by Pam Godwin
Shoulders back and spine straight, Ivory lifts her chin. “To learn from the best of the best.”
“I see.” Gail adjusts her glasses. “What are you looking for in an instructor?”
Ivory smiles, her eyes alight. “Expertise, of course. A firm hand to push me. An untraditional mind to expand my own. And discipline.” Her gaze flicks to me and back to the judge. “When it’s needed.”
Her answer is directed at Gail, but I know those words are for me. I embody every trait she mentioned. I am her ideal instructor.
Gail’s mouth forms a flat line. “Leopold is a traditional school, and our training concentrates on classical, baroque—”
Ivory turns to the keyboard and busts out the hardest section of Balakirev’s Islamey.
If she doesn’t intend to go to school here, I don’t know what she’s trying to prove. Nevertheless, the shivering intensity of her performance bangs through the room with gusto. There are no rhythm, note, dynamic errors. Every sound she produces is flawless.
All three judges lean forward in their chairs, eyes wide, mouths parted. Yeah, they’re impressed. They fucking should be. I bet they’ve never seen someone attempt Islamey in an audition, let alone pull it off with immaculate skill.
Ivory cuts the piece short and raises a brow at them. I feel my pride all the way to my toes.
Gail rests her fingers over her mouth then smooths back her hair. “Okay, Miss Westbrook. You have our attention.”
Wearing a private smile, Ivory rises, straightens the black dress, and steps toward them. “I’ve spent my entire life saying, ‘I want to get into Leopold.’ Most musicians do, you know? But I’ve been selling myself short. There are some brilliant piano instructors outside these walls. I can happily spend the next however many years perfecting my skill without moving to New York.”
My heart thumps so loudly I wonder if they can hear it across the room. I climb to my feet and step beside Ivory, hands clasped behind my back in silent support.
Gail stands, her expression etched in determination. “I need to converse with my colleagues…” When both men nod to her, she hardens her voice. “We would be honored for you to join us.”
Ivory nods. “Thank you, but I’ve made my decision.”
Extending an arm, Gail hands her a business card. “It’s an open offer. If you don’t find the instructor you’re looking for, this year, next year, or anytime in the future, we’ll have a seat for you.”
Goodbyes are exchanged, and Ivory and I walk silently through the halls, my head pounding with questions.
When we reach an empty courtyard outside, I can no longer hold my tongue. “Tell me why you did that. What the hell changed your mind?”
She wraps her arms around her waist and shudders against the chill in the air. “I don’t want to live here. It’s too cold.”
I hear the smile in her voice and shrug off my jacket, draping it over her shoulders.
She burrows into the wool, keeping her steps in pace with mine. “When I sat behind that piano, I imagined what it would be like learning from an instructor, a mentor, who isn’t you. Then I played the song that fit me instead of the requirements. A song that expresses passion and voice, something I’ve never felt through the textbook pieces. The judges didn’t approve, and that’s when I knew.” She stops and blinks up at me. “If I enrolled here, I would be forced to conform under the instruction of someone who doesn’t know me while practicing music that doesn’t touch me.”
Tendrils of warmth spread through my chest, but I wonder if she’s considered all the ramifications. “You won’t receive a degree under my tutelage. If you’re still aiming for that seat in the symphony, you won’t have the pedigree and prestige to put you there.”
She shrugs. “A symphony, a theater, a stadium…the where isn’t important. I want the lights, the audience, and the music. I guess I have a lot to figure out, and if it turns out that the degree is necessary, I’ll get it.” She holds up the business card and smiles.
“That’s why you played Islamey.”
“Backup plans are good to have. You never know. My current instructor might set his eyes on another student.” She smirks. “High school teachers have a way of falling fast and ignorantly in love.”
My hand flexes, burning to slam against her ass. “You amaze me.”
She grins. “I try.”
As we meander into the next building, I give her a proper tour. Her interest in the campus focuses on where I spent my time rather than how the facilities would help her if she ever changed her mind. She seems well and truly at peace with her decision.
