by Pam Godwin
She laughs and spins around to dial in her combination. “You’re so weird.”
I open my locker and find a small folded paper on top of the textbooks. With a huge smile, I reach in and touch it. Stroke it.
Emeric’s been leaving me notes all week. Just imagining him scrawling each one in his eloquent script and walking out of his way to slip it through the vent on my locker door sends a flutter through my chest.
Ellie stands a few feet away, distracted by her phone.
I hold the note inside the locker and unfold it.
I want you.
I wait for you.
You have me.
He makes my soul ache. I read it again, and my whole body aches. When I close my eyes, I hear his deep voice, feel his bruising touch, and taste the cinnamon on his breath. He’s with me, always surrounding me, lifting me. Damn, maybe I am more light-footed.
The click of heels approaches behind me. I wad up the note in my fist and glance over my shoulder.
Ann leans against the locker between Ellie and me and gives me a once-over. “The girls have been talking.”
Uh huh. She’s here, on behalf of the female population, to remind me that she’s prettier, smarter, and more popular.
I slide my hand into the satchel and drop the balled-up note. Then I shift to face her head-on, wearing the smile my dad always said was my greatest weapon.
Her sneer warps her smooth black skin and perfect features. “That’s a Dolce & Gabbana dress.”
I glance down at the yellow and white daisy print, loving how the A-line silhouette fits my body. “Okay.”
“Yesterday you wore Valentino. Day before that was Oscar de la Renta. For reals, Ivory. You’re a shoplifter now?”
Why couldn’t Emeric have just picked up some clothes from Wal-Mart? I wouldn’t have known the damn difference.
Because he doesn’t do anything unless it’s over-the-top.
Ellie steps beside me, hitching her humongous backpack over her shoulder. “Leave her alone, Ann.”
“It’s fine.” I nod in the direction of Crescent Hall. “I’ll catch up with you, okay?”
She gives me a sympathetic smile and heads toward our next class.
I turn back to Ann and contemplate a repulsive response, because it’s so much fun watching her squirm. I could tell her I fucked the store manager at Neiman Marcus. Is that where people go to buy these clothes? I don’t know, but that suggestion hits too close to my prior arrangements. Oh, I know… “I started selling my eggs.”
Her brown eyes bulge. “Your…what?”
“Eggs.” I shrug. “Who knew ovulation could be so lucrative? With my good looks and excellent SAT scores, the fertility center pays me double the going rate.”
She makes a gagging noise. “That’s disgusting.”
“So is your attitude.” I shut the locker and step around her. “But I’m deeply touched by how closely you pay attention to me. Brings new light on our friendship. Maybe we can go shopping and have sleepovers.” I’d rather be crushed by a twelve-hundred-pound piano. “We could get BFF necklaces—”
“You’re such a bitch.”
“—or not.” I pat her bony shoulder as I pass. “Thanks for keeping it real.”
Several hours later, I’m sitting behind the Steinway on the campus theater stage. Emeric moved my private lessons here a few days ago to get me comfortable with the acoustics. The Holiday Chamber Music Celebration is only a couple months away. As one of Le Moyne’s biggest performances, the ballet is open to the public and showcases the academy’s top musicians and dancers.
Piano is only a small piece of the production, but I would love to finally be part of it. Emeric still hasn’t announced who will fill that seat. He takes his job so seriously he’s not giving me any advantages just because we’re together. I have to earn it, and there isn’t an ounce of me that begrudges him that.
Even so, he has a frustrating way of making me wait for things.
When he joined me in the kitchen this morning, he told me it’s beautiful to see me waiting.
I will gladly go to exhaustion waiting for him. Waiting for his discipline. Waiting for his affection. Waiting for the unknown.
“Begin again.” His voice booms from the shadows of the tiered seats.
We have the theater to ourselves. He’s somewhere in the front row, but I can’t see him beyond the blinding stage lights.
Bending over the keyboard, I dive into Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker suite. My hands fly through the bursting tremolos, wrists snapping over the quickly-changing keys. I’ve played this piece so many times I know it by rote, my fingers moving of their own volition, seamlessly adapted with the notes.
