by Pam Godwin
With my car tucked behind a truck, my whole body cants against the door panel to keep her within my sight.
Her long legs carry her toward her house, slowly, leisurely, her chin held high and shoulders relaxed. She’s not afraid here, not like she is in my classroom. How ironic given the dangerous neighborhood.
In the depraved innards of my soul, I thrill at being the thing she fears. I want to claim her apprehension, dread, and uncertainty. I want to take ownership of all of her emotions and be the sole reason she trembles and cries.
In that moment, I pretend I’m not her teacher. With my hand curled around the steering wheel and my shoulder pressed against the door, I watch a beautiful woman walk toward me. She’s strikingly exotic with her enormous eyes and long dark hair, so impossibly stunning I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from approaching her. I would pause a few feet away, hold her gaze, and let the malleable silence enfold us in an intimate cocoon. I wouldn’t need words, just her awareness of my body, my intent, and my confidence to give her what she craves.
She may not know it but she needs clearly-defined boundaries, discipline, and a man she can trust to push her beyond her comfort zone. She may not yet recognize me as that man, but she will. Then what?
Parked five houses away, I can’t focus on anything but her. What happens tomorrow when I sit beside her on the piano bench, breathing in the scent of her skin? How the fuck will I focus then?
With the engine off, the lack of air is stifling. My shirt is soaked through with sweat, the tie long-ago discarded. I’m burning up, antsy, aching for her. Horny as fuck.
She stops at the front door and unlocks it with a key from her satchel. Reaching in to flick on the interior lights, she doesn’t make it over the threshold before an orange cat races out. As it prances around her feet, throwing its body against her ankles, her words come back to me.
I can’t afford running shoes or food for my cat.
A heavy pressure sinks into my muscles, urging me to storm into her life and fix her problems. I have the money, determination, and desire to improve her situation. As her teacher, she’s my responsibility. To nurture. To protect.
All of which is appropriate as long as I don’t imagine the grip of her cunt around my cock.
She scoops up the cat and nuzzles it against her neck as she carries it inside. The door closes, and the curtains fall across the window, shutting me out. Time to go.
On the drive back to the Garden District, I resolve to maintain professionalism around Miss Westbrook. If I manage to finish the year without burying myself between her legs, I might find a rather satisfying future at Le Moyne. Of course, keeping my hands off her also means my future won’t include a jail cell.
As I walk into my house, I’m greeted with stacks of packed boxes, bare walls, and a total lack of warmth despite the humidity. I moved in three months ago, but haven’t really moved in. Unpacking feels a lot like acceptance.
Acceptance of a life without Joanne.
I drift through the spacious living room, hearth room, and kitchen, every corner and archway adorned with custom moldings and deep earthy tones. Maybe tomorrow I’ll begin filling the rooms with furniture and personal belongings. But tonight, all I need is the brilliant piece of craftsmanship that sits down the hall.
I make my way there, veering into my favorite room, the reason I bought this overpriced estate. The pristine hardwoods shine beneath the chandelier, and the Gothic arched fireplace at the far end conjures images of distant lands and mystical cultures. But the room’s centerpiece demands my full attention.
Approaching my grandfather’s Fazioli concert grand piano, I run a finger along the curved body. Rare and extremely valuable, it took three years to make, crafted with superb materials, down to the gold-plated hinges and screws. The heart of the piano is carved from the same red spruce trees Stradivari used for his famous violins. But that’s not why I cherish this sexy beast.
I take my position behind the keys and let my mood decide the melody. Inhaling deeply, I finger through the slow-building intro of “Toxicity” by System Of A Down. As the metal song changes tempo, growing heavier, more aggressive, every muscle in my body engages. My fingers grab at the notes, my torso sways, and my head rocks in time with the staccato beats, my entire being captured and controlled by the acoustics.
The majestic projection propels me to the top note as I bang my hands along the keys, wrestling every molecule of power the piano offers. The crystalline clarity enchants me, consumes me, and I fall in love with this instrument all over again. I depend on this experience. I’ve dedicated my entire life to mastering it, and I need it now to carry me through the days and months without Joanne.
Maybe I’ve reached the pinnacle of my success in the music world. Maybe I’m destined to be a lonely, bitter old man.
Or maybe I haven’t found my place yet, my part in it all, and maybe—as Ivory so passionately put it—I’ll be there when the music begins.
It’s universally known that the more forbidden something is, the more desirable it becomes. I feel this truth like a fist around my balls as I enter my classroom after lunch and find the forbidden object of my desire waiting for me.
Ivory stands beside my desk, alone and watching me with huge dark eyes. With her arms crossed beneath her breasts and her raised chin radiating attitude, she has no idea how badly I want to restrain her, whip her, and fuck her.
Her black dress hangs like a tarp on her small frame, which only glorifies my memory of her bare body, giving power to the secret we share. Is she thinking about yesterday, when I memorized all the skin she’s hiding? The mole on the rib just under her right breast, the delicate patch of freckles on her toned thigh, the decorative ink scrolling across her back—all of it belongs to me now. I crave another peek, more skin, more Ivory.
She straightens her spine, inadvertently pushing out her ample chest, and glares at me as if she’s reading my mind and deems it appalling.
