TAMED: A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance

by May, Linnea

  The ride in my car was too short and too immediate to make any kind of move. It was too soon to tell how she’d react. I just used the very few minutes we had with each other to feel her out. I needed to know if she was responsive to me. Her expressions, the way she spoke and behaved in my presence were enough for me to know if she’d respond, and how.

  And there was a response. A very strong response. She shifted in her seat, kept playing with her delicate fingers in her lap, and barely managed to maintain eye contact with me for more than a second. I make her feel something without even touching her. It’s beautiful to watch, and insanely addictive.

  I didn’t tell anyone that she obediently scribbled down her phone number for me, and when I told my mother about the idea of her practicing on our grand piano, I suggested that she arrange for that to happen. I didn’t ask Elodie to give me her phone number so I could contact her regarding this, I only asked her to see if she’d give it to me, if she’d be a good girl and do as I ask her to.

  And she did.

  Chapter VII

  Elodie

  Once again, I find myself standing in front of the Abrams‘ family’s extravagant townhouse. It has only been a few days since our first meeting, but Mrs. Abrams was quick to contact me about the possibility of practicing in her house, just as Kingston had suggested. Coming up with a schedule that suited both of us wasn’t easy, as I’m busy with classes and my part time job, and she had wanted to make sure there was someone around the house every time I stop by. I don’t know what she does that keeps her so busy since she doesn’t have – or need – a regular full-time job, but she confessed that she was rarely home so I’d most likely be greeted by one of their personal servants every time I come by.

  It was a relief to hear that Kingston Abrams doesn’t live here, so I shouldn‘t have to worry about him showing up. As far as I know, no one is home this afternoon, so I’m not surprised when a middle-aged woman with an unfamiliar face opens the door for me.

  “You must be Elodie,” she says, giving me a bright smile. “My name is Wally.”

  That’s an unusual name for a woman, but it’s one that suits her. Her round cheeks and obvious warm heart reminds me of a young grandma. It’s a refreshing change from the rather cold and artificial demeanor of the Waldorf and Abrams women who greeted me the last time.

  “Yes. It’s so nice to meet you,” I say, following her gesture motioning me to come inside. “I hope I’m not causing you any trouble…”

  “Oh, dear, not at all,” Wally says, waving me off. “I’m glad to have some musical company while I’m cleaning. I already finished the floor with the musical room to make sure I wouldn’t disturb you.”

  “Thank you,” I say, casting her a grateful smile.

  “Stay and play as long as you wish,” she adds. “The Abrams have a dinner commitment for tonight, so they won’t be home for several hours.”

  I’m glad to hear this, as I’m not exactly dressed to impress today so wouldn’t mind avoiding a meeting with the home owners. I’m wearing black skinny jeans and a simple light baby blue blouse that I bought at a thrift store not too long ago. I consider the outfit to be tasteful and attractive, but it obviously doesn’t compare to the styles typically worn around this house.

  Wally leads me up to the music room and then excuses herself, letting me know that she’ll be on one of the other floors doing her job while I practice. It seems odd to me that it’s just the two of us alone in a house that’s not home to either one of us, and none of the owners are here.

  She closes the door after she’s left, leaving me alone. It’s just me and the grand piano. I take in the view of the beautiful instrument before I take my seat on the bench and get ready to play. The piano really does have a different feel to it than the one I usually practice on, so Kingston‘s idea of letting me practice on this once ahead of the event was actually a good one.

  I still wonder to myself why he suggested it, though.

  As I begin to warm up by playing a few scales, my thoughts travel back to him. The most handsome man I’ve ever met, the richest, the sexiest – and he’s engaged. But why is he so nice to me? And why did he look at me like that? If I didn’t know any better, I would have sworn that he was flirting with me.

  I smile and shake my head. I’m just being silly.

  Of course he wasn’t flirting. Even if he wasn’t engaged, he’s so far out of my league that the thought of him showing even the slightest interest in me is outright ridiculous.

