“Have you come to ravish me after your sex dreams about my giant cock filling your—”
“If you finish that sentence, I will leave,” I say, my voice silly and high pitched as I coo to Dog.
“So leave. Everyone does in the end anyway, right?”
I narrow my gaze and straighten. “You’re drunk.”
“I’m always drunk.”
This is true, so I don’t refute it.
“Do you wish me to play with you?” As soon as the words are out, I grimace. My choice of words could have been better.
“I thought you already were.” He laughs and brings the song to a close, but he doesn’t say anything more. I’m glad because I’m tired, and Levi Quinn is exhausting, especially when my guard is not up. I could leave him to his depression and liquor, and go back to sleep, but something tells me I would toss and turn and lie awake listening to his heart bleed out over the ivory keys. I don’t know if loneliness and heartbreak are the cause or if he has always been this way, but Levi is at his very best musically when he’s at his very worst personally. If I had a heart that beat for such things, I could easily fall for the melancholiac musician, but I learned my lesson long ago not to fall for men who fall in love with tragedy. Besides, I seem to have acclimatised to his sleeping patterns—mostly. And I figure that if I play now, I can go back to bed when he does, and I won’t lose any sleep.
Levi turns to look at me as I take my bow from its case, along with my tin of rosin. I sit opposite him and he watches me closely as I rosin the hairs of my bow. I probably should have dressed. This long silk robe dips low in the front, and it’s too revealing. My legs are exposed through the slit, and Levi is not a man afraid of showing his appreciation for the female form. I’m glad for the distance that yawns between us, any closer and he might see how my skin turns to goose flesh with the way he looks at me.
Stupid. So stupid. I bet he looks at every girl like this, as if she were the only one— special. None of us are though, we’re just instruments. A warm body to fill the void. He may be the most infuriating and enigmatic man I’ve ever met, but I will never be a notch on his bed post. I have to be smarter than that, despite how my heart behaves and skips a beat when he looks at me like this. My heart may be a damn fool. But I am not.
Ignoring his stares, I set my rosin down and pick up my cello. I open my legs. I don’t miss how he tilts his head a fraction, attempting to get a better look at my panties as I nestle the cello between my thighs. He doesn’t apologise for it, and a soft chuckle escapes me despite my better judgement.
I take a moment to tune my instrument and then I close my eyes and play the hook from his last melody. His lips curl up in the corners, and I can tell he’s impressed by my ear. I might have been half asleep when I heard it, but nothing makes more sense to me than music. Even if I lost the ability to speak I could communicate through my strings and my bow. The challenge would be finding someone compatible enough to hear me even when my words are lost.
Levi watches me a beat longer before diving in, and I follow his melody as if it were a trail of breadcrumbs, as if I could never get lost again so long as I followed the sound of his strong hands working over the keys.
When I slide my bow across the strings and he plays his final chord, I glance up. His gaze locks with mine. His Adam’s apple bobs, that strong throat covered with ink working hard, as if he’s having trouble swallowing, as much trouble as I am catching my breath. We’re both covered with a light sheen of sweat, and I long to take off this robe, or at least open it to the crisp early morning air, but I don’t need to invite trouble. I already live with it.
“You have lyrics?”
He taps his forehead. “All up here, baby.”
“Will you sing it to me?”
He makes a face but begins playing again. I follow him, my fingers dancing across the notes as sure and certain as if I had been the one to compose the melody. His voice is low and deep, husky. His words are beautiful, but the delivery is a little bit thrown-away, like a folk singer. I wonder if he knows the effect his timbre has on me. I wonder if he can see at all, because surely if he could, he would be mocking me right now.
“Why don’t you sing?” I blurt, and then wonder what the hell is wrong with me.
Levi’s hands leave the keys and he shrugs. “It’s not my thing.”
“Maybe it should be.”
“You like that, huh?”
“Yeah, I like that.” Too much. God, way too much. I’d have to be dead or not into men not to like that. I needed to dial it way back because I was suddenly feeling hot and bothered, but more than that, I was feeling ... well ... things I shouldn’t be for a rock star who drives me mad as much as he makes me weak in the knees.
