by Alix Nichols
“I know you don’t blame me for the accident, but I can’t help thinking that if it weren’t for my stupid actions, you wouldn’t have lost your sight.”
“Emma—”
“Please let me finish. I need to say this. I need to tell you why I got so drunk that night.” She wrung her hands. “Let me unburden myself, and then I’ll never mention it again.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “OK.”
“I don’t usually…” She took a long breath, trying to compose herself. “I never drink more than a few sips of any alcoholic beverage. Can’t hold my liquor.”
“No kidding.”
“But just before I left for that party, Geraldine told me she knew you were going to propose.”
His mouth twisted into a sneer. “And it rubbed you the wrong way?”
She hesitated.
“Emma?”
“Yes,” she admitted. “But what was even harder to take was that Geraldine intended to accept you.”
She held her breath, expecting him to ask why.
And then she would tell him.
After which, there’d be no more hiding behind Cyril’s having no clue.
“Gerrie called me earlier this morning,” he said. “Told me she wouldn’t be able to live with herself if I did something silly again.” His lips curled. “She seems to be under the impression I was trying to kill myself.”
“Because you totally weren’t.”
“Absolutely not. Trust me, if I had, I would’ve done something a bit more… permanent.”
“Did she say anything else?” She hoped he couldn’t sense the panic in her voice.
“Only that she still cared for me and wanted us to get back together.”
Of course.
She scrutinized Cyril’s stony expression and then turned to stare out the window. “So, you and Geraldine… you’re on again?”
“I declined her kind offer of reunification.” His voice was as unreadable as his face.
“You think she offered out of pity?”
He nodded. “She keeps saying altruism isn’t in her nature, but looks like guilt got the better of her.” He gave Emma a wry smile. “But that wasn’t the reason I said no.”
Her breath caught in her throat. Could it be? Could his reason be Laura? “What was it then?”
“I just don’t feel the same way about her anymore.” He shrugged. “I guess after all this time I finally fell out of love with Gerrie.”
Emma shut her eyes and plunged. “Cyril, that night in the car, I was trying to tell you—”
“As for your guilt and penance, you need to get over it. I was the one driving, remember? It was my responsibility to keep my eyes on the road, no matter how much you puked.”
“But—”
“I’ll say this again. I don’t blame you for what happened that night, Emma. I never have. Hell, I could’ve gotten you maimed or even killed. It was just your dumb luck that you got away with only a few bruises.”
“But you’re angry with me,” she murmured.
“Oh yes, I am. For what you did over the past weeks. For lying to me and taking advantage of… my situation.”
“I’m so sorry, Cyril!” She gripped his hand. “Tell me what I can do to earn your forgiveness. Please, I’ll do anything.”
“There’s no need. You saved me yesterday—so we’re even. You’re absolved.” He sagged against the headboard, his hand limp in hers. “I mean it. You can go and live your life with a clear conscience now.”
She chewed at her lip. “My seeking you out… it wasn’t about penance.”
“Ah bon? What was it then? Curiosity?” His nostrils flared. “Because you’ve always wondered what it would be like to sleep with a blind man?”
“No!”
“Did it live up to your expectations? Was it good?”
She jutted out her chin. “Yes, it was good. As a matter of fact, it was the best sex of my life.”
“Phew.” He feigned wiping sweat off his forehead. His face was livid.
“But that’s not why I did what I did.”
“No?”
“I…” Her voice cracked. God, it was hard to get those words out. “I fell in love with you when I first saw you and heard your songs… I went to China three years ago hoping to cure my feelings… but I failed.” She swallowed. “There’s no one else for me.”
A deep frown creased his brow. “What?”
“You dimwit!” Emma shouted, giving up on controlling her voice. “If you could just set aside your bitterness for a sec, the truth will glare at you. Can’t you see it? Can’t you see how much I love you?”
He smirked. “That’s the thing, baby—I can’t. I can’t see shit.”
Chapter Sixteen
Cyril
The recorder beeped twice and fell silent. It was a good sign. Cyril expelled the breath he’d been holding and slowly pulled his hand away from the stop button. He removed his headphones, leaned his guitar against the wall, backed his swivel chair from the mic, and stepped out of his vocal booth.
It had been a week since he’d returned from the hospital.
And a week since he picked up his guitar and began to play. He hadn’t stopped since then. Getting reacquainted with his faithful Taylor 814ce had been as painful as it was sweet. Like rekindling with an estranged lover. The instrument felt different, and yet it was the same. Cyril spent a few hours on the first day just pressing its shapely body to his chest, stroking its rosewood sides, and caressing its strings.
He strummed through his favorite riffs and licks for all of the next day.
Three days ago, he played his songs.
Yesterday, he began to compose.
And today, he could no longer fathom why he’d sworn off music in the first place.
He also marveled at how his unflinching fascination for Gerrie had vanished so quickly. And how he couldn’t stop thinking of Emma, not even for a short while. Not even when he played.
Especially when he played.