I could no more stop my heart from being ripped from my chest—thank you for that, Joanne—than I can control the primal way my body reacts to Ivory Westbrook.
Heat floods my muscles as I erase the space between us. My mouth dries as her eyes track my movements around the desk. Gnawing pressure builds behind my abs as I take in the sensual shape of her lips, the vein bulging in her throat, and the wariness in her gaze.
I clasp my hands behind my back, stifling the urge to yank at the strangling tie around my neck.
“Miss Westbrook.” I force my attention above her mouth. “You’re here early.”
She stabs a finger at textbooks stacked on the desk between us. “I found these in my locker.”
I glance at the supplies I purchased from the school bookstore this morning. “You’re welcome.”
“So it was you.” She closes her eyes, inhales deeply, and her glare returns. “I won’t take—”
“You will.”
“This?” She snatches the unopened tablet from the stack of books and holds it out to me. “I can’t accept this.”
“You can.” I turn away and begin writing next period’s discussion topics on the whiteboard.
Her footsteps approach, pausing beside me. I don’t look at her, but I feel her proximity like an electric hum. A cacophony of emotions pulse from her quickening breaths and grinding teeth. She may as well just tell me she’s an anxious mess.
Instead, she says, “I don’t take handouts, Mr. Marceaux.”
Damn her pride. I prefer to not belabor this simple thing, but nothing is easy when it comes to this girl.
I move the marker over the board, the felt tip squeaking through the silence. “You presume too much, Miss Westbrook. You will pay me back.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
She mumbles it so quietly I’m not sure I hear her correctly.
I cap the marker and glower down at her. “Repeat that.”
“I’m…” She holds her arms at her sides, as if forcing herself not to fidget.
“What kind of payment?”
My pulse takes off as alarms blare in my head. She has a wealth of assets most warm-blooded men would value more than money. Whether or not she’s aware of her seductive beauty, her question isn’t birthed from naivety. Experience has shown her what men want from her, and the thought boils my blood.
“Cash. Personal check.” My voice whips through the room, brash and angry. “Something along those lines.” I soften my tone. “What kind of payment were you expecting I’d want?”
“Oh, I…” She swallows and stares toward the doorway. “I don’t know.”
The distant din of voices trickle in from the hall, a reminder class will resume in a few minutes.
“The truth, Miss Westbrook.”
Her eyes dip to my groin and dart away.
Fuck. I won’t make her say it out loud. At this point, I can’t bear to hear it.
She’s aware of my inappropriate interest in her, and now she knows I know she’s aware. But she’s misjudged the way I operate. I would never coerce a woman into sex, let alone a student. While that infuriates me to a level that has my hands shaking, the ease at which she jumped to sex as a method of payment makes me want to kill someone.
Maybe I’m paranoid. Maybe I’ve lost my mind, but goddammit, I’m convinced she’s been sexually abused. Someone from her past? Is it happening right now? Who the fuck is hurting her?
I fist my hands on my hips and glare down at her as everything inside me simmers to blow up. “Has another teacher asked for inappropriate favors?”
“No!”
A small relief, but it leaves me with nothing. “Who then?”
She steps back just as several students mill into the classroom, laughing and oblivious. The conversation will have to be postponed, but there’s something else that can’t wait. I join her at my desk as she gathers the stack of textbooks.
Under the guise of powering up my laptop, I watch her out of the corner of my eye and lower my voice for her ears alone. “I trust your brother didn’t touch you last night.”
Her grin is reluctant, dimpling the corner of her mouth and crawling across her lips. “Shane stumbled in with a broken nose, whining about a headache until he passed out. Guess that’s karma, huh?”
“Yes.” My mouth twitches. “Karma.”
Arms loaded with books, she turns toward the room full of students, pauses, then pivots back to me.
“Thank you.” She stares at my tie, her chin pinning the tablet atop the tower of books in her arms. “I’ll reimburse you as soon as I can.”
Nodding, I return to the whiteboard.
Maybe I made things more difficult for her. Whatever she does to earn money, she has to do more of it to pay me back. But school supplies are a requirement. Besides, I don’t intend to accept her reimbursement.
While I know her sense of self-worth arises from paying her own way, from not taking hand-outs, I spend the next three hours obsessing over how I can beat that idea out of her without crossing the line.
If her mother’s unemployed, how will she pay me back? Performing arts students can’t work regular jobs. They don’t have time for anything outside of school and practice. Hell, students are required to practice their instruments at least four hours a day, every day, for years. If they don’t, they fall behind, lose their competitive edge and any hope for a musical career.
Questions about her financial situation marinate in the back of my mind for the next few hours. A beautiful young girl like her, from a neighborhood like Treme, has a slew of undesirable methods to earn fast money. Drugs and prostitution fall on the top of that list, but I refuse to imagine her degrading herself in that way. It’s too appalling.
When the final bell rings, the piano students exit the classroom, except Ivory, who sets her belongings on a desk by the door and looks at me expectantly. “Don’t the others have private lessons?”
“Sebastian Roth and Lester Thierry have their own tutors at home.”