I cannot do this. I can not feel that way about him. I refuse. He’s a job. I will leave soon with enough money to take care of my family, and I need to remember that’s the reason I’m here. I need to focus on making music and only music with him.
“Brie?”
“Yes.”
“You’re staring.” His lips tip up in the corners, as if he knows what I’m thinking.
“I am not.”
He chuckles, a deep throaty laugh that reverberates through my insides and maddens me to no end. “It’s okay, AFG. You can admit you want me.”
“You’re ridiculous.” I stand and set my cello back in its case and slam the lid. Packing up my bow and rosin in order to make a hasty exit. I’ve had about all I can take from this man tonight.
“Ridiculous doesn’t make me wrong,” he calls, as I walk through the ballroom doors and slam them behind me. It’s true. I had been staring. I’d looked at Levi as if I were seeing him for the first time, and I had no right to look upon him that way.
He is a job. Nothing more.
You cannot lose your heart, Brielle. I tell myself this as I pace the room. Then I realise I am fine. I’m safe, because you cannot lose your heart if you no longer have one.
We should both know that by now.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
LA PETITE MORT
LEVI
I’m fucking ravenous when my hands are too sore to continue. I glance at Brie. Her cheeks are flushed, sweat beads on her brow, and when her eyes meet mine, her lips part, and she exhales as she smiles, spent. I can last all damn night, but I’m not a natural piano player, and I sure as hell ain’t Zed—who masters any instrument he picks up in a matter of seconds. I’ve played piano since I was seventeen, but not well, and not since my days at the institute.
Brie stands and sets her cello into the hardcase she ordered. It makes sense that her instrument would be high maintenance. They make a great pair.
“Three songs in one day, that’s not bad.” I shake out my fingers, stand, and stretch. Her hungry eyes track my movements.
“You are very talented with lyrics.”
“I’m very talented with many things.”
She folds her arms across her chest. It gives me a much better view of her tits. “Really?”
“Uh-huh, there’s my hands—for one—my mouth, my tongue, my cock. Hell, I bet I could even find a use for my feet.”
She laughs. “Oh my God, there is something wrong with you.”
“Yeah, it’s called withdrawal.”
I head out of the room and Brie follows. “Deprivation from what?
“From pussy. What else?”
“Oh.” She teases by pouting her lower lip, but her eyes are hard and mocking. “I guess you are king of pussy no longer then, non?”
I grab her arm and yank her to me, spinning us so her back is to the wall. My hand digs in to the supple flesh of her hip. The other grasps her wrist above her head. I lean in, so my face is just inches from hers. “Don’t toy with me, kitten.”
She raises her chin defiantly and whispers, “Meow.”
I glance at her lips, wonder what they’d look like wrapped around my cock. And then Dog barrels into us. Jumping up and pushing into the space between our leg
s, driving us apart.
“Monsieur, Mademoiselle, lunch is ...” Margaux trails off as she reaches the top of the staircase and her gaze zeros in on us. “Excusez-moi. It is not important. I come back later. Dog, come here,” she hisses. The furry little cock blocker’s ears prick up, but as usual, he disobeys. “Viens ici maintenant! I will cook you up for supper.”
The idiot mutt just stares at her.
“He seems awfully fond of you,” I say, watching the way Dog glances between us, his head bent low as he whines.
“Just because I feed him, monsieur.”
“Right,” I say, but you could choke a horse with the sarcasm in my voice. I grab his collar and attempt to remove him from between us. He whines and struggles against me, burying his nose in Brie’s skirt. Apparently, I’m not the only one fond of pussy.
“Come, Dog,” she says, as she slides out of my grasp and walks towards the staircase. I have no idea if she’s addressing me, or my mutt, but we both follow.
In the kitchen, Margaux has laid out wine, several different cheeses and cold meats, and a baguette. I snatch up a chunk of crusty bread; it’s hard, not soft and fluffy like at home. It doesn’t melt in your mouth, but I’m pretty sure there’s a Brie in my kitchen that I could pair it with who’d melt just fine. Assuming my dog doesn’t cock block me again.