  Maybe he’s just a nice guy. He must have been raised to be a gentleman, after all. It could be normal for him to escort a woman home to make sure she gets there safely.

  Time flies by as I work my way through a few pieces that I’m quite familiar with. I’ve come up with a preliminary play list for the evening, but I’m determined to add a few more complex pieces even though my confidence in them is not as high. Before I tackle that challenge, though, I decide to give myself a break to play something just for myself. After all, no one said I’m not allowed to enjoy myself a little while I’m here.

  I continue with one of Chopin’s Nocturnes. Its sad and heavy tones may not be suitable for an engagement celebration, but I love the meditative and quiet character of it. If I ever was to get married, I would love to hear all 21 of Chopin‘s nocturnal pieces on that special day.

  I’m so lost in the music that I don’t notice the door to my right – and him. I don’t know how long he’s been there, but when our eyes meet, it sends a sudden wave of shock through my system. The realization that he’s standing right next to the door, watching me, leaning against the wall with his arms folded in front of his strong chest, completely throws off my focus. I stop in the middle of the last part of the song, a return to the cantabile melody of the piece after an energetic middle part.

  He laughs as I gasp for air, trying to regain my composure.

  “I’m sorry,” Kingston Abrams says, casting me the most charming smile. “I didn’t want to startle the artist.”

  He’s not wearing a suit today, but instead he’s sporting a more casual outfit. However, he looks just as handsome and perfect in a soft cashmere sweater and black pants as he did in the tailored suit a few days ago.

  “No, it’s okay,” I say. “Is it time for me to leave?”

  I’m already in the process of gathering up my sheets, but he shakes his head and steps closer to the piano.

  “No, please,” he says gesturing towards the grand piano. “Stay as long as you wish, my parents will be out until late. You’re not bothering anyone.”

  “Oh… okay,” I mumble, withdrawing my hands from the sheets.

  Why is he here then?

  “I just wanted to say ‘Hi’ and see if everything is going okay for you up here,” he answers my unspoken question.

  He’s standing right next to the piano now, towering over me with his impressive stature. It’s awkward to talk to him when he’s standing in this way, and I feel a strong urge to get up from the bench to win some height on him, but I reckon he’ll be leaving the room shortly so I don’t bother to move.

  “Everything is fine,” I say. “Thank you again for making this possible. I love this piano. It has such a different feel than the ones I’m used to.”

  He smiles at me. “I liked the song you were just playing before I interrupted you.”

  “Oh, that… I… it might not be suitable for the event, I just –”

  “Calm down,” he says, raising his hand in a reassuring manner. “You’re not on trial here. Play whatever feels right. I really don‘t care if it’s among the pieces that make it onto the list.”

  I chuckle. “You should care. It’s your engagement party, after all.”

  I bite my tongue. Why on earth did I say that? After he’s been so nice to me, I actually have the nerve to lecture him?

  “Yeah,” he says absentmindedly. “I guess it is.”

  He doesn’t look happy as he says it. His gaze wanders off, scanning the roo
m seemingly lost in thought.

  “Is there a song you’d like for me to play that night?” I ask him. “So far your mother is the only one who has offered any input, so I’m pretty much working with my own ideas.”

  He shakes his head. “No. My wishes don’t count in this.”

  I look up at him quizzically, trying to read his expression. He must know that I’m looking at him, but he chooses to ignore it and evade my eyes by looking out the window on the other side of the vast room.

  “Or your fiancee,” I say. “Gloria. Does she have any wishes?”

  He laughs as if the idea itself is ridiculous.

  “Believe me, she doesn’t care at all,” he says, now turning to reciprocate my look. “Things in this family don’t follow the rules of Disney or a cheesy romance flick.”

  I furl my eyebrows and nervously play with my unoccupied fingers as I try to figure out what he’s trying to say.