As the dial on my watch reaches seven o’clock, perspiration licks my skin, and spasms twinge the joints in my shoulders and hands. Emeric has only interrupted me a few times to point out slip-ups. Hell, he’s been so quiet for the last hour I wonder if he left.
I pivot on the piano bench and squint against the lights. “Did you fall asleep out there?”
“No.” He clears his throat. “That was exquisite, Miss Westbrook.” His dark, deep-toned voice echoes through the theater. “This stage isn’t big enough for you.”
Tendrils of warmth unfurl inside me, spiraling along my arms, between my breasts, and around my spine.
“How about the stage at Leopold?” I tilt my head, blinking against the lights. “You know, since that’s where I’m going.”
“Leopold is just an idea stuck in your head. Think bigger. Better.”
Better than the best conservatory? I purse my lips. “Like what?”
“There’s not an audience in the world big enough to contain you. But you need one passionate enough to hold you.”
Wow. I’ve never thought of it like that before.
“Come here.”
It’s a command he would give to any of his students, like sit down, stop talking, answer the question. But to me, it holds a deeper meaning, one that doesn’t belong within the walls of a school.
My thighs quake as I stand from the bench. My breaths tighten as I move toward him, down the stage steps and into the darkness of the empty seats.
He sits off to the side in the front row, just beyond the edge of light. With an ankle propped on his knee and forearms draped over the arm rests, he’s a picture of calm self-possession. But his eyes are steely and focused, drilling into mine.
I stop within arm’s reach, and my attention drops to the long, hard length rising in his slacks.
“Ivory.” His sultry tone snaps my head up.
I rub the back of my neck. “You’re…um, hard. Because of my performance?”
“Everything you do turns me on,” he whispers. “Especially the feminine motion of your body when you play. I want you naked, sitting at my piano and rolling your hips like you’re fucking the notes.”
A thunderbolt of heat shoots between my legs, lighting up every inch of me. I want to free him from his pants and feel the weight of his cock in my hands. In my mouth.
He strokes a finger over his bottom lip. “The soloist position in the ballet is yours.”
A sigh of happiness tingles through my limbs. “Thank you.”
“I love when you’re grateful.” He licks his bottom lip. “But you earned this, Ivory. You’re going to steal the show.”
His words commend my talent, but the smoldering flicker in his eyes appreciates all of me as his gaze traces the lines of my body and probes beneath my skin. He knows me on a deeper level, better than anyone, and he likes what he sees inside me.
A sudden and very specific need resonates through my chest, sparked from the marrow of my being. A need to satisfy him, to feel the power in giving him that gift.
I tug at the foot propped on his knee until he lowers it the floor. He shifts to stand, but I stop him with my hands on his rock-hard thighs. Then I kneel between his spread legs.
He grabs my hair, his tone stern with warning. “Ivory.”
With a surge of bravery, I grip his cock through the trousers, touching him for the first time. “I want to taste this.”
“Fuck.” His exhale ricochets through the vast room. The hand in my hair pulls, pinching pain across my scalp. “Not here.”
If we go back to his house, I’ll lose my nerve on the way. I’ve loathed the feeling of a man in my mouth since the first time Lorenzo took me there. The gagging, loss of air, and utter humiliation of something so vile squirting across my tongue…
I want it to be different with Emeric. I need him to show me how to do this willingly.
Surrounded by the stiff muscle groups of his chest and legs, I stroke my hand over the pulsing swell of his erection. “I will crawl to you. Bow to you. Whatever you want, I want. Just…give me this.”
A thick, hoarse noise escapes his lips. “Christ in hell. How the fuck do I say no to that?”
He wraps my hair around his fist, his gaze cutting through the theater and pausing on the closed doors.
Is he thinking about Joanne and the time they were caught?
It’s after seven on a Friday night. We’re probably the only two people in Crescent Hall, and no one comes into the theater after school hours. But if those doors open, I’ll be on my feet before we’re spotted. Besides, only my back is illuminated by the dim edge of the lights. No one can see him in the shadows.