Margaux slaps my hand away as I reach for the brie—the cheese, not the woman—and mutters something in French that I’m fairly certain is the equivalent of calling me a pig, because it sounds exactly like pork without the “K”.
Angry French Girl laughs. “ Oui, c'est un très beau cochon.”
“Oui, mademoiselle. Si beau.” Margaux gives one of her belly shaking chuckles, and I glare. Why the hell did I pick France of all places to get lost in? Not that the view isn’t stunning, I note, as Brie leans across the island to grab a slice of bread, her cleavage on display. Fuck. Now I’m hard.
“You wanna get out of here?” I blurt, and both women turn to look at me. “I mean, after we eat.”
“Don’t you have the entire world looking for you, Monsieur Rock Star?”
“Fuck the world,” I say, taking a gulp of wine.
A smile plays on her lips. “Where would we go?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. That’s the beauty of it.”
She raises her brow in challenge, as if she isn’t sure whether to take me seriously. I’m not sure either. I don’t even know where that came from. “Okay.”
Wait. “Okay you’ll come?”
“Oui.” She shrugs.
“Oui.” I nod. Yes! Fuck yes. And if I have any say in the matter, she’s gonna come all fucking night.
***
“I don’t know” turns out to be a vineyard just outside of Nimes, a three-hour drive from my chateau. I pull the repaired and technically-now-mine—thanks to a lengthy and expensive conversation with the rental company—Ferrari 458 Spider into the lot and look at Brie. Her long chocolate hair stands up in all directions thanks to me driving with the top down and the wind that whipped it all around us no matter how she tried to tame it back with a braid. It’s perfect. She’s perfect. And though I haven’t had a drink since lunch, I feel a little buzzed as the afternoon sun beats down on us. Buzzed and thirsty, and like I want to fuck.
“That was some drive,” she says, finally smoothing her hair down in the mirror. I wanna grab her hands and beg her not too, but I climb out of the car instead, so I won’t look like such a fucking creeper.
“Yeah, I need a drink.”
“I’m beginning to wonder why you don’t just have it inserted into your arm via an intravenous injection.”
“You think they do that here?”
She laughs and climbs out of the car. “Come, mon petit alcoolique, we will get you your precious liquor. Though I doubt they have whisky here.”
“Mon petit means little, right?”
“My little, oui.”
“That’s funny.”
“What is?” She turns, folding her arms against her chest. I’m beginning to think it’s not a defence mechanism, and that she just likes to push her tits up and watch me drool like a fucking puppy over a new chew toy.
“Well, you remember that time that I had a casting of my cock at the house, don’t you? And then there was the day I caught you watching my sex tape.”
“What is your point, Levi?”
“My point ...” I say, stepping closer and getting all up in her personal space. She glances up at me with those big doe eyes. I tuck a wayward hair back behind her ear and her lips part as I lean in and whisper, “Is that you know full well that there’s nothing petit about me.”
Her breath is shaky as it rushes from her lungs. I step back with a smirk and a challenge in my gaze. “Now, are you coming or not?”
***
“We are drunk,” Brie says, leaning her head on my shoulder as we sit at the bar. “I have not been drunk for a very long time.”
I don’t know how many wines we’ve had but we’ve tasted them all, walked the vineyards until dusk, had a little dinner, and finished off several bottles since revisiting the bar.
“You are drunk. I, on the other hand, am not buzzed, not even a little bit,” I lie, because one of us has to be the responsible adult here.
“Give me your keys. I cannot allow you to drink like this. I mean ... drive.”
I chuckle. “I am fine. I can drink and drive like a fucking pro.”
“Yes, and that is why your very expensive rental car ended up parked inside your house,” Brie slurs. She’s cute when she’s drunk—unguarded—as if she removed the stick from her arse.
“It wasn’t my house, it was my gate. And you need to quit talking to Margaux so much.” I finish off my wine and attempt to set the glass back on the bar. It takes a bit to locate the right bar through my merlot-coloured glasses because there’s more than one. Brie grabs hold of my wrist and steers it in the right direction.