He was no longer angry with her. How could he be after what she’d told him in the hospital? True, she had deceived him, but solely because she’d thought there was no other way. As he pondered her words, he recalled episodes from the past when she’d acted weird toward him. He’d ascribed her behavior to teenage gawkiness. On occasion, he suspected she didn’t like him. The real reason never crossed his mind.
Was it because sometimes being sighted prevented you from seeing? Ever since he had started performing for his friends, and then for unknown people, there had been too much glitter and shine in his life. And he had let it distract him. He’d noticed only what was skin-deep, unable to focus on the things that really mattered. Maybe that was why he’d been so enamored with Gerrie. She was, after all, unequalled in the glitter department.
Cyril opened the well-used case he’d retrieved from the hallway closet and placed his guitar in it. Then he checked the time: His taxi would arrive in fifteen minutes. He’d ordered it during his breakfast at La Bohème just after he called Emma, whom he hadn’t talked to since their conversation in the hospital ward. It had taken him a whole week to admit that he’d been hoping—longing—to hear her voice every waking moment since then.
And now that he had, he trembled with anticipation. His whole body reverberated with a thought as imbued with the promise of wonderful things as the Christmas trees of his childhood.
Emma loved him.
There was profound comfort and immense joy in knowing this. And freedom. Freedom to move on, forgive her deception and claim her as his lover, his muse, his very own two-faced Janus. Because sometime during the past week the mysterious belle who’d taken his breath away and the quirky artist he’d known half of his life had clicked into one.
Laura became Emma.
Once that transformation was complete, he could no longer deny how he felt about her. Not just the part where he craved her right down to his bones, but also the part where he had let her take up residence in h
is empty heart and was still reeling from the glow that filled it.
When she met him in front of her building, he prayed that she would take his hand.
She did but released it as soon as they reached the high counter that served as an all-purpose table in her apartment. He remembered the large loft-style room with a cooking area, a bar, a lounge corner, and a huge desk with two computer screens.
“I don’t have any craft beers, but I can offer you a Seize,” she said.
“A Seize will do just fine.”
Cabinet doors squeaked open, heavy glasses hit the countertop, and the beer fizzed up.
She thrust a glass into his hand. “Chin-chin.”
He raised it to his lips. “Santé.”
“So what did you want to tell me?”
He placed his glass on the counter and rested his hand next to it. “That I was dating the wrong sister.”
She put her glass down, too, but said nothing.
“There’s this woman,” he continued. “Her name is Emma… on most days. Except when she feels more like a Laura. She’s talented, kind, and charming.”
She kept silent.
“She’s gorgeous.”
Emma started to protest, but he interrupted her. “You can’t say I don’t know it because I’m blind. I’ve seen you, mon ange.” His mouth curled up. “And I’ve touched you everywhere… Did I mention you’re sexy as hell?”
He waited, but she didn’t emit a sound. None whatsoever.
Since when had his inability to gauge her reactions become the hardest part about being blind?
Touch my hand, love.
She laid her hand on top of his. “So you’re not angry anymore about… the whole Laura business?”
He shook his head and smiled, savoring the warmth of her palm.
She moved closer—so close he could hear her breathe.
“Besides,” he said, putting his free hand on her arm, rubbing her shoulder, and then cupping her neck. “You did try to tell me the truth before we made love. It was me who asked you to wait ’til the morning.”
“I shouldn’t have listened,” she whispered against his throat.
He breathed in the scent of her hair mixed with her musk rose perfume. Memories of his night with her rushed in, followed by memories of Emma. He could see her in his mind’s eye, all of her, even the things he hadn’t realized he knew. As his hand raked through her shoulder-length hair, he pictured her disheveled strands with enough clarity to distinguish the ash-blond highlights in the darker mass. He stroked her heart-shaped face, his thumbs tracing the lines of her eyebrows and brushing over her soft lashes. As he cupped her face with both hands, his brain brought up an image of her dark green eyes full of kindness and intelligence. He remembered how she screwed them up in the most adorable fashion when she laughed.
And then he pictured her mouth.
It wasn’t the kind of mouth one would call voluptuous or glamorous, but it was… alluring. Just like the rest of her. He savored its tantalizing proximity and the promise of its honeyed taste that he had craved for a whole week. With a guttural growl, he bent toward her and crushed his lips against hers, hungry and a little rough, but he couldn’t help it. Her lips parted, and his tongue penetrated her mouth with a thrust so powerful and urgent she gasped and clung to him as he drank in the sweetness he had hungered for.
For the next fifteen minutes, he held her in his arms and made love to her tongue, stroking it, sucking on it, diving in and out of her mouth. As he reveled in the precious intimacy of the moment, he knew he would want this again very soon. And then again, and again, and again. He could never have enough of this.
Or her.
Chapter Seventeen
Emma
She drew away and took a ragged breath.
When Cyril leaned in to renew the kiss, she planted her hands on his chest and pushed gently. “Let me look at you for a moment.”
He straightened and gave her a panty-dropping smile.
His unseeing eyes were as handsome as ever. His complexion had darkened with desire, and the bulging muscles of his chest flexed under her touch. Through the thin cotton of his T-shirt and through the air between them, she could feel the heat coming off his body. There was something feline—graceful and hard—about his posture.
