“What do you mean?” He blinked at her. “It upsets you, to know that about me?”
Not a denial from him. Not a dodge. She couldn’t think of a reply. She felt stripped bare by his imperious scrutiny.
“So you’re just going to bring up this shit and leave it there?” His lips pursed, the ones that had kissed her a minute ago. He put his hands on his hips. “Okay, you know about me. Well, I know about you too, Ruby. Guys talk. I know you’re a masochist, that you like more pain than even Ethan is into, and I’ve been thinking about that for a lot longer, but I haven’t been playing Rachmaninoff like shit.”
In his impatience, in his directness, she felt something between them shift. He wasn’t looking at her—or scolding her—as the head of the Gold Quartet. No, he was sexually frustrated, too.
“You never play like shit,” she said, keeping her tone even. “Everything about you is perfect and…masterful.”
“Masterful?” He made an impatient sound. “What has Ethan been telling you?”
“I keep thinking about the way you kissed me.” She said it fast, just flung it out there. “I mean, that was intense.”
“It was.”
“It makes me wonder what else is intense about you.”
He looked up at the ceiling, then back at her. “I wonder about you, too, since you’ve been hooking up with Ethan and his rope. I wonder what you like, what you don’t like. I wonder how you’d react if I did things to you that…that you didn’t like.”
“You’d enjoy it.”
They both knew she was right. And she knew how she’d react if he did things she didn’t like. She’d get hot, like when Ethan spanked or teased her. She’d be panting for Jonathan, hoping for more.
“Exactly how sadistic are you?” she asked.
“Oh, Rube. Are you sure you want to ask that question? It might lead you somewhere you don’t expect.”
“Like your dungeon?”
She didn’t expect his laugh, his smile. “You think you could handle my dungeon?”
Now she was the one whose eyes widened. “Wait, you really have a dungeon?”
“I live in a walk up, Ruby. Aren’t most dungeons underground?”
“I don’t know.”
She didn’t know anything at this point. She didn’t know where to look, where to put her hands. She didn’t know what to say next. Jonathan was the one who spoke.
“How masochistic are you?” he asked, flipping the line of questioning.
She blinked. A flush rose in her cheeks. “On a scale of one to ten? Or…”
“How do you like your pain? How far do you like to go?” This time he asked in a serious voice. They were serious questions.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I haven’t pushed many boundaries yet. But I mean…” She swallowed hard, forcing herself to hold his gaze. “I’d be up for pushing some boundaries. I mean…if you wanted to…” She could feel her cheeks turning red. “Have you really been thinking about me…like that?”
“Maybe.” Jonathan rubbed his bottom lip, then let out a sigh. “It’s complicated.”
“In what way?”
He glanced at his phone, at the photo Steve had just snapped. “You know what, Rube? This conversation needs a little wine. Come to my place for a while and I’ll drive you home later. At the very least, we can work out that Rachmaninoff.”
Ruby wasn’t sure if working out that Rachmaninoff would be enough to satisfy her at this point.
“Okay, sure,” she said out loud. “I’ll get my violin.”
3.
She’d been to Jonathan’s apartment before, but not with so much tension in the air. Not when it was just the two of them, and he was in his kitchen, pouring her some wine.
He was sexy like this, outside their rehearsal space. The way he walked, the way he crossed to the living room, holding two glasses while he held her gaze. His auburn hair, normally flawless, was slightly mussed from running his hand through it. He’d done that several times on the car ride over here, telling her this was too much of a risk, that they’d mess up their dynamic together. He’d told her he ought to just take her home.
But here they were.
He sat beside her on the couch, close enough for their knees to touch, although they didn’t touch. The wine he handed her was deep red. She turned to face him, bringing the glass beneath her nose.
“Hmm,” she said. “Notes of woodland breezes, overripe berries, and fairy wings.”
“You got it. That’s exactly what it said on the label.”
She smiled at him over the rim. “I actually know nothing about wine.”
“I know.”
He watched as she took a sip of the crimson vintage, appreciating the smooth, rich flavor. Jonathan would never give a guest cheap stuff. He probably had a closet full of excellent bottles, although she wasn’t sure. She’d never been beyond his living room, not once during their long acquaintance. She looked out of his oversized windows at the dark city.