risk her rejection.
Her debut had thrust her centre stage, but then she’d done it over and over again.As he turned his back on audiences, she stepped before them, with new parts, in different theatres and other countries, and with other operas.She’d bared herself for the audience and the press, had absorbed their criticisms and focused on the adulation, always moving forwards.Her freedom wasn’t a gift, but a path that she’d chosen.
He’d been angry at her freedom.
He’d never even thought to ask if he could join her in a song.
Cassius grasped a sheet of music from one of the stands and tore a blank strip off one end.He pulled a pencil from his pocket and scrawled a message.
If I played, would you sing with me?
