Dark Notes

by Pam Godwin

  Besides, his erection is all kinds of distracting, pinned beneath me and pumping with blood. I want to take him out of his pants and slide down that hard length as I continue to play.

  I spread my legs, hooking them over his, my hands bungling two measures of the song. “Emeric.”

  His tongue traces the shell of my ear, his fingers dipping between my thighs, probing, rolling my clit, and sinking into my pussy. “So wet for me.”

  Gasping, I give up on the keyboard and grip his thighs where they flex between mine. The diabolical thrusts of his fingers arch my back, make me whimper, and propel me into a boiling crescendo of lust.

  I tug at his pajama bottoms. “Take these off. I need you.”

  The recording on the phone ends, the sudden silence amplifying the chorus of our heavy breaths.

  He pinches my clit with a wicked amount of pressure, shooting painful pleasure through my core. Working both hands between my legs, he slaps and strokes, flicks and dips inside. Whether it’s ruthless or gentle, giving or taking, every touch is a declaration of utter commitment.

  With an arm around my waist, he lifts my hips and shoves his pants to the floor, kicking them away. I shiver as he lowers me onto his cock and pushes inside. He’s hard and persistent, thick and aggressive, his fingers digging against my hips and controlling the up and down glide of my body with powerful confidence.

  I clutch his strong forearms and hang on, my head dropping back to his shoulder and my inner muscles spasming around every thrust. The deep slide of hot steel stretches my pussy and fills me up. My body sings for him with each pulsing beat between my legs, pulling him in, clamping down, and holding him there. He belongs in me, with me.

  “So fucking tight.” He kicks his hips. “Leaking all over me.” He grunts, his fingers tightening against my hips. “Love your hot little cunt.”

  I love his dirty fucking mouth.

  He grinds against me in tight circles, his timbre low and rough. “Play the song.”

  Now? Without the recording? Even if I had total concentration, I would struggle. But while he’s fucking me? No way.

  I turn my neck to look at him. His hand plunges into my hair, wrenching my head forward and angling it to the side. The graze of his teeth on my shoulder makes me shudder. The fucking bite that follows rips a scream from my throat.

  The stinging burn seeps into my muscles, charging and rolling like liquid electricity. Holy shit, that’s going to leave a mark.

  I stab my fingernails against his rock-hard forearms. “You’re an animal.”

  He laughs, lifts me all the way off of his cock, and slams his hand against my ass. With a yelp, I fall forward and catch myself on the piano, fingers splayed over the keys.

  The man knows exactly how to get what he wants.

  He pulls me back down, shoving inside me with a force that brings tears to my eyes. It’s blissful, overpowering pain, the kind that stimulates the mind, arouses the body, and trembles the soul.

  He heightens the sensation by rolling into tender thrusting, ensuring I feel every thick inch of him dragging along my sensitive walls.

  “Play the song, Ivory.” He nips at my shoulder, his hand lifting to knead my breast.

  With focused strokes, I launch into the parts I remember, mentally looping through chords and letting my fingers follow along.

  He kisses my neck, tasting my skin, our bodies rocking and shuddering together as the music coaxes us into a languorous dance. He fucks me slowly, sensually. The motion of our hips wave in sync with my fingers on the keys as the sounds of our love-making hum a passionate rhythm.

  We are the ultimate love song.

  The tip of his tongue circles my earlobe. “Come.”

  My body obeys instantly, and I moan through the vigorous ripple of pleasure, clenching around his length, my fingers depressing aimless keys.

  “Ivory.” He groans, holding my hips against him as the hot pulse of his cock swells inside me, marking me, claiming me.

  I twist my neck to watch him in the throes of his pleasure.

  The air rushes from my lungs at the sight of his dilated pupils encircled by intensely beautiful swirls of blue fire. I used to hate his eyes, unable to imagine gentleness or safety in those crystalline depths. I was so very wrong. This is the only view I want, when I wake, when I go to sleep, and all the seconds in between.

  I rise off of him and quickly spin to straddle his lap, sliding back onto his cock. The kiss that follows is a mutual seeking of lips, met in the space between us and prompted by a shared need to connect in every way.

