That’s when I hear it.
The tempo of our breaths. The drum of our heartbeats. The crackle in the air.
The exquisite cadence pulses through me, awakening sensations I’ve never felt, composing a melody I’ve never heard.
Our hypnotic, dark notes.
This is so much more than punishment or forbidden pleasure.
She could never be a mistake.
“Are we going to…” She tilts her head and searches my face. “Do the vibe thing all night? I’m okay with that, but not knowing what comes next has me…um, a little jumpy.”
I trail a finger across her cheek and along her bottom lip. “Tell me you trust me.”
She nibbles the corner of her mouth. “You’ve given me every reason not to.”
I drop my hand, but she catches it and lifts it back to her face.
“You’ve also shown me every reason I should.” She holds our hands tightly against her cheek. “Thank you for finding me.” Her fingers trace the cuts on my knuckles, and her eyes shimmer with tears. “For protecting me.”
Christ, this girl… She’s my music, my place in this life, my part in it all.
I move in and touch my lips to hers. “You’re going to follow me inside.” I slide a hand into her thick hair. “You’re going to tell me everything I want to know.” I tighten my grip and yank her head back. “Then I’m going to test the depth of your trust. Say yes.”
Her eyes flicker with vulnerability and desperation. Then she blinks, breathes, and relaxes in my hold. “Yes, Mr. Marceaux.”
I follow Mr. Marceaux through the wide, echoing passages of his monstrosity of a mansion. Between the questions I’ll have to answer and whatever punishment that will follow, my legs threaten to buckle with each step.
He touches my lower back and steers me forward. Oddly, the tremors in his hand give me strength. Like maybe he’s as freaked out as I am.
His fingers have been shaking since he climbed into the GTO, his breaths fluctuating in volume and tempo all the way here. I’m well-acquainted with the indicators of a man in need, but this feels different, safer somehow. Maybe it’s because he’s not attacking me like the other men I’ve encountered. Or perhaps it’s because the hand on my back is guiding me, not forcing me.
We pass a living room filled with plush leather furniture, a hearth room with more couches, and a massive kitchen gleaming with stainless steel. Compared to the gloomy Victorian Gothic exterior of stone and steeples, the inside is warm and bright, flaunting the kind of luxuries I’m not sure a teacher’s salary can afford.
Wrought iron chandeliers, long heavy draperies, shiny wood floors, black damask wallpaper, it’s all so old-world-ish yet modern at the same time. Such a profound reflection of his personality. He seems like such an old noble soul in the sense that he loves knowledge and truth—those pursuits interest him far more than the latest gossip or high-tech car. But after two months of lectures, I’ve learned he also appreciates the transience of life, the fleeting trends, and the way people and music change over time.
After countless rooms, a spiraling staircase that wraps around the atrium, and a maze of corridors, I’ve lost my bearings. Why would a single man need so much space?
I really don’t care how much money he has or where it comes from. I’m more interested in the man himself, what he has planned, and where he’s taking me.
“Mr. Marceaux?”
“It’s Emeric.” He stops, turns me to face him, and strokes the pad of his thumb across my cheek. “I’m Mr. Marceaux when I’m your teacher.”
His touch races a shiver across my skin and electrifies my heart. “If you’re not my teacher right now, what are you?”
The mechanisms in his watch tick beside my ear as he slides his fingers through my hair and holds my head in the frame of his hands. “I don’t think you’re ready to hear that.”
Maybe not, but I think he’s showing me. As I stare into the stormy blue of his gaze, the wall sconces, arched doorways, and dark woods in the hallway all melt into oblivion. He’s wearing his dead serious face, the one that says I want to fuck you and so much more.
That look in his eyes turns my insides upside down, pulling my breaths through a diaphanous haze of happiness and confusion. He doesn’t temper the hunger in his expression, but doesn’t act on it, either. It’s as if he’s letting it build naturally while keeping it contained. As if he’s enjoying the way it makes him feel without thrusting it against me.
I could stand here and stare at him all night, at his model-perfect features, the barely-there stubble on his sculpted jaw, and the heat dancing in his eyes. My fingertips tingle to run through his hair again. Softly, though, unlike the way he stabs his hands through the black strands when he’s angry.