Since it’s the weekend, the halls are dark and vacant. Still, we maintain a professional distance, walking side by side as I point out my favorite stomping grounds and share memories about the people I hung out with.
“I don’t get it.” She follows me into a dead-end hallway. “I’ve known you for eight months, and I’ve only ever heard you play old-guy rock on the piano.”
“Old-guy rock?”
“Guns N’ Roses, Megadeth, AC/DC… I mean, that’s your jam, so how did you handle the classical training here if you’re not into it?”
“I was just about to show you.”
At the end of the empty hall, I wiggle the handle on the last door. It opens, and I herd her inside, shutting and locking it behind me.
My hand hits the light switch in reflexive memory, and the overhead fluorescent buzzes to life.
The spartan, soundproofed practice room is big enough to hold the upright piano and two people. She glances around and gives me a confused look.
I lean against the upright. “I spent every day in here, practicing the songs I enjoyed without the rigid instruction of my mentors. I sat right there with my headphones on and my playlist on repeat. This is where I fell in love with metal on the piano.”
She runs a hand along the covered keyboard, inching toward me. “Every day? On this piano?”
“Yes.”
Slipping off the jacket, she drapes it over the bench. “Alone?”
“Of course.”
She stops just out of arm’s reach. “Did you ever bring a girl in here?”
“Just one.” My cock twitches. “Her panties are in danger of being ripped off.”
“I’m not wearing panties.”
Fuck, I’m hard. How did I miss her bare pussy when she was straddling me in the limo?
I glance at the door and remember I locked it.
A wicked grin twists her lips. “Did you jack off in here?”
I cough through a laugh.
She steps in front of me and grips my tie. “You did.”
I totally did.
She glances down at the piano, nibbling on her smile. “I bet you squirted on the keys. I wonder if there’s still—”
“You want to see my come?” I grip her wrist and hold her palm against my erection, desperate for relief. “You can watch it drip out of your cunt.”
My other hand goes to her hair, tangling in the thick strands as I pull her mouth to mine.
The kiss slips past gentle and plunges straight into hard, aggressive strokes. Her fingers squeeze me through the slacks, spurring my hips into motion, rocking against her hand as my tongue lashes and licks in her mouth. I bite down hard on her bottom lip and holy fucking hell, her nails dig into my balls.
I spin her toward the carpeted wall, chest to chest, and pin her arms above her head. She gazes up at me, her lips pouty, sensual, and swollen with lust. It’s that sexy-as-hell look she always gives me after I’ve kissed her into a daze. The kind of kiss that makes her entire body heavy and limp with desire.
Grinding my cock against her pussy, I trail my tongue along her neck. “Remember the first time we were in this position?”
She arches her neck for my mouth. “In the hall on the first day of school. Not quite the same position.”
“I wanted to restrain you just like this and bite your smart mouth.” I sink my teeth into her bottom lip, mercil
essly, and release her.
Her breaths quicken. “You scared the shit out of me that day.”
“And now?”
“You scare me in a different way.” She kisses the spot over my heart, making my pulse race. “In the best way.”
“Flatten your palms against the wall.”
As she follows my order, I lean my weight against her, confining her while I tackle my belt, fumbling to loosen it. Christ, I need her. I’m shaking with the urgency to bury myself inside her and thrust hard, fast, and unapologetically. I don’t even care where we are.
I shove my slacks and briefs to my thighs and fist my dick, stroking with one hand as I yank up her dress with the other.
My fingers find her bare, soft, and soaked. Thank God, because I’m already lining up and… Ahhh! Fuck, that first thrust inside her always steals my air. She’s so tight, so wet and warm. I let go, not holding back as I slam into her, again and again, lost in the snug clasp of her body.
Her hands stay on the wall, her thighs trembling against mine.