I know he considers all of this before he whispers gruffly, “Take me out.”
Excitement shivers through me as I loosen his belt and slide down his zipper. My hands shake, and my mouth floods with moisture.
The fist in my hair clamps down as tension ripples from his body. He lifts his hips, ripping at the trousers with his free hand. As the zipper shifts below his heavy sac, my gut quivers with anticipation to touch him.
In the dim space between us, the largeness of him juts up, long and beautiful and throbbing with veins. My hands gravitate toward it, fingers curling around the thick base.
He wrenches me backward by my hair and studies my face, his blue eyes a faint glow in the darkness. “The moment you want this to stop, raise your hand in the air.”
Because I won’t be able to use my voice? Fear trickles in, but I shove it away. I have the strength to be vulnerable with him. “I will.”
He releases my hair and grips the arm rests with both hands. “Now suck me.”
Kneeling to him, with my fingers trembling against the dark short hairs on his groin, I lower my head and slide my cheek along his shaft, nuzzling, kissing, and savoring the feel of steel sheathed in silky flesh.
His entire body melts into the seat.
I drag my nose along his length, inhaling the scent of a man I trust, pulling his woody musk deep into my lungs.
A groan notches his breaths, and his legs widen, stretching the seams around his fly. “Stop playing with it, and suck it.”
Smiling, I swirl my tongue around the tip, shredding a gasp from his throat. The sight of his blanching fists around the arm rests produces a throb between my legs. The jerk of his cock against my lips rushes wet heat to my core. His pleasure is my pleasure.
As I suckle and lick the crown, I reach into his briefs to tease his balls with kneading fingers. Then I close my eyes and draw him into my mouth.
“Ah fuck.” He grunts. “That’s it. Deeper. Flatten your tongue. There you go.” His legs shake. “Jesus, Ivory. Just like that.”
I thrill at his praise and bob my head faster, tightening the suction of my mouth. When he’s not turning his neck to glance at the door, I know he’s watching me, absorbing the contentment on my face as I give and give. Imagining the desire hooding his eyes charges me up, almost as much as the way he bosses me every step of the way. Spit on it. Lick under the head. Twist your wrist. Take it deep.
Holy hell, this man. He can’t just sit there and enjoy a blow job. His harsh whispers demand I do it the way he likes it, ordering the exact motions to make. Suck faster. Stroke harder. Make it wet.
He’s a control freak through and through, but I knew he’d respond exactly this way. I love him like this. His filthy fucking mouth and the coarseness of his timbre makes my lips tingle and my nipples harden.
When he loses the last of his restraint, there’s no warning. In a blur, he grabs my hair and slams my head down. I gag, slobbering atrociously and sucking for air. A pained moan escapes him as he bucks his hips and drives harder, deeper. I choke so violently my eyes water against the pressure, and my fingers scramble for purchase in the folds of his slacks.
Both hands tangle in my hair as he holds my face against his groin, his cock digging against my throat, his voice hoarse. “Raise your hand, dammit, and I’ll stop.”
My hands are free. I can lift them anytime. Then he’ll release me, and the discomfort will end. The power in that breaks something open inside me.
I want this. I feel it at gut level, this need for him to fuck my mouth savagely, carelessly, and without thought. Maybe because he’s held back for so long, restraining himself for me, and I ache to give this back to him. Or maybe because I want his hurt so hard and deep inside me that he’s all I feel.
With the broad head pounding the back of my throat and taunting my airway, it already hurts. My tonsils feel like painful masses of swollen tissue. He’s doing this because he wants to, and I love that, crave it, like no decent woman ever would.
I’ve never been decent. I’m dirty—Emeric’s kind of dirty that leaves a claiming painful pleasure in my throat. He tries to fuck me as deeply as he can because he’s my master, the man I hunger for in the darkest, most terribly beautiful way possible.
“Raise…your…fucking…hand.” He punctuates each word with jabbing strokes in my mouth.
