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Andrea's gaze meets mine, those aquamarine depths holding a world of sadness and longing. In that moment, I ache to take her in my arms, to chase away the ghosts that haunt her.
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. These feelings are dangerous, a slippery slope I can't afford to tread. Our contract is done, our professional ties severed. I have no claim over her, no right to insert myself into the twisted dynamic between her and Brandon.
And yet...
My eyes drift to her hands, delicate fingers twisting nervously in the fabric of her shirt. A fierce need to soothe her, to smooth away her fears with my touch, nearly overwhelms me.
I take a steadying breath, forcing my gaze back to hers.
I've never been known for keeping my opinions to myself, and this won't be the first time I cause a scene. "He doesn't care for you. If he silences your voice, he’s trying to make you a copy of his expectations, not a unique artist."
The words tumble out, raw and unfiltered, before I can rein them in. Her eyes widen, lips parting in a silent gasp as the weight of my declaration hangs between us.
Shit. I've overstepped, let my emotions bleed through the cracks in my armor.
Andrea is silent.
I reach out my hand to her. “You deserve to be heard,” I tell her.
The air thickens with tension, charged with unspoken yearnings and the promise of something more. My pulse thunders in my ears as I drink in the sight of her – hair tousled, cheeks flushed, lips slightly parted in invitation.
Desire coils low in my belly, a smoldering ember threatening to ignite into an inferno. I can almost taste the sweetness of her skin.
Fuck, I want her. More than I've wanted anything in my life.
My feet move of their own accord, carrying me around the island separating us. Andrea's breath hitches as I close the distance between us, her eyes darkening with a mixture of fear and need.
One step, two, and then I'm there, looming over her as the scent of her shampoo and the warmth of her body envelop me. Her chest rises and falls in rapid bursts, lips slightly parted as if in invitation.
I can't resist.
She’s like Eve, wondering whether to accept the apple the snake is holding out to her. I am that snake, slithering closer to her with every passing moment.
"What do you want from me?" she inquires.
"To listen to you."
With a tremble in her fingertips, Andrea reaches out her hand and takes mine. Small, slender, light-skinned fingers decorate her blue-veined pulse. The contrast is obvious against the more tanned skin of my knuckles, above which, at wrist level, tattoos begin to spill over my skin.
Andrea follows me as I guide her to the huge and imposing piano that decorates the main room. I noticed it as soon as I entered this luxurious apartment. It makes all kinds of memories come back to me.
Only then do I sit down in front of the instrument. My fingers don’t touch the keys, but I can feel the way the air pulses around us, as if in expectation.
"Do you know how to play?" she asks me.
"I know how to do much more than that."
A twinkle in her eye tells me that she’s caught the double meaning of my words. After a moment's pause, she sits next to me. After another moment, she begins to sing.
Andrea's sweet, slow, and broken voice matches the tragic notes that begin to flow through my fingers.
And instantly, I'm lost.
I promised myself years ago that this wouldn’t happen again, that I'd never let a woman get close enough to crush my heart.
But as I listen to Andrea sing "Broken" I feel the first signs of my misfortune.
I'm falling, and falling hard. And like an idiot, I'm the one playing the tune to my own demise…
