As I draw closer, I don’t hear Ravel or Brhams or Liszt. He’s playing Metallica.
I freeze in the doorway, held in paralyzing captivation as the familiar tune of “Nothing Else Matters” wraps around me. Twenty feet away, he rocks on the bench, eyes closed, profile relaxed, and forearms flexing as he hammers the keys.
He’s conservatory trained but plays metal on the piano? Without a music sheet. Only virtuosos can so smoothly replicate pieces they’ve heard. I’m completely and totally awe-struck.
When I remember to breathe, my lungs expand, inhaling the sight of him, the poignant arrangement of notes, and the energy in the air.
Head down, black hair hanging over his brow, he sways his jaw side-to-side in a slow tempo with the music. The melody is a desperate plea infused with longing, and he opens it up with expert strokes, tapping his bare foot softly, his posture a powerhouse of contracting muscle beneath the white t-shirt.
The face of his watch glints in the light as he leaps between octaves. With each snap of his wrist, I imagine that hand whipping across my skin. The spread and flex of his fingers makes me wish they were curled around my throat with the same passion and intensity. His hips roll, and I tremble to straddle his lap and ride the wave of his body as he plays.
In the right hands, the piano can steal the soul. Clearly, his hands are made for the keys, because I don’t just feel the notes inside me. They devour me like a dark, voracious flame.
He’s so sexy and talented I don’t know what to do with the dangerous feelings he stirs in me. I’m supposed to be mad at him and demanding answers. I should feel lost, uncertain.
Instead, I feel claimed, as if he’s caressing each key with me on his mind. We’re not finished. He wants me here, even though he hasn’t acknowledged my presence.
It takes me several seconds to realize the lid is closed on the Fazioli. Did he forget to open it? Looking closer, I see something that doesn’t belong.
Familiar black straps hook underneath the piano, stretch across the black top, and attach to leather cuffs near the keyboard.
My pulse skyrockets, and my gaze flicks back to his face.
His eyes are still closed. I could slip into the hall and… What then? I’m not going anywhere until I talk to him.
Am I afraid of what he has planned for me? Well, my lips are numb, and my heartbeat is raging out of control. But I’m certain those cuffs will lead to answers about Joanne as well as myself. If the truth is too painful, he’ll release me with one word.
I stand taller, but not quite confident enough to step into the room.
The song winds to a close, and he rests his hands in his lap.
Lifting his head, he turns his glacial eyes on me. “Leave all of your clothes at the door.”
“Metallica.” Ivory tucks her hands in the back pockets of her jeans and gives me a tentative smile. “That was good.”
I was trained by the best, graduated from Leopold, and hold a seat in the Louisiana Symphony Orchestra. Not once in my musical career have I cared what anyone thinks of my talent.
Until now.
She’s been frozen in the doorway for five minutes, and good is the only compliment her gorgeous lips utter?
When we met, I was afraid the balance between us would be heavily tipped, that I would overpower her and take advantage of her. I weigh almost twice what she does. I’m twenty-seven, and she’s seventeen. I’m a Dominant, and she’s my high school student. Christ, I had so many doubts.
But no more.
As I sit here, aching for her brilliant pianist’s mind to spout poetry about my music, I realize she doesn’t just hold the power in the bedroom. She commands my emotions, tests my confidence, and haunts my every thought. She could destroy me, not just my livelihood, but the very fiber of who I am, and she doesn’t even know it.
It’s my responsibility to balance the harmony between us and manage our roles. Right now, she’s disobeying, and I’m going to remind her what it means to be mine.
“Your clothes. Now.”
Flinching at my hard tone, she glances at the restraints on the Fazioli. Her chest heaves once, twice. Then she closes her eyes and lifts the t-shirt over her head, dropping the material to the floor.
Her tits swell over lacy pink cups, her toned abs encased in dark golden skin. Those sexy legs… I clench my hands. She’s making me wait, her fingers frozen on the button of her jeans.
I rise from the piano bench, the Dom in me taking over. I straighten my spine, roll back my shoulders, and even my breaths. She watches me with hooded eyes, parted lips, her hands dropping to curl against her thighs.