“You are too drunk to drive, and I am not getting in the car with you. Also, you are not allowed to leave me here.”
“So, what the hell are we supposed to do?”
“We spend the night.”
I swivel on my stool to face her. “Together?”
“Non. Not together. Séparement. Different rooms.”
“Fucking killjoy.”
I slide my credit card over the bar and the waiter swipes it and hands it back to me along with the case of wine I apparently purchased. It’s heavy, and I’m way too drunk to be trusted with several glass bottles all at once, but I man up as we walk up the narrow path to the office.
Once inside, I set the case of wine on the counter and declare, “Your finest room, Gaston.”
“It’s garcon, you idiot, and it means boy,” Brie says, shaking her head. “Gaston is a made-up character in a Disney film.”
“Oh shit, sorry. I don’t speak French.” The man looks at me with a raised brow and Brie covers my mouth to keep me from speaking.
“Un touriste typique. Il ne parle pas grand-chose, sauf stupide,” she replies in her usual rapid-fire French. I understood tourist and I’m pretty sure she called me stupid in there somewhere too. They both laugh. He looks at her. Really looks at her, and I have to fight the urge to beat his fucking head in because it seems the French just have this way of studying a woman as if she’s a delicacy. And yeah, okay, she might just be that, but if she’s not fucking me, she’s definitely not fucking this dickhead. Right? Except, she smiles back, and I don’t like the looks they’re exchanging.
“Comment puis-je vous servir, mademoiselle?”
I frown at Brie, “Did he just ask if he could service you?”
She rolls her eyes and gives me a look that pretty much says. “The adults are talking now,” before turning back to the jackarse behind the counter. “We need a room.”
“Juste une?”
“Deux.”
He taps away at his keyboard and frowns. “Je crains qu'il ne nous reste plus qu'une seule
chambre pour la nuit.”
“Of course you do.” Brie sighs. “Fine, we’ll take it.”
“And we need your finest champagne brought to the room. Two bottles. And strawberries, with chocolate,” I say, because this guy is really pissing me off with the way he checks out Brie’s cleavage as I hand over my card to pay for the room and she signs the paperwork.
“Of course, monsieur.” The man takes the paperwork from Brie,
“Putain de rock stars,” Brie mumbles as she heads out of the office. I snatch the room key from the attendant, pick up my box of wine, and follow her out. The path to the cottages is dimly lit, and despite Angry French Girl and Flirty Desk Clerk, my buzz hasn’t died yet. I haven’t felt this fucking Zen in a long time. Long before Ali, long before Taint ever stepped out of the Ryan’s family garage. Funny that I should be feeling Zen now while the evil harpy at my side calls me names and drains my bank account dry.
Brie glares at me. “What?”
“Nothing. Just, I like France.”
She rolls her eyes and snatches the room card off the top of my precious cargo. “Everyone likes France. You’d have to be British or dead to not like France.”
“You know what else I like?” I glance up at the rolling clouds blotting out the stars overhead.
“Non. But I am certain you are about to tell me.”
“I like you. Even though you’re angry, and French, and kind of stuck up.”
“I am not stuck up. And what is wrong with being French?” The sky opens up, a deluge, a cleansing, and she shrieks, but I simply stand there and tilt my head up to it. Cold, fat drops spatter my face, drip into my eyes, and land on my tongue. Brie covers her hair with her hands, not that it does her any good. “What is wrong with you?”
“Nothing,” I shout over the torrent. It’s soaking us through now. The button up she has tied over her dress sticks to her skin, and her mascara runs. I want to kiss her, but I don’t because she tilts her face up to the sky and laughs.
The box in my hands is heavy as hell, and it’s getting wetter by the second, which means it will likely start falling apart soon, but I don’t dare fucking move because I’ve never seen her free like this. I doubt she’s ever been free, not like this. She wipes the water from her eyes, smearing mascara onto her cheeks. I wanna rub it off. I wanna touch her, but I’m carrying a box of wine, and when she finally looks at me, her laughter dies away.
CLOSER (Taint Book 2) Page 12