  “What do you mean?” I daringly ask.

  He clears his throat and leans down towards me, supporting himself on the piano lid. His face is scarily close to mine now, and I instinctively move away to create some distance between us. I don’t do it because his presence is uncomfortable; I do it because I must.

  “What I mean is that things are not always as apparent as they seem,” he explains.

  What the hell does that mean?

  His words confuse me. And his proximity is almost too much for me to handle. There’s an unspoken tension between us, something that’s pulling me toward him while pushing me away at the same time.

  It must be his handsome looks. His perfectly edgy face with that rugged touch that makes a man a man. That and the fact that I can see his arm muscles stretching the thin fabric of his exquisite cashmere sweater over his biceps as he supports himself on the piano right next to me.

  He’s so incredibly attractive. This man screams sex.

  “I… I don’t know what that means,” I stutter, shifting on the bench in an attempt to move away from him.

  But he doesn’t let me.

  I freeze when I feel his strong hand on my shoulder, keeping me in place with just a hint of force. His touch is electric, warm, terrifying.

  I never knew that women could have blue balls, too, because I don’t think I’ve ever been this desperate for a man’s touch.

  That can’t be it, can it? He’s just freakishly handsome, charming, masculine, rich. He’s the embodiment of almost every woman’s dream, and the worst thing is that he knows it. Under this gentlemanly exterior could be a ruthless player. God knows he could get any woman he wants. If there’s a man who fits that description, it‘s him. He’s playing with me, but I hate to be a puppet in his sick little game.

  I can’t help but feel sorry for Gloria – and I can hear Wally rummaging around downstairs. It’s making me all the more uncomfortable.

  I calmly reach up to his hand on my shoulder and move it away. He lets it happen without a fight and straightens up, creating the much needed distance between us. I feel relieved and disappointed at the same time.

  “I think you do know what that means,” he says.

  Our eyes meet, and for a few very awkward and very intense moments, we just stare at each other as we’re having a conversation without speaking.

  “Would you do me a favor?” he asks, breaking the tense silence between us.

  I tilt my head to the side, afraid of what he might ask of me. “Yes?”

  “Play that song again,” he says. “The song you were playing before you noticed me. I’d like to hear it again.”

  “It’s really not appropriate for the event –”

  “I don’t care,” he interrupts me. “This is just for me.”

  He walks away from the piano and takes a seat in one of the chairs lined up against the wall next to the door. My eyes follow him as he crosses his legs and casts me an expectant look.

  “I don’t give private concerts,” I try to joke, displaying a sass that’s not typically part of my character.

  “There’s a first time for everything,” he says, jutting his chin forward. “Play.”

  So I do as I’m told.

  Chapter VIII

  Kingston

  What a good girl she is. I watch as she turns her attention back to the keys in front of her, lowering her eyes and taking in a deep breath before she begins playing the soft tunes marking the beginning of what I know to be one of Chopin’s best Nocturnes. If I’m not mistaken, it’s from his Opus posthumous.

  I never cared much for classical music, at least not as much as I was expected to. But my mother always stood on musical education and made sure that both my younger brother and I obtained at least a basic knowledge if not an appreciation for classical music from different eras. Even though we were forced to take piano lessons as children, neither of us ever developed a passion for it.

  Actually we sucked. It was a frustrating endeavor for everyone involved, including my mother and our teachers.

  But it left me with enough of an understanding to appreciate Elodie’s talent. I’ve never heard anything like the sounds she’s producing right now echoing through the halls of my family’s home. We’ve had this grand piano forever, and I remember every one of the God awful hours I spent in this room as a child, waiting for time to pass so I could go back to doing anything besides practicing the piano.

  I don’t understand the joy in playing the piano, but it’s evident all over Elodie’s face. My eyes don’t leave her for a second while she’s playing, but she doesn’t seem to be fazed by it at all. It’s like she doesn’t even notice that I’m here. She’s too lost in her playing, waving and moving with her eyes closed, her lips partly opened as she experiences the sensation of the music she’s creating.