Like a wild cat before a bound.
He was magnificent.
Cyril bent toward her, angling his head for a kiss. “Your time’s up.”
And she abandoned herself to his demanding mouth and hands all over her.
When he drew back, it was to yank his T-shirt off. She took in the expanse of his chest, sculpted muscles everywhere. Giddy with excitement, she stepped closer and pressed her lips to him, trailing hot kisses on the bulges and hollows of his chest. Her hands caressed his upper back then slid down and found his firm buttocks. He had a fantastic ass—tight with muscle and rounded just so—a treat to stroke.
And to squeeze.
He tugged her T-shirt and pulled it up and over her head. Buckles clinked undone, zippers came open, jeans slid down and thumped to the floor.
Thank God it was still warm and she hadn’t yet started layering her pullovers or wearing pantyhose. She would have died from an excess of lust before her winter getup came off.
He reached down between her legs, stroked the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, and cupped her through her panties. A wave of pleasure shot through her and stole the strength from her legs. She gripped his shoulders and threw her head back as his skilled fingers drew heat to her core.
When she felt herself nearing the edge, she grabbed his wrist and pulled it away from her.
He leaned forward, a plea in his raspy voice. “Emma.”
She searched for words to tell him she didn’t want to climax this way, not now. It was their first time as Cyril and Emma. On some deeply significant level, it was their real first time together. And she needed him to be with her—in her—when she came.
But words failed her, so she laced her fingers through his and led him to her bedroom. They toppled to the bed, kissing and removing each other’s underwear in a heated frenzy. An unbearably long intermission later, caused by too much eagerness and a stubborn foil packet, he finally entered her with one delicious thrust.
Dear God.
She moaned her pleasure, straining with anticipation, but no other thrusts followed. Instead, he captured her hands in his, yanked them up, and pressed them into the pillow. She kissed his chin and whispered his name, her voice breathless with desire. Her legs wrapped around his thighs, and her hips rocked under him, urging him to resume his lovemaking. But he lay perfectly still, only his rattled breathing and flushed skin betraying the effort it cost him.
He held her hands for a few moments, his palms pressing into hers, fingers interlocked. Then he brought her hands closer together. She panted with the sweet torture of it. He clasped her wrists with one large hand and tongued her earlobe while his free hand traced the contours of her neck, clavicles, and shoulders. Then it slipped between their chests and cupped her right breast.
She whimpered softly as he kneaded and fondled it, applying just the right amount of pressure, rubbing the pad of his thumb across its peak. Then his fingers slid down to her tummy, caressed her hip, and dug into the yielding flesh of her bottom. She tilted her head and kissed him again, this time full on the mouth. He groaned and began to tease her tongue with light strokes. When he pulled out of her mouth, her tongue followed him into the warmth of his, and she shivered when he caught it between his teeth and bit lightly.
As their tongues danced their fevered tango, his hand returned to her breast, and he gently rolled her nipple between his thumb and index finger. She gasped against his mouth and thrashed in another desperate attempt to get him to do her bidding. He wanted her to beg, did he? Was that what he was after? Very well, she’d beg because right now she didn’t care if she did something wrong, if she was awkward or ridiculous. She didn’t care about her lack of sexual prow
ess anymore. She didn’t care about anything except how badly she needed him to start moving again.
Inside her.
“Please,” she rasped. “I can’t… I need you to…”
He stopped stroking her breast and smiled. “Yes? What is it you need, mon ange? I’ll do anything. Just say it.”
Just say it? “You fiend,” she growled. “You know very well what I need.”
His face grew serious. “Yes, I do.”
And so he did.
An hour later, he rummaged through the pile of discarded clothes they’d left on the floor and found his boxer briefs. He pulled them on and rose from the bed. “Which way is the entrance door?”
Emma burst out in laughter. “Wow. You’re really in a rush to leave.”
He chuckled. “No chance. I won’t leave here until you kick me out. I just need the bag I left there.”
“I’ll fetch it.” She padded to the door and back in her bare feet and handed him his bulky duffel bag.
He unzipped it, took out a faded black guitar case, and opened it.
She held her breath. Could it be? Was he playing again?
“I wrote a song last night—”
“You what? Oh my God, Cyril, that’s fantabulous! Can I hear it? Please?”
He nodded. “Just keep in mind that I haven’t had time to polish it.”
“I’m sure it’s good.”
“I hope so.” He shrugged. “But it doesn’t matter. This song isn’t for the public. It’s… private.”
He strummed a few chords and cleared his throat. But instead of singing, he smiled self-consciously and said, “It’s called ‘Falling for Emma.’ ”
It took her a few seconds to register his words. As soon as she did, her eyes began to cloud over. She blinked ferociously to hold the tears back. Being with a blind guy had its perks—no need to worry he would see her cry and think she was a cornball.
He was still strumming, his expression betraying a mix of concentration and nervousness.
She wiped her cheeks with her palms and sat on the bed, tucking her knees under her chin. “Let’s hear it. With that kind of title, I’m sure I’ll like your song no matter how terrible it is.”