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“She isn’t bad, though,” she said stubbornly. “They can work it out.”
He said nothing. The heroine in the movie wasn’t a bad person, but the jury was still out on Michael. He tried to be good, but when things got hard and he felt like his life was strangling him, awful, seductive thoughts ran through his head. Shortcuts, easy ways to freedom, clever sneaky things. He knew people. It would be so easy to take advantage of them. There was very little preventing him from doing exactly that, nothing but a shaky code of ethics and the desire not to follow in his dad’s footsteps.
If he were a better person, he’d tell Stella about his past and let her take the necessary precautions, let her leave. But he couldn’t bring himself to end this. He wanted more of her, not less. And their relationship was helping her. He could tell. Day by day, her confidence grew, and she smiled, laughed, and even joked. Soon, she’d decide she was ready to move on.
Until then, Michael was determined to enjoy every moment with her. Nuzzling her sensitive neck, he swept a hand up her silk-smooth thigh and underneath his shirt. Then he groaned as his body hardened.
“No underwear? Trying to tell me something, Stella?” he whispered in her ear, loving the way she shivered and parted her legs to allow him access. She never turned him down, was just as starved for him as he was for her.
“You always throw them somewhere, and it takes me forever to find them. I figured I’d just—” She gasped when he massaged her clit, and her head fell back against his shoulder.
“Watch the show. You might miss something.” Fuck, she was wet already. Hot moisture licked over his fingertips as he traced her folds, and his cock strained against his jeans like it had been weeks since he’d last had sex, not hours. He wanted her again, that closeness, that connection, that unbelievable, mind-exploding pleasure. No amount was enough.
She tried to follow directions—she always did—but it wasn’t long before she gave in and pulled him down for a wild kiss, which led to another, and another, and another . . .
The next time he noticed the TV, it had returned to the main menu. The entire DVD had played while they were busy with other things. After washing up and turning off the TV and lights, he climbed into bed. Stella murmured as he gathered her against his chest, but she pressed a drowsy kiss to his throat.
Possessiveness mixed with tenderness, and he brushed the hair away from her face and trailed his fingertips over a smooth shoulder illuminated by moonlight.
His Stella.
For now.
Until she decided she’d had enough practice. Or she found out about his dad.
* * *
• • •
When Stella got home from work midway through the next week, an empty house greeted her. Michael had texted her that he was running late, so she’d been expecting this. What she hadn’t expected was this gaping sadness, this cold aloneness.
They’d only been in this practice relationship for a week and a half, but she’d already grown accustomed to him. Michael was part of her routine now, part of her life, and his absence sparked unrest in her being. When things ended, she’d have nothing but this emptiness.
If things ended.
If she failed at seducing him. There was nothing left on her original lesson plans. Not a single thing. She’d checked. It was time to move into full seduction mode.
She wished Michael could teach her how to do that, too, because she had no idea what she was supposed to do. Google searches provided conflicting advice, and very little of it was useful in a situation like hers where they were already in a monogamous relationship of sorts. One particularly obnoxious article had advised women to focus all their time and effort on improving their looks and then lower their standards.
Well, Stella’s standards were locked at eleven on the one-to-ten scale. Only Michael would do. As for her looks, she couldn’t bring herself to wear contacts or makeup except for special occasions. If his insatiability in bed was any indication, Michael didn’t mind her the way she was.
Her inner muscles clenched as she recalled what he’d done that morning—the way he’d kissed her, caressed her, the things he’d said
. She swept a hand from her chest down to her thigh, wishing he was touching her right now. But even if he never slept with her again, she still wanted him. The nonbedroom side of Michael appealed to her just as much as the lover side, if not more. He made her laugh, and he listened to her, even when she wasn’t saying anything particularly interesting. He was comfortable around her, and that made her comfortable around him. Sometimes she convinced herself that her labels didn’t matter. They were just words. They didn’t change who she was. If he learned about them, he wouldn’t care.
Maybe.
Out of habit, she walked to her piano. She sat on the bench and lifted the fallboard, and the cool smoothness of the keys beneath her fingers calmed her. For years, music had been her main method of coping with emotions—good ones, bad ones, and those in between. Rich chords sang from the strings, called forth by muscle memory alone, and she gave herself up to the music, let everything she was feeling pour into her fingertips. When the song ended, she kept her hands on the keys, listening as the notes faded.
“I knew you played, but I didn’t know you could play like that,” Michael said from directly behind her.
She couldn’t help grinning as she looked at him over her shoulder. “You made it back.”
His smile was tired, but it reached his eyes. In a mere fraction of a second, everything was right again. The coldness vanished. Missing pieces settled back into place.
“What song was that? I feel like I’ve heard it before,” he said.
“‘Clair de Lune’ by Debussy. It’s my favorite song.”