“I know.” Her forehead pinches. “But Chris and Sarah always take advantage of the lessons here.”
“They opted to study under Mrs. Romero’s tutelage.”
I planted the suggestion in my meetings with Chris and Sarah yesterday, hinting that the other piano instructor had some openings after school, and her softer approach may be a good match for them. It’s partially true. Mrs. Romero teaches the younger grades and already has her hands full. But she works for me, and therefore, I determine her schedule.
Ivory’s lips part as she considers the news. “Does that mean I’ll have you all to myself from three to seven every day?”
Fuck me, but I love the sound of that.
Her eyes widen. “Oh damn, I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant, and yes, I’ll be mentoring you.”
As a general rule, I prefer to groom only one or two students at a time. Though my intentions with Ivory have little to do with her personal development. When it comes to torturing myself, I’m the dean of effort, hell-bent on enduring the entire school year with achingly sore blue balls.
I close the door and make my way around the corner of the L-shaped room. Leaning a hip against the Bösendorfer grand piano, I wait for her to join me then rap my knuckles on the sleek black surface. “Four hours every day.”
An enormous grin overwhelms her beautiful mouth. “I won’t waste your time.”
“No, you won’t.” I could stare at her twenty-four hours a day and feel like the most productive pervert in the world. But if I don’t eradicate those thoughts from my head, our time together will be over before it begins. “Did you practice last night?”
“Of course.”
She doesn’t tense up, change her breathing, or convey vulnerability in any way. She’s telling the truth, which might explain her whereabouts last night.
“Where did you practice?” Realizing that implies I know she wasn’t home, I rephrase the question. “You own a piano?”
“Not anymore.” Her dark brown hair escapes the curve of her ear and falls over her shoulder. She gathers it at the bend of her neck and twists it into a rope down her chest. “My mom sold my dad’s piano after he died.”
My dad’s, not Daddy’s. I bite the inside of my cheek to hide my satisfaction.
“There’s a music store down the street from my house.” Facing me, she braces an elbow on the edge of the piano and mirrors my position. “The owner lets me practice on his Steinway until eleven every night.”
Which coincides with the time she came home. So why can’t I shake the feeling she’s leaving something out?
Because she’s not looking at me. She’s toying with the ends of her hair, and wherever her thoughts just drifted, she’s distracted to silence.
I touch a finger to her chin, lifting it to recapture her attention. “Time to finish our earlier conversation.”
Her lips thin.
“Who asked you for an inappropriate favor?”
She turns away and lowers onto the piano bench. “No lies?”
“I don’t mentor liars, Miss Westbrook.”
She nods, her expression grim. “The truth is, I need your help.” Her hands run over the keys without depressing them. “With this. Mastering the piano.” She stretches her fingers. “I’m the best pianist in this school, you know.”
“Is that right?”
She peers up at me through her lashes. “I may even be better than you.”
My stomach swoops in the presence of her tantalizing smile. “Let’s not get carried away.”
“You’re right.” She studies her fingers on the keys. “I have a lot to learn. But with the right teacher and enough focus, I’ll be out of here at the end of the year. Out of Treme. This is the most honesty I can give you, Mr. Marceaux.” She pulls her hands into her lap and stares up at me with pleading eyes. “If you focus on the other stuff in my life, the things not related to my talent, it will hurt my future. And if you involve social services, every opportunity I have here will be taken away.
”
She’s all but admitting I won’t like what I find when I poke around in her affairs. I have no intention of involving social services, and she doesn’t need to know the extent to which I’m capable of investigating a person.
But I prefer to hear it from her. “Answer the question.”
“I can’t. Please.”
That’s all it takes. The seductive sound of her begging in one breathy syllable and she owns every nerve in my body. I want to hear that sound as she kneels to me, releases me from my pants, and guides me toward her mouth.
Get a grip, asshole.
It’s clear she won’t tell me who’s taking advantage of her, but I’ll find out.
“All right.” I flick a hand toward the piano. “Play for me.”
She adjusts the bench, slides off her tattered shoes, and positions her toes on the pedals. With her palms on her knees, she gives me her attention. “Baroque? Classical? Jazz?”
“Surprise me.”
Eyes on the keyboard, she steadies her breathing. A current of serenity seems to float through her as her posture loosens and her face softens. Then her hands lift, her head bows over the keys, and fucking hell, her fingers fly. The concerto she chose is pure insanity, a high tempo complexity of too many notes. Balakirev’s Islamey is one of the most challenging cadenzas in the whole classical piano repertoire, and she plays it like an expert.
She’s a tornado of whipping wrists, violent fingers, and rocking hips. Her chin sways, head jerking on the hard-hitting beats, her expression a picture of intense focus. But my critical ear doesn’t miss the slips when she hits the chords with too much force, speeds up too fast, and plays all the sixteenth notes like eighth note triplets.
This is why I don’t play the piece. I mastered it in college, but it’s a goddamn nightmare. The difficulty and awkwardness in positioning the fingers, the left hand hopping over the right, and at the end of eight minutes, it leaves me drenched in sweat. Besides, I’m not a fan of classical interpretation, which is ironic since I hold a seat in the Louisiana Symphony Orchestra.