I lift her, hook her legs around my waist, and drive my hips, deeply, viciously. “I fucking love your pussy.”
With a moan, she bows her back, ankles crossed against my ass, those dark brown eyes dilated and locked on me.
My body tightens with my desperation to come. She feels too damn good, too fucking perfect wrapped around my cock. I want to explode.
I grip the back of her head and press her mouth against mine. Not kissing. I’m too wild and frantic for that. I lock our lips, holding us tightly together, savoring her breaths, as I groan and thrust and fuck her to climax.
Her chest heaves through a series of rising moans, her hands sliding up and down the wall. The instant she clenches around me and her body shudders in release, I come so fucking hard my head spins. “Fuuuuck!”
I drop my brow to hers and hold her against the wall, lazily kissing and panting through the lingering vibrations of pleasure.
She wraps her arms around my neck, lips parted and teasing mine. “You’re all I want.”
I stroke my tongue against hers. “You’re all I need.”
“Mmm. I love that.”
I pull from the warmth of her body, knowing I’ll be back in it by the end of the day. “We only have twenty-four hours. Time to see the city.”
By way of the limo, I give her a whirlwind tour from Central Park to the Statue of Liberty. We walk the crowded streets of Times Square. We dine at a fancy restaurant I had to book two months in advance. Not my thing, but it’s something I wanted her to experience.
Late that night, we lie nude in bed in the Presidential Suite at the Four Seasons Hotel. I’ve been inside her for so long my dick’s numb. But in about twenty minutes, I’ll be ready to go again.
She watches me with heavy-lidded eyes, her arms extended above her head, wrists bound together with my belt. She doesn’t bother moving them or asking me to untie her. I’m not sure she has the energy to speak.
I slide down her curves and kiss her hip, nipping at the bone with enough pressure to make her tremble.
“How did you get into…” She twists her wrists in the shackle of the belt. “This?”
Crawling back up her body, I undo the strap and massage her arms. “When I was fifteen, I found some books stashed away in my dad’s office.”
Her eyes widen, waking with alertness. “Like dirty sex books?”
I curl my fingers around one of her tits, trussing it up to roll my tongue around the nipple. “BDSM books. Kink. Master/slave stuff. I was instantly”—hard as a fucking rock—“intrigued. The next few years, I researched it. Obsessed about it. But I wasn’t bold enough to try anything until I went to college.”
The vein in her throat pulses. “With a girl here in New York?”
“No one important.” I don’t even remember her name.
She relaxes against the soft sheets, her fingers mindlessly combing through my hair as I lick, kiss, and caress her tits. She’s so damn beautiful I can’t keep my hands off her.
Her fingers still in my hair. “What risks did you take today? If I would’ve accepted a spot at Leopold, what would’ve happened with your job and the dean?”
“The risks are null. I want you to focus on graduating.” I give her a steely look. “Trust me.”
“Okay.”
Bringing her here didn’t put her education at risk. I knew the judges would accept her. If Beverly Rivard is double-dealing behind my back, it won’t prevent Ivory from graduating from Le Moyne or achieving the future she wants.
There’s only three weeks left of school, and Beverly believes I’ve already pushed Prescott’s enrollment past the application process. I haven’t, and I’m not going to. He’ll get into a conservatory. It just won’t be Leopold. By the time Beverly learns this, Ivory will be graduated and I’ll have my resignation turned in.
I’ve done a lot of soul-searching over the past few months. Ivory wants to learn, and I want to teach. We’ll get those things from each other. Then?
She has a very specific image of what her end goal looks like… The lights, the audience, the music. My aspirations aren’t much different.
I know exactly how I’ll make our dreams align.
The Monday following our New York trip, I find myself sitting in Beverly Rivard’s office, exchanging glares with her across the desk. I have no idea why I’m here, only that I was summoned after second period. Is this about Leopold? Andrea Augustin? Prescott? Every possibility is a vindictive intruder trying to penetrate my defenses and steal away my future with Ivory.
