I flicked a glance over at him, catching his gaze. “Is that enough?” I asked. “Or do you want me to keep going?”
“Keep going.”
I ended the Barber and began an allegro piece, one Milo used to play during lessons with my father. I wondered if he’d remember, but then he smiled, and I played faster because I was flirting. Milo was a temptation I couldn’t shake. He’d made it clear we were going to keep things friendly, especially while I was living at his apartment, but that only made me want him more.
>
I looked at the wall beyond his shoulder as I plied the strings, but I could still feel his eyes on me. I could feel them tracing over the lines of my jaw, and the lines of the violin as my bow arced between us. Then he picked up a violin from the rack above his work counter, as well as a bow. He joined the piece mid-phrase, angling his body so our violins sang together.
Without thought, we played off each other, blending the small tone differences in our instruments the way experienced musicians did, communicating with our aural senses, rather than sight or words. I closed my eyes, feeling the notes dance between us. Sweeping glissandos, trembling vibrato battling for the most perfect resonance. I wanted to play slower so the song would never end, but I had to keep up with him, to make the perfection last. When we played the last notes, I opened my eyes and found him staring at me.
There was hot desire in his gaze. I wasn’t imagining it. It would be such a little thing, to put down the instruments and reach out to one another. Why didn’t he want it? Why didn’t I force the issue?
“That was awesome.” I put the violin in my lap, my mouth half open, wanting to say the rest of the words. I want you. I love you. Please touch me.
“We make good music together,” he said, before I could come up with anything. His words were brisk as he turned away.
“Yes, we do.” I wanted him to turn back and face me. I wanted to fight with him over this shit. I had all this energy to give him, but he was behind a wall and I couldn’t reach him, and it made me want to smash something. I looked down at the violin, and forced my fingers to unwind from the neck. “You’d better take this back.”
“Sure.” He turned to me, meeting my eyes for one burning moment. “If I need to know anything else about how you play, I know where to find you.”
“I guess you do.”
“I may be home late tonight.”
He moved away again. Always moving away from me.
“It’s your life,” I said. “I’ll see you when I see you.”
I left Fierro Violins, feeling wrought up with emotion. In the last hour, I’d been excited, hopeful, grateful, in love, miserable, and furious. I had the afternoon and evening off—all the time in the world to wallow in my feelings. I walked in the cold all the way to the Bridgeport building, stopping to get food for my lonely dinner, then went upstairs.
“You like me, at least,” I said, as Blue trotted over to welcome me. “Yes, I missed you, sweetie. Milo won’t be home for dinner, so it’s just you and me. Feel like a shower?”
Blue didn’t like showers, but I needed one. I was freezing, plus I didn’t want the smell of wood and violins on me, and the memory of our impromptu duet, the way our tones had blended so wonderfully together. I took my time, standing under the steamy water, trying to clear my mind. While Blue hovered, I put on pajamas and a robe and sat in front of my laptop, logging on to a website for Manhattan real estate. So many choices. So expensive. So many tasks to follow up on.
I needed to find a place to stay, so I could remove myself from the situation, but the insurance morass, in my current mood, seemed an insurmountable task to untangle. I closed my laptop and drifted out to the kitchen, and decided I didn’t want to cook. A salad and a handful of cookies would be fine. Forget the salad. Just cookies.
I took my extremely unhealthy dinner into Milo’s living room and flopped on his couch. Blue curled up beside the ornate fireplace, drawing in his tail and legs until he was a perfect oval. I ate a couple cookies with milk, then took the rest back to the kitchen, because they were only making me feel worse.
I left the kitchen and walked down the hall, and stood in the door of Milo’s master bedroom. He kept the door open while he was away, and Blue went in and out, but I hadn’t felt bold enough yet to do the same. I wished I had the nerve to sneak in and poke through his closets and drawers, or do what I really wanted, which was to sprawl face down in the middle of his bed and bury my face in his covers. I wanted so badly to watch him while he slept, but he kept the door shut when he was in there.
Jesus, Alice, you need to get a life, or at least your own place.
I backed away from his open bedroom door and went back down the hall, past my room and Milo’s office, to the instrument room, another place I didn’t dare trespass. I was afraid Milo’s priceless-instrument room had a hidden security camera. At the very least, I might mess up the climate-controlled air by breathing too hard or drooling. I walked past with Blue at my heels, and glanced at the next door. Then I stopped.
What was in there? It was probably the closet with all the climate-control equipment. Was there a secret camera set up, or no? Milo’s whole ritzy, glitzy apartment fascinated me. I put my hand on the knob, driven by curiosity. The door wasn’t locked. I looked down at Blue, whose dark eyes gave away nothing. “If I open this, will I set off an alarm?” I asked.