  I didn’t lie when I said that I liked the song. Chopin and his sinister Nocturnes are one of the very few things I still remember from my forced musical education, and I only remember them because I liked them.

  But Elodie’s appreciation for them takes it to a whole other level. Her passion is palpable and contagious. Her slim shoulders waltz up and down, causing the light fabric of her blue blouse to wrinkle around her perky breasts. She left three buttons unbuttoned, something that would have been seductive had she any cleavage to show. This way, all I can see is her collarbone and the narrow trail that leads down between her boobs.

  If seeing her play like this is erotic, I can’t even imagine what it would do to me to see her on this bench completely naked. Or partly naked. Maybe even tied up.

  I search for her feet, the right one working the piano pedal while the left one rests tucked away under the bench. She wouldn’t be able to play properly if I tied her ankles to the bench, but I’d happily make that sacrifice if I got to see her like that, moving like she is now, closing her eyes, parting her lips, her body weaving with the melody while she’s restrained and tied to the bench.

  Maybe a little vibrator forced against her clit…

  Fuck, she drives me insane.

  I shift on the chair, repositioning my legs and trying to hide the bulge protruding in my lap.

  I have to have her. I don’t care how risky it is, I don’t care if I have to share my dirty little secret with her. She’s a good girl. She already withdrew from me once, and I can practically see the red stop sign appearing in front of her eyes every time she lets herself embark on the idea of acting on our forbidden attraction.

  Yet, she likes to obey. She unconsciously expresses an evident satisfaction when she follows my wishes.

  I know she’s feeling it, too. I can see it in the way she looks at me, the way her voice changes when she talks, the way her hands always nervously search for something to do every time I talk to her.

  Of course, she wants this, too. For fuck’s sake, look at me. I know what I am and how I look. I know about the effect I have on women; I’m not fucking stupid.

  However, neither is she. She’s not as easy and superficial as the girls I usually pursue. She may even think
that she’s not the kind of girl for a no strings-attached adventure with a guy like me. She may even have a boyfriend. Of course, that wouldn’t stop me, but it would make going after her so much harder.

  In any case, I can’t let her think that I’m cheating on my beloved soon-to-be wife. She certainly doesn’t want to be that girl. So, I know what’s going to have to be my first step.

  Telling her the ugly truth about my engagement, or at least parts of it.

  The song ends and she basks in the last few notes, not yet ready to look up at me. It feels wrong to applaud, so I give her a few moments before I get up and walk back over to the piano.

  She lifts her head and her eyes meet mine when I come to a halt next to the piano lid. She’s smiling, but I know that it’s not a smile meant for me, but for the man who wrote this piece she loves so much.

  “Very nice,” I praise her. “Brillant song, excellently played.”

  “It’s a Nocturne from the –”

  “Opus posthumous,” I finish her sentence. “Yes, I know. I’m familiar with it.”

  Her eyes light up. “Oh, so you’re a fan of Chopin?”

  I give her a smirk and shake my head.

  “I wouldn’t call it that,” I say. “But I’ve heard his Nocturnes a few times, and I agree that this one is probably the best.”

  She nods, lowering her shoulders in a display of slight disappointment.

  Sorry girl, I’m not a classical music nerd as much as you are.

  She reaches over to the other side of the piano lid, right next to her music sheets, and grabs her phone to take a quick glance at it.

  “Oh my God, I’ve been here for more than two hours!” she exclaims. “I really should be going.”

  “Do you have anywhere to be?” I ask her.

  She looks up at me, obvious fright in her eyes. She’s scared that I’m going to offer to drive her home again. So fucking cute.

  “No, not really, I just…” she stutters. “I mean, I’d be practicing at this time anyway, it’s one of the few afternoons and evening that I have off.”

  “Off?” I ask. “From school?”