The eight months that I’ve known Ivory have been a goddamn war, the entire world against her and me. But Shane is located—working as a grunt for a construction crew in Tennessee. Lorenzo is still MIA—my PI is embarrassed to report the trail went cold.
I’ve been waiting for the final shoe to drop.
Beverly draws out the silence, watching me with sharp eyes, probably an attempt to make me squirm.
I’m fighting a high-adrenaline battle on the inside, but I hold my posture loose and force a bored look on my face.
She straightens the long sleeves of her suit jacket and pats at the gray-blonde bun at her nape. When she finishes her preening, she looks down her nose at me and sniffs. “I have some unfortunate news.”
Whatever it is, she seems downright smug about it. That doesn’t bode well for me.
I settle back in the chair with exaggerated casualness.
She unlocks the tablet on the desk and meets my eyes. “One of your students was expelled this morning.”
I have dozens of students, but deep down I know, I fucking know who she means, and it’s an excruciating punch in the gut.
The second punch comes when she rotates the tablet and slides it across the desk.
A soundless video plays on the screen. It’s grainy and dark around the edges, but the Le Moyne theater stage shines beneath the overhead lights. Front and center is Ivory, rising from the piano in a yellow and white daisy printed dress.
I watch in horror as she steps off the stage, walks to the edge of the screen, and kneels between a disembodied pair of legs. Darkness shrouds everything in front of her. The face, clothes, shoes, nothing identifies the person sitting in the shadows of the front row.
But I remember the seductive look in her eyes before the video shows it. I remember her words before her lips move silently on the screen.
I will crawl to you. Bow to you. Whatever you want, I want. Just…give me this.
My insides harden into fiery embers, hissing steam through my veins. If Beverly’s gaze wasn’t burning into me, if the consequences of this video weren’t boiling me into combustible rage, I would watch the remainder of it with a stiff cock and a hungry smile. Instead, I force myself to watch it as the man Beverly thought she hired. A jaded, insensitive teacher who only cares about his own agenda.
I pace my breathing and mask my expression, elbow on the arm rest, chin resting on a loosely fisted hand. I
would turn off the video, but I need to know if the camera angle captured me when I exited.
The footage shows an indistinguishable hand in Ivory’s hair and her head bobbing up and down in a lap. It ends with her following an obscure silhouette into the dark.
Nothing on the video incriminates me. Hard to find relief in that when Ivory’s been kicked out of school three weeks before her fucking graduation.
Beverly studies my face, her mouth pinched in a line. She’s looking for a reaction from me. It takes every ounce of control I have to not give her one as a rapid-fire of questions riddle my thoughts with bleeding holes.
I’m not Ivory’s only teacher, but I bet I’m the only one Beverly called in for a video viewing. What does she know? The footage is five months old. How long has she been sitting on it? Why is she just now using it?
Some of those answers might reveal themselves if I understood how and why the theater was equipped with a live camera.
I cock my head. “Signed parental consent is required by law to photograph or film a student, especially when it invades her privacy. What are you thinking? You know those laws are there specifically to protect student misconduct from public attention.”
She turns her glare to the tablet in front of me. “The school didn’t place the camera. It was someone’s personal device.”
There we go. That someone is either Andrea Augustin or Prescott. Both knew I moved Ivory’s lessons to the theater, and both have a reason to fuck me over. But if they set me up, they would know it was me in the footage.
My pulse hurtles as I push a dispassionate tone through my voice. “Did you interrogate Miss Westbrook before you sent her home?”
“Yes, of course. She refused to…participate.”
“Explain.”
“She didn’t say a word after I showed her the video.” She shrugs. “It’s her funeral.”
Christ, Ivory must be freaking the fuck out right now. Why hasn’t she called me?
My temperature rises, but I maintain a cool façade. “She wouldn’t tell you the identity of the boy in the video?”
Beverly huffs. “She wouldn’t answer any of my questions.”