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She looked startled by my question. An understandable reaction considering I rarely initiated conversation. This was one of the longest exchanges I’d had with a woman in years.
“Um, sort of,” she hedged, her cheeks turning pink. “It’s a beautiful song. Florence Welch has an incredible voice, and a lot of her songs are really conducive to the harp.”
Suddenly, I had an uncharacteristic urge to read the lyrics of the song, intrigued at what they might reveal about Emmy.
“You can keep playing if you want.”
Her hazel eyes widened. “What? No, I couldn't do that. You’re here to visit me. I can’t make you just sit around while I play the harp.”
I shrugged. I didn’t want to admit that I liked hearing her play, hearing her soft, delicate voice. I wanted to hear her sing more of that song.
“I’m just here to put in an appearance in case Orlov is watching you. I don’t care what you do while I’m here.” Discomfort made my voice sound harsher than I intended.
Emmy swallowed hard, her lips flattening at my dismissive words, but I needed to keep distance between us. It was hard fighting my instinctive pull to her, but I knew giving into it would be much more disastrous. Navigating this situation was starting to give me a headache.
“Fine,” she said, sitting down to her harp as I sat on her bed. She was wearing a long skirt that she reflexively hiked up a bit to sit behind her harp properly. She didn’t appear to notice what she was doing, but I sure as hell did.
Her light blue skirt pooled in her lap, exposing the pale, smooth skin of her upper thighs. She was wearing a fitted, white camisole top and as she started to pluck at the strings, I couldn’t help but focus on the way her breasts swayed under the thin fabric.
Fuck, why had I suggested this?
In order to get a hold of myself, I focused on the words she was singing. I cursed myself for choosing to sit on her bed because it gave me such a clear view of her body, but I couldn’t resist getting the opportunity to see her face as she sang.
She sang about the stars and the moon and being left in the dark. As she spoke the words, she opened her eyes and looked straight at me, her eyes like two twin blades jamming into my chest. I wanted to look away, shut her out, but I couldn’t.
Fortunately, she closed her eyes and continued singing, her fingers flying over the strings as her body rocked with the rhythm of the song.
I could understand why men would wait for her after performances, send her gifts, even stalk her because—fuck, she was incredible. Passion and beauty, sweet and sexy all at the same time. It was captivating.
Her eyes opened again, her eyes glowing like jewels and communicating something so intense and powerful, my breathing stuttered, and I had to clench my fists to stop from grabbing her.
Was she fucking hypnotizing me?
She continued to sing, these lyrics spoke of finding someone in their darkness and staying there with them. My throat tightened as I digested her words. I knew I was in the darkness and though she may try to meet me there, she was always meant to be in the light.
I reached up and wiped my suddenly sweaty brow, praying she would close her eyes. Thankfully, when she hit the chorus, she did, and I could breathe again.
Jesus Christ, if this was what she was like playing a fucking harp, what would it be like to fuck her? What would it be like to have those eyes focused on me when I touched her, gave her pleasure, made her come? I felt my cock thickening behind my fly at the thought.
This girl was dangerous.
Thankfully, the song ended. She lowered her hands and looked at me expectantly.
“Sounded good,” I choked out, hopefully hiding the desire she’d so effortlessly conjured.
Her shoulders dropped slightly, as if she had been expecting more of a response from me. What had she wanted to hear? That I wanted to tear her fucking clothes off and throw her down on this bed? Because I did, but I definitely didn’t want her to know that.
Instead of responding, she played a few more songs, but they were mellow and without the intensity of the first song.
After she played for about twenty minutes, I got up, indicating I was going to leave. Emmy hopped up, her skirt sadly dropping over her shapely legs.
“I’ve got to get out of here,” I said, meaning it on so many levels.
She nodded, her mood clearly dampened by my earlier refusal to talk to her and my lackluster response to her playing. I should have just talked to her—forcing her to play the harp for me ended up being a hundred times worse.
Emmy walked me out and thankfully her mom was nowhere to be seen. The last thing I needed was Jessica Prescott seeing my half-hard dick around her teenage daughter.
She opened the front door and took a quick look around, as if Orlov might pop out of the bushes.