I bury my nails into his thighs, a silent plea. Don’t stop.
He stabs his hips and pulls my hair, legs shaking, and breaths wheezing out of control. Just when I think I can’t take any more, the balance shifts. He goes quiet, slowing his thrusts, stroking my hair, and filling my mouth with his release.
My name reverberates through the theater as his body convulses and sighs.
The power is mine. I bask in it. His hands tremble, and I grab them, hold them, our fingers intertwined. I have him.
The next morning, I shield my eyes against the glaring sun and step toward an unfamiliar car in Emeric’s driveway. “What is that?”
He follows me out of the house and walks ahead of me. “A Porsche Cayenne.”
“Okaaay. Why is it here?” I thought he was driving me to my doctor’s appointment in his muscle car. “Where did it come from?”
His strong legs carry him toward the white sporty SUV, his gorgeous ass flexing in low-waist jeans. With the chirp of a key fob, he unlocks and opens the driver’s door then faces me with a wide stance, arms crossed over his chest.
The t-shirt stretches around defined biceps and formidable shoulders, and creases of denim outline the impressive bulge between his legs. I stare without apology, a smile hitching my lips as I recall the way his swollen length pounded against my throat last night.
“Look at me.” Censure hardens his tone. When I lift my gaze, he says, “I had it delivered this morning.”
I grit my teeth. This car better not be for me. “I thought you preferred loud American gas guzzlers.”
The blue in his eyes glows magnetically in the sunlight. “True. But this is one of the safest SUVs on the market.”
Yep, it’s for me, dammit. Another gift I don’t need. Now I know why he asked me earlier in the week if I had a driver’s license. “Thank you, but no—”
“We’re not arguing about this.”
“Uh, yeah, we are. It’s hard enough explaining my wardrobe at school. But a car? No way.” I anchor my hands on my hips. “Return it.”
“No.” He tosses the fob in my direction.
I let it thunk to the driveway at my feet and give him my best glare.
His mouth sets in a thin, severe line.
Oh shit. My pulse trips.
&n
bsp; He clasps his hands behind his back and prowls toward me, slowly, methodically, his eyes boring into mine.
Double shit. I lower my arms to my sides and scan the yard. We’re behind the estate, hidden from the street. The towering oaks form a living wall of privacy between the lots. Not that I’m afraid to be alone with him when he’s like this. Or maybe I am, but any fear I have is smothered by the heady mix of give and take that melds us together so beautifully.
Doesn’t mean I have to accept a car, though. I glare down at the key fob.
“Eyes on me!”
My focus flies to the sculpted lines of his face and the pulsing vein in his brow. It’s been a few days since I riled him up, but I know that look. As he circles me, I’m both dancing and cringing inside, anticipating a strangling hand on my throat or a hard smack on the ass. Maybe he’ll finally have sex with me, right here in broad daylight. I’d welcome any or all of it. I’ve been in such a heightened state of arousal since I moved in, I might just strip off my clothes and make the decision for him.
He stops behind me, not touching, but close enough to stir my hair with his breaths. “I’ve had my fingers in your cunt, my cock in your mouth, and your taste on my lips. I’m the only person on the planet who knows how beautiful you look when you come. All those freckles on your thighs, the sounds you make when you sleep, the passion you evoke with a piano, everything about you is priceless and irreplaceable. So I’m going to wrap you in nice things and protect you in a safe car. And you are going to thank me with those gorgeous lips around my dick when you get home.”
My heart rises and dips with each word, my breaths stuttering noisily.
“This is who I am, Ivory, and you are the essential and most important part of me.” He steps back. “Now bend over.”
My knees wobble at his words. I reach for the black Chucks on my feet, and the fancy designer denim cuts into my thighs. The downside of low-rise jeans? He’s getting an ungodly view of my butt cleavage right about now.
His palm slams against my ass with a force that steals my breath and topples me forward. But his arm catches me around the waist, and the hand on my back keeps me in a doubled-over position. Sweet Jesus, my butt cheek is on fire. The heat fans outward, circulating through my blood and gathering between my legs.