Dangerous Control
Page 7
“Hmm,” I said.
“Want me to ask her about it? It’s not that far from where Alice works.”
“It’s probably not available anymore.”
“I’ll text Ella.”
I put a hand over his before he could get out his phone. “No. Like I said, I don’t want her to feel pressured to leave. Anyway, she’s still processing what happened, so I think it’s better for her to be around someone who can look after her. It was a hard loss. Especially the violin. Let me get this,” I said, as the waiter brought the bill.
Neither one tried to stop me. I owed them, for acting like a jackass. We had our codes.
“It’s nice of you to make her a new Fierro,” Devin said. “Have you started it?”
“I’ve got the wood.” It was a relief to talk about something besides hurting Alice. “This violin has to be perfect, you know? I got all the wood pieces from Eastern Europe, which has the best quality and density. I’ve got a contact I trust.”
“She’s lucky,” said Fort. “I think she’s going to get a really special instrument.”
“I hope so. Anyway, thanks for meeting up tonight. I needed it. Sorry I behaved like a prick.”
“You’re always a prick with the scotch,” joked Devin. “No worries.”
“No, seriously, I’ll find my way through this. I don’t want to lose my closest friends in the process.”
“We’ve been through shit before,” said Fort. “Everything will turn out okay.”
I nodded, wishing I shared his positive outlook. Dev gave me a nudge. “So, not sure if this is a good time to ask, but are you going to The Gallery tonight?”
“Not sure. You guys?”
I knew even before they made their excuses that they probably weren’t going to go. In a weird way, I felt like I shouldn’t go because of Alice, even though she’d be at work for another hour, playing with the orchestra. Maybe she’d want to go to a movie afterward, something to take her mind off things. Maybe I could catch the end of her performance.
Maybe I should go to The Gallery to take care of my urges so I’m not fantasizing about her every time she walks by me.
“I might go,” I said. “I should go there and play hard with someone, and really work things out.”
“Lucky woman,” laughed Fort. “I can think of a few regulars who’d volunteer for the privilege of slaking your violent lusts.”
Violent, vile, dangerous lusts. After I said goodbye to them, I walked home and took the elevator straight up to The Gallery’s floor. It was busy in the multi-level dungeon. There were indeed several subs I had experience playing with, and their eyes followed me as I skulked around the club’s perimeter. I could tie Catherine up there. I could fuck Sarah there. I could use that whip on Bailey and make her scream.
But I wasn’t in the mood, and there were too many people around when I didn’t feel like being social. I ended up leaving twenty minutes after I arrived, wondering if my sex life was over forever, or just until Alice moved out of my place.
Chapter Eight: Alice
I walked along 19th Street, watching for the Fierro Violins storefront. I’d been there before—I knew exactly what block it was on—but it always seemed like a surprise to stumble across it, because it was hidden among much larger businesses.
Not that Fierro Violins was a small place. When I walked into the lobby, I took in the familiar high walls, the stone fireplace, and the deep, heavy club chairs that welcomed clients to sit. I knew there was a warren of workshops in the back, and dozens of artisans who worked for the family.
“Good morning. Can I help you?”
The polite receptionist stood and approached me, at the same time Milo appeared in the doorway at the back. His eyes met mine, and I was struck, as always, by how handsome he was, even in a worn, stained, leather apron.
“You made it,” he said as I crossed to him. God, that smile.
I ducked under his arm as he held the door for me. “I said I would come.”
“You were fast asleep when I left. Snoring.”
I rolled my eyes. “Musicians sleep in on Mondays. Well, except for you.” We walked down the hall, which was quieter than you’d expect a music-based workplace to be. I mentioned this to Milo and he raised his brows.
“You don’t make a violin with hammers and power tools. What you hear is the silence of concentration.”
I gave him a look, and he smiled again. It felt like a personal victory whenever he smiled at me, because he wasn’t the smiley type. He led me down the corridor to the last workshop on the left, a wood-paneled cocoon of violin parts and instruments in process. The still, cool air smelled like varnish and cut wood. There were so many tools, so many pieces and molds, and raw slabs of wood.