  He’s it for me. The zenith of my happiness. All roads, however perilous and winding, lead to this man, my teacher, the music of my soul.

  I want to go to Leopold to learn from the best of the best, yet here I am, sitting on the cock of one of their most brilliant alumni. Whether it’s dumb luck or some kind of magical destiny that brought me here, I won’t squander it.

  Leaning back, I frame his sculpted face with my hands. “Teach me how to play.”

  “Miss Westbrook.” His lips form a firm line. “I am teaching—”

  “No.” I kiss that hard mouth, because seriously, it’s too sexy to ignore. “Teach me the way you did tonight. Without classical music theory and technical books. I want to play…whatever I want to play.”

  A very male smile breaches his lips, his cock jerking inside me. “Turn around. Hands on the keys.”

  And so it goes. For the next few weeks, he teaches me how to play whatever rock or pop song that suits my mood while holding, touching, kissing, and fucking me.

  Some songs are harder than others. All of them challenge me. I don’t use music sheets, but I don’t need them. Not with his fingers beneath mine, showing me, and his voice at my ear, instructing me.

  Mastering modern music won’t help me get into Leopold, but man oh man, it exposes me to a whole world of composers outside of classrooms and textbooks. I discover a passion for blending classical masterpieces with top forty hits. There’s something about the originality and distinction in putting my own twist on the music. It strikes a glowing, breathing note inside me.

  Of course, Emeric’s enthusiasm in teaching and disciplining me isn’t a surprise. He gets off on it, especially when I slip up. God, that man loves to spank my ass. But it’s his endless encouragement that reminds me why I’m so fiercely, deeply, crazy in love with him.

  My eighteenth birthday falls on the last Friday in April. That morning, I wake with him straddling my hips, hands planted on either side of my head, and blue eyes filling my horizon. Perfect.

  He puts his face in mine, his expression serious. “I’m going to ask you some questions, but before you answer… Take me out of the equation. I go where you go. We stay together no matter what.”

  Okaaay. I nod.

  He searches my face. “Do you want to go to Leopold?”

  “Of course.” I raise my eyebrows. “What else would I do with my life?”

  “Anything you want.” He kisses me, his voice a silken tempo of notes. “What does Ivory Westbrook want?”

  Well, that’s easy. “I want to play piano, with you at center stage beside me.”

  He grins, evidently liking that answer. “How will you get there?”

  Hmmm. Is this a trick question? I’ve always believed rigorous training, persistence, and prestige will help me reach my dream. Isn’t Leopold the best way to obtain those things?

  I purse my lips. “I don’t know.”

  He reaches for something above my head and hands me…an airline ticket? “Let’s find out.”

  Saturday morning, we don’t fly out of New Orleans. I drive Ivory an hour and a half away to catch a plane from Baton Rouge. A city where I know no one. But as we walk through the airport—not touching—I’m suspicious as fuck of every person who casts their eyes in our direction. Do they know me? Are they affiliated with Le Moyne? I could explain our trip as business travel for the school, but that doesn’t stop my skin from crawling with
paranoia.

  When we step off the plane at our destination, I finally let myself relax.

  Ivory sits beside me in the limo, her eyes darting everywhere, her expression a mesmerizing depiction of wonderment. The wide grin, sparkling eyes, and bouncing hyperactivity has been ongoing since I gave her the first-class ticket last night. She’s never been out of New Orleans. Never been on an airplane or in a limo or hotel.

  I’ll show her every corner of the world if it keeps that smile on her face.

  It’s been two months since Schubert died, and her happiness hasn’t fully snapped back. Until now. Fuck if that doesn’t make all my earlier nervousness worth it.

  For the first time since we left Baton Rouge, I touch her, not as a teacher but as the man who loves her. In the privacy of the limo, I wrap an arm around her lower back and pull her against my side. Resting my lips against her temple, I stroke the crease of her thigh and hip.

  She sighs, her body melting in my hold. “A limo, Emeric. It’s…unnecessary, but wow.” She leans forward, gaze locked on the side window and jaw hanging open as she takes in the surrounding glass metropolis of skyscrapers. “I can’t believe I’m in New York.”

  I capture a strand of her hair and pull. “Can’t?”

  She slides me a sexy grin, twists in the seat, and throws a leg across my lap, straddling me chest to chest.

  With her hands on my face, she touches her smile to mine. “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.”

  I would bend her over my lap and spank her perfect ass, but we’re five minutes away from our first stop. So instead, I pinch her nipple through the dress and hang on.

  She grips my wrist and tries to jerk back, but the movement tightens my fingers and elongates the pebble of flesh.

  Grabbing my necktie, she yanks hard. That only brings our lips closer together. I take advantage, kissing her greedily while squeezing the hell out of her nipple.

  Her body bucks, a devious curve of flesh wrapped in black silk, as she exhales heavy huffs. “I’ll never say can’t again. Just please…my boob!”

  Blood rushes to my cock, making it rise.

  I release her. “Good girl.”

  She rubs her breast. “So mean.”

  I spy the smile pushing through her pout. “You love it.”

  She slides off my lap but stays close, leaning across my thighs to peer out my window. “Are we going to Leopold first?”

  Familiar streets and sights pass by. We’re a block away.

  She thinks we’re dressed up for a fancy dinner reservation and that the purpose of the trip is to open her eyes to Leopold campus life.

  What she doesn’t know is that I brought her here to open doors.

  When the limo stops, she looks at the front of the building and gasps. Her elbow swings an inch from my face in her scramble across my lap to exit on the side closest to the shiny front doors.

  I meet the driver’s eyes in the rear view mirror. “We’ll be a couple hours.”

  As I join her on the sidewalk, the brisk wind chills the back of my neck. But I barely feel it in the warmth of her blinding smile as she takes in the campus where I spent five years of my life, earning my undergrad and master’s.

  “Holy shit.” She hooks an arm around mine, hugging tightly. “This is really happening. I’m really here.”

  As much as I loathe our secrecy, I force the warning tone past my lips. “Miss Westbrook.”

  “Shit.” She drops her arm, steps an appropriate distance away, and stares straight ahead. “Sorry.” The corner of her mouth twitches. “Mr. Marceaux.”

  Smart ass. “Follow me.” I lead her inside and through the halls.

  I haven’t been here since I graduated four years ago. Nostalgia pulls at me, but I don’t take the time to look around. We have an appointment.

  She walks quickly to keep up with my long strides, her heels clicking against the cement floor. “You’re not a very good tour guide. Slow down.”

  “We’ll explore later.” I stop at a closed door in Richter Hall and shift to face her.

  She studies me, glances at the door, and looks back. Her hands rub down the front of her dress. “What are we doing?” She narrows her eyes, suspicion lashing through her tone. “What did you do?”

  “You’re here for an audition.”

  Her mouth falls open, working to form words. “Now?” She clutches the frog charm on her bracelet, rubbing with anxious fingers, her voice a harsh whisper. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because of this.” I touch her fidgeting hands and drop my arm. “Your excitement about this trip would’ve been ruined by nerves.”

  She nods jerkily, her eyes wide and terrified.

  The hallway is empty, but I won’t risk a kiss. Instead, I let her see the depths of my support and love in my gaze. “Remember, your sound is the first thing the panel members will judge you on, and they’ll do that in the first thirty seconds.”

  “Oh God.” She inhales deeply. “Which pieces do I play?”

  “Play what you identify most with, what you feel you play well, and what fits your style and aspirations. Let them see the exquisite heart of Ivory Westbrook.”

  I check my watch. It’s time. Turning away, I open the door.

  The stadium-style classroom hasn’t changed since all those semesters I spent taking notes right up there in the bleacher seats. The same Steinway grand piano sits in front near the door. It’s like walking into a time warp.

  With Ivory at my side, I head toward the middle-aged woman and two lanky old men in the front row. I’ve never met them, but I’ve been in contact with the woman, Gail Gatlin, who stands and crosses the room to greet us.

  Her stern gray eyes peer up at me from behind spectacles rimmed in gold. Sandy brown hair combs back from a complexion that probably sees little to no sunshine. Her stature is short and pudgy, yet she radiates confident authority.

  She holds out her hand, shaking mine. “Welcome back, Mr. Marceaux.”

  “Thanks for seeing us today.” I gesture to Ivory. “This is my protégé, Ivory Westbrook.”

  “I’m Mrs. Gatlin.” Gail shakes Ivory’s outstretched hand. “You must be quite something for Mr. Marceaux to bring you all the way here himself. His appraisal of your talent was convincing enough to gather a panel of judges on a Saturday.”

  In other words, don’t waste their time. I wouldn’t have brought her here if I thought she would.

  Gail gestures at the two men waiting in the front row. “We don’t usually interact with the candidates, but since this is an unusual audition, it will be somewhat free-form. Begin when you’re ready.” She nods at the piano and takes her seat.

  Ivory settles behind the Steinway, her fingers rubbing the frog charm. I find a chair off to the side where I have a direct view of her face as she stares at the keyboard.

  My leg bounces, and I tense it to stillness. What will she play?

  Right now, her smile reminds me of Queensryche’s “Silent Lucidity.” The corners of her lips lift in self-possession, the curved peaks arching into luminous competence as she looks her dream straight in the eye. A dream that has only just begun.

  But Queensryche won’t be in her repertoire. She’s researched Leopold for years and knows the audition requires standard pieces from 19th-century concertos, contrasting movements from an unaccompanied Bach partita, and arpeggios in three octaves with double stops.

  Whatever she chooses to play, she can nail it with her eyes closed.

  Leaning over the keys, she moves her fingers and sways into a slow-burning prelude. I don’t immediately recognize the piece. It’s not baroque or classical… My breath catches. It’s an Irish pop band.

  My entire body locks up, my hands curling around the arm rests. What the hell is she doing?

  The despairing chords of Kodaline’s “All I Want” fill the room with heavy undercurrents of sadness and positivity. The unspoken lyrics scrawl across my mind, a message that can only be interpreted as, It’s over, but I’ll fi
nd somebody. Life will go on.

  It’s a breakup song.

  My heart stops, sinking into the snarling pit of denial as the piano notes pound in my head. Why is she playing this? Is it a message to me?

  Look at me, Ivory.

  Her eyes flicker to mine and return to the keyboard, the fleeting glimpse too quick to read. I ache for her to glance up again, to give me something that will pull me out of this nebulous mindfuck.

  I told her I’d follow her anywhere. I brought her here knowing she would get in. I’m fully committed to move back to New York with her. So what the fuck is she trying to tell me? And why is she ruining her audition to do it?

  The judges shift uncomfortably in their seats. Any second, they’re going to shut her down.

  This is going all wrong. No, not wrong. There’s so much passion and depth in the way she hits those keys. Her execution is perfect. But the song doesn’t show off her technical talents. It most definitely doesn’t meet the audition requirements.

  Gail holds up a hand in a stopping motion, annoyance biting through her tone. “Miss Westbrook.”

  Ivory pauses, peering at the woman expectantly.

  With a bothered sigh, Gail gestures at the surrounding walls. “This is Leopold. Not School of Pop.”

  Subtly, slowly, Ivory’s eyes shift and connect with mine. In that fragment of a second, I see the heart of the woman I love, and it’s smiling at me with radiant resolve. It’s merely a moment of eye contact, but I feel her as if she were right beside me, assuring me that all is right in our world. My pulse thrums through my veins.

  She knows exactly what she wants, and she’s not just telling me. She’s showing me in the most earthshaking way possible. In an audition for her dream. Through a song she identifies most with.

  I maintain an expression of indifference and calmly fold my hands in my lap. But inside, I’m shaking beneath the shock of realization. She’s not breaking up with me. She’s saying goodbye to Leopold. What I don’t understand is why? What changed?

  Gail leans back in the chair. “Why do you want to attend this school?”