When Blue didn’t answer, I turned the knob the rest of the way and pushed the door open. Light from the hallway illuminated the darkness, stretching to a far back wall. It wasn’t a closet after all, and it didn’t contain any climate-control machinery. There was no security camera. In fact, it seemed to be another complete room, deeper than the instrument room. I fumbled beside the doorjamb for a light.
“Coming in?” I asked Blue over my shoulder.
He made a small, snuffling sound and trotted away. I finally found a panel of light switches and flicked one on. Fixtures around the baseboards came on, casting up dim, white light in the larger-than-expected space. At first I only saw shapes and shadows. I took a couple more steps inside, realizing the room was L-shaped. There were cabinets along the outside wall, and a bed tucked away in the back. Was this another guest room?
Was that even a bed?
I walked toward it. The white-sheeted mattress had a lattice of bars for a headboard, and tall posts at either end of the footboard, with rings attached to the posts at the middle and top. I wasn’t sure how long it took me to realize it wasn’t a bed for sleeping on. Maybe a couple seconds, maybe a couple minutes of frantic thought while I stood there wringing my hands. It was a sex bed. A bondage bed.
As I processed that, the dark shapes around me took on more recognizable forms.
A bondage chair. A padded bench with adjustable features. Three different types of racks: an X-shaped one, a rectangular one, and an arch, all of them with attachment points like the ones on the bed posts. I was in a BDSM dungeon. Milo’s dungeon.
I went back to the light panel and lit up everything in the room. There were randomly placed lamps, overhead lights, and a wrought iron chandelier over the bondage bed. I couldn’t believe what I was looking at, but also, I couldn’t believe I hadn’t figured this out before.
Milo was kinky. By the looks of things, he was extremely kinky. This was what had been holding him back from me sexually, what he’d been trying to protect me from. This was why he’d done nothing more than kiss me, when I obviously wanted to go further.
Milo, you idiot. I don’t care. In fact, I think I love you more.
Like the rest of his place, his sexy dungeon was fantastic, elegant, old-world, rich. With the lights on, I could see the sheen of polish on the wood structures, and the dark metal’s smooth, heavy quality. What did he do in here? My imagination ran wild, along with my jealousy. How many women had he brought in here? Not me. He never would have shown this to me if I hadn’t stumbled into it on my own.
When would he be home? I didn’t want him to catch me in here, perving his collection of kinkiness, but I couldn’t stop looking at everything. I opened the cabinets and closed them again without touching anything, overwhelmed by the things I saw inside. Sex toys and dildos. Butt plugs. Nipple clamps. Bondage equipment. Chains, rope, gags, and leather whips and straps, designed to cause pain.
Oh God, what if there was a camera in here? What if there was a silent alarm that was already beckoning him home, so he could accost whoever had broken into his secret sex lair? What would he say if he caught me here? I knew a little about BDSM, but I’d never done anything kinky with a partner. I knew there were Dominants and submissives in this lifestyle, and it was clear to me which one he was, based on the way he’d kissed me that one time.
How could I have been so clueless, so blind to these proclivities in him? It seemed so obvious now. His deep, brusque voice and his intent eye contact, his commanding manner… All my life, I’d known he was a dark kind of guy. So much was explained by this dungeon, but so many more questions were raised. How long had it taken him to amass this collection of furniture and toys? How many partners had he played with? How many did he have right now? Was I in the way, since I’d moved in here? Was he seeing some other woman right now, some secret slave he couldn’t invite over until I moved out again?
I rubbed my forehead, wondering what to do. Walk out of this room and shut the door? Pretend I didn’t know this dungeon was here, just a few doors down from my room? Why didn’t he keep a room like this locked?
Because he’d lived alone until now. You’re trespassing. You’re invading his privacy.
It was crazy, how you could know someone for so long, but not really know them at all. I’d only seen what I wanted to see, the moody, mostly solitary violinist who was a few years older than me, old enough to seem wise beyond his years. Now I was picturing him in here, looking in the cabinets for the perfect cuffs, the blindfold, the rope to fix a woman—me—to one of these benches or racks. It was a Milo I’d never thought about, but one that made me shiver with desire. Bound, blindfolded, at his mercy…
What would he do then? Whip me? Fuck me? Call me a naughty slut?
Was all of this—the dungeon, the perversity—the reason he kept me at arm’s length? I can’t do this, because I respect you too much. I remembered his words because they’d disappointed me so deeply.
But now…
Now everything could be different. I could let him know I was okay with this side of him. In fact, as I stood looking around at the forbidding furniture and tall cabinets, I knew this side of him was a huge part of what attracted me. Milo was good at so many things. He was kind and caring, and renowned for making instruments. He was a noted musician, who played the violin with the potency of someone who needed to do it to live. If he was good at this BDSM stuff too…