Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83814 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83814 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
So why does the way he’s looking at my body right now feel so exhilarating?
“I want to hear more.”
“You want to—“ I stop and clear my throat. “How long exactly were you listening?”
“A few minutes.” He’s fighting a smile. I know that freaking cocky grin better than anything in the world. It’s boyish and charming, and I can only guess at how many women have melted over that look.
It only pisses me off even more.
“You could’ve said something. You know, instead of watching me like a fucking creep.”
“I wasn’t exactly quiet.”
“I was playing loudly.”
“Not that loudly.” He nods at the piano. “Play more for me.”
I let out a bitter, exasperated laugh. Who the hell does this guy think he is, breaking into my apartment, peeping on me while I’m mostly naked, and now commanding me to play?
And the sickest part of all this is, this is the best conversation I’ve had since coming to France.
“Let me get dressed at least,” I say through gritted teeth, shaking my head at the sheer balls on this guy.
“Go ahead.”
“Look away, asshole.”
“I just spent the last five minutes studying your naked body. What’s it matter?”
Five minutes? Jesus fucking H Christ. I turn red with mortification, which only makes him grin even more.
Screw it. I pull my shirt on, aware that he’s getting a nice show of my breasts, but at least I’m totally covered now. I grab the shorts and yank them on, making sure to face him so he doesn’t get to ogle my ass while I do it.
Dressed, mostly, I feel more emboldened.
Though I’m way too aware of my extremely hard nipples. And Alex is too—his eyes move to my chest and he doesn’t look away for several long moments.
“I want to know why my dad sent you,” I say finally, awkwardly crossing my arms.
He turns his gaze back to the piano. “And I want to hear you play more.”
“What is with your obsession right now?”
“It was sad,” he says and looks like he wants to say more, but stops himself.
I feel stunned and raw. I don’t know why—it’s not like he offered up some deep and moving interpretation of my music—but for some reason, those simple words threaten to break me.
Because he’s right.
I am sad.
Not in some facile, childish way.
But a deep, terrible sadness, a gray and empty and cold sadness. The sort of sadness that makes everything feel slow, lifeless, and boring.
Except for music.
And except for the way he’s looking at me right now.
Maybe I’m desperate for human interaction, or maybe the last year in relative isolation has totally and completely broken my brain, but I walk over to the bench and slowly sit back down.
“After I’m done, you’re going to tell me why you’re here.” I put my fingers on the keys.
“I’ll tell you,” he agrees, and moves closer. “After you finish.”
There’s a promise in his voice—and a strange little threat.
But screw it. He already saw me naked. It can’t get any worse than this.
I do as he says, and I start to play.
Chapter 2
Natalya
The atmosphere in my tiny little apartment is charged with electricity as I play for him.
He starts out across the room, watching and listening, his eyes heavy and half-lidded, looking like sex and sin. He’s gorgeous, and I remember all over again why I’ve always tried to keep my distance—Alexander Sorokin is dangerous as hell. Both for me, and for everyone else around him.
But soon he drifts closer. I finish the first song and transition into another, even though he didn’t ask for more than the one. He lingers behind me, near the couch, and I can feel his eyes on me. I can almost taste his unwavering attention. It’s overwhelming and intense, almost erotic in its obsession, and I’m trembling as I begin a third song.
He comes closer. Right behind me now, lurking at my back and staring at my hands as I go through the familiar rhythms. Another song I wrote while in Paris, another little slice of my gray and lonely days. It’s a slow melody, and I like to think it’s the sound of the rain on the roof across the street and distant laughter down streets I’ll never bother exploring.
I should stop. Especially when I start playing the fourth and his hands gently touch my shoulders. Not in a commanding way, but more like he’s letting me know that he’s right at my back, and slowly his fingers move down to my collarbone as I keep playing, my breath coming in rapidly and deep.
Fear and excitement rip into my chest, and I know I should tell him to stop, I should push back and end this madness.
I should do a lot of things.
Why’s he even here? Where did he come from? And why am I playing right now instead of talking