He took one of them in his hand and turned to me. “This is going to be the back of your violin. It’s the only piece I have so far, but it’s perfect.”
I took the oblong piece of wood. It was heavier than I thought, and sanded smooth. I held it to my cheek. “It’s magnificent, Milo.”
“It’s from an old-growth maple on the north side of a mountain in the Caucasus. It was cut decades ago, but it’s been drying. I think it’s just right.”
I rubbed my cheek against the dull-colored slab from halfway across the world, and thought how random it was, that this tree had been planted maybe two hundred years ago, and now it had come to me, to make beautiful music. It would be cut and shaped and varnished a rich auburn color. “Is it drier wood than my last violin?” I asked.
Milo shrugged. “Probably about the same. We don’t use crap wood at Fierro.” But his eyes were bright. He was excited. It was probably a really special cut of wood. I wondered how much he’d paid for it. He’d never give me a straight answer, so I didn’t bother to ask.
“Thank you,” I said instead. “I really can’t thank you enough for doing this.”
He took the wood back, placed it on one of the workshop’s nearest counters, and walked to another counter to pick up a completed violin. “I wanted you to play for me while you were here. This is a prototype, for taking measurements, so I can really nail the specifications.”
“Oh. Sure.” I tipped the violin onto my shoulder, nestling it beneath my chin. “What should I play?”
“Nothing yet.” He drew out a battered measuring tape and measured the space between my chin and the end of the instrument, as well as the chin rest. He measured the length of my forearm, and waited patiently for me to compose myself when I giggled and ducked away. “It tickles. I’m sorry.”
“No worries.”
He took a few more measurements, and then I started playing some Vivaldi. He didn’t film me, or take photos, but I’d never been so closely scrutinized in my life. His dark eyes seemed to blaze at me from a couple feet away. I tried to play normally, without any reservations, and I was careful not to turn my head, even when he circled me with that intense stare.
“You’re going to make such a tone on this new violin,” he said, when I finished a short gavotte. “Play something slower now.”
It was an order, delivered in his rough, sexy voice. My fingers shook as perverse thoughts filled my brain, to the point where it was hard to concentrate. I could smell him, feel him beside me. He was checking out my angles while I refocused on musicality, because, by God, I wanted to impress him. I played one of my favorite meditative songs, Barber’s Adagio for Strings. After a while, I knew Milo wasn’t collecting specs anymore; he was listening.
I flicked a glance over at him, catching his gaze. “Is that enough?” I asked. “Or do you want me to keep going?”
“Keep going.”
I ended the Barber and began an allegro piece, one Milo used to play during lessons with my father. I wondered if he’d remember, but then he smiled, and I played faster because I was flirting. Milo was a temptation I couldn’t shake. He’d made it clear we were going to keep things friendly, especially while I was living at his apartment, but that only made me want him more.
I looked at the wall beyond his shoulder as I plied the strings, but I could still feel his eyes on me. I could feel them tracing over the lines of my jaw, and the lines of the violin as my bow arced between us. Then he picked up a violin from the rack above his work counter, as well as a bow. He joined the piece mid-phrase, angling his body so our violins sang together.
Without thought, we played off each other, blending the small tone differences in our instruments the way experienced musicians did, communicating with our aural senses, rather than sight or words. I closed my eyes, feeling the notes dance between us. Sweeping glissandos, trembling vibrato battling for the most perfect resonance. I wanted to play slower so the song would never end, but I had to keep up with him, to make the perfection last. When we played the last notes, I opened my eyes and found him staring at me.
There was hot desire in his gaze. I wasn’t imagining it. It would be such a little thing, to put down the instruments and reach out to one another. Why didn’t he want it? Why didn’t I force the issue?
“That was awesome.” I put the violin in my lap, my mouth half open, wanting to say the rest of the words. I want you. I love you. Please touch me.
“We make good music together,” he said, before I could come up with anything. His words were brisk as he turned away.
“Yes, we do.” I wanted him to turn back and face me. I wanted to fight with him over this shit. I had all this energy to give him, but he was behind a wall and I couldn’t reach him, and it made me want to smash something. I looked down at the violin, and forced my fingers to unwind from the neck. “You’d better take this back.”
“Sure.” He turned to me, meeting my eyes for one burning moment. “If I need to know anything else about how you play, I know where to find you.”
“I guess you do.”
“I may be home late tonight.”
He moved away again. Always moving away from me.
“It’s your life,” I said. “I’ll see you when I see you.”
I left Fierro Violins, feeling wrought up with emotion. In the last hour, I’d been excited, hopeful, grateful, in love, miserable, and furious. I had the afternoon and evening off—all the time in the world to wallow in my feelings. I walked in the cold all the way to the Bridgeport building, stopping to get food for my lonely dinner, then went upstairs.
“You like me, at least,” I said, as Blue trotted over to welcome me. “Yes, I missed you, sweetie. Milo won’t be home for dinner, so it’s just you and me. Feel like a shower?”
Blue didn’t like showers, but I needed one. I was freezing, plus I didn’t want the smell of wood and violins on me, and the memory of our impromptu duet, the way our tones had blended so wonderfully together. I took my time, standing under the steamy water, trying to clear my mind. While Blue hovered, I put on pajamas and a robe and sat in front of my laptop, logging on to a website for Manhattan real estate. So many choices. So expensive. So many tasks to follow up on.
I needed to find a place to stay, so I could remove myself from the situation, but the insurance morass, in my current mood, seemed an insurmountable task to untangle. I closed my laptop and drifted out to the kitchen, and decided I didn’t want to cook. A salad and a handful of cookies would be fine. Forget the salad. Just cookies.
I took my extremely unhealthy dinner into Milo’s living room and flopped on his couch. Blue curled up beside the ornate fireplace, drawing in his tail and legs until he was a perfect oval. I ate a couple cookies with milk, then took the rest back to the kitchen, because they were only making me feel worse.
I left the kitchen and walked down the hall, and stood in the door of Milo’s master bedroom. He kept the door open while he was away, and Blue went in and out, but I hadn’t felt bold enough yet to do the same. I wished I had the nerve to sneak in and poke through his closets and drawers, or do what I really wanted, which was to sprawl face down in the middle of his bed and bury my face in his covers. I wanted so badly to watch him while he slept, but he kept the door shut when he was in there.
Jesus, Alice, you need to get a life, or at least your own place.
I backed away from his open bedroom door and went back down the hall, past my room and Milo’s office, to the instrument room, another place I didn’t dare trespass. I was afraid Milo’s priceless-instrument room had a hidden security camera. At the very least, I might mess up the climate-controlled air by breathing too hard or drooling. I walked past with Blue at my heels, and glanced at the next door. Then I stopped.
What was in there? It was probably the closet with all the climate-control equipment. Was there a secret camera set up, or no? Milo’s whole ritzy, glitzy apartment fascinated me. I put my hand on the knob, driven by curiosity. The door wasn’t locked. I looked down at Blue, whose dark eyes gave away nothing. “If I open this, will I set off an alarm?” I asked.
When Blue didn’t answer, I turned the knob the rest of the way and pushed the door open. Light from the hallway illuminated the darkness, stretching to a far back wall. It wasn’t a closet after all, and it didn’t contain any climate-control machinery. There was no security camera. In fact, it seemed to be another complete room, deeper than the instrument room. I fumbled beside the doorjamb for a light.
“Coming in?” I asked Blue over my shoulder.
He made a small, snuffling sound and trotted away. I finally found a panel of light switches and flicked one on. Fixtures around the baseboards came on, casting up dim, white light in the larger-than-expected space. At first I only saw shapes and shadows. I took a couple more steps inside, realizing the room was L-shaped. There were cabinets along the outside wall, and a bed tucked away in the back. Was this another guest room?
Was that even a bed?
I walked toward it. The white-sheeted mattress had a lattice of bars for a headboard, and tall posts at either end of the footboard, with rings attached to the posts at the middle and top. I wasn’t sure how long it took me to realize it wasn’t a bed for sleeping on. Maybe a couple seconds, maybe a couple minutes of frantic thought while I stood there wringing my hands. It was a sex bed. A bondage bed.
As I processed that, the dark shapes around me took on more recognizable forms.
A bondage chair. A padded bench with adjustable features. Three different types of racks: an X-shaped one, a rectangular one, and an arch, all of them with attachment points like the ones on the bed posts. I was in a BDSM dungeon. Milo’s dungeon.
I went back to the light panel and lit up everything in the room. There were randomly placed lamps, overhead lights, and a wrought iron chandelier over the bondage bed. I couldn’t believe what I was looking at, but also, I couldn’t believe I hadn’t figured this out before.
Milo was kinky. By the looks of things, he was extremely kinky. This was what had been holding him back from me sexually, what he’d been trying to protect me from. This was why he’d done nothing more than kiss me, when I obviously wanted to go further.
Milo, you idiot. I don’t care. In fact, I think I love you more.
Like the rest of his place, his sexy dungeon was fantastic, elegant, old-world, rich. With the lights on, I could see the sheen of polish on the wood structures, and the dark metal’s smooth, heavy quality. What did he do in here? My imagination ran wild, along with my jealousy. How many women had he brought in here? Not me. He never would have shown this to me if I hadn’t stumbled into it on my own.
When would he be home? I didn’t want him to catch me in here, perving his collection of kinkiness, but I couldn’t stop looking at everything. I opened the cabinets and closed them again without touching anything, overwhelmed by the things I saw inside. Sex toys and dildos. Butt plugs. Nipple clamps. Bondage equipment. Chains, rope, gags, and leather whips and straps, designed to cause pain.
Oh God, what if there was a camera in here? What if there was a silent alarm that was already beckoning him home, so he could accost whoever had broken into his secret sex lair? What would he say if he caught me here? I knew a little about BDSM, but I’d never done anything kinky with a partner. I knew there were Dominants and submissives in this lifestyle, and it was clear to me which one he was, based on the way he’d kissed me that one time.
How could I have been so clueless, so blind to these proclivities in him? It seemed so obvious now. His deep, brusque voice and his intent eye contact, his commanding manner… All my life, I’d known he was a dark kind of guy. So much was explained by this dungeon, but so many more questions were raised. How long had it taken him to amass this collection of furniture and toys? How many partners had he played with? How many did he have right now? Was I in the way, since I’d moved in here? Was he seeing some other woman right now, some secret slave he couldn’t invite over until I moved out again?
I rubbed my forehead, wondering what to do. Walk out of this room and shut the door? Pretend I didn’t know this dungeon was here, just a few doors down from my room? Why didn’t he keep a room like this locked?
Because he’d lived alone until now. You’re trespassing. You’re invading his privacy.
It was crazy, how you could know someone for so long, but not really know them at all. I’d only seen what I wanted to see, the moody, mostly solitary violinist who was a few years older than me, old enough to seem wise beyond his years. Now I was picturing him in here, looking in the cabinets for the perfect cuffs, the blindfold, the rope to fix a woman—me—to one of these benches or racks. It was a Milo I’d never thought about, but one that made me shiver with desire. Bound, blindfolded, at his mercy…
What would he do then? Whip me? Fuck me? Call me a naughty slut?
Was all of this—the dungeon, the perversity—the reason he kept me at arm’s length? I can’t do this, because I respect you too much. I remembered his words because they’d disappointed me so deeply.
But now…
Now everything could be different. I could let him know I was okay with this side of him. In fact, as I stood looking around at the forbidding furniture and tall cabinets, I knew this side of him was a huge part of what attracted me. Milo was good at so many things. He was kind and caring, and renowned for making instruments. He was a noted musician, who played the violin with the potency of someone who needed to do it to live. If he was good at this BDSM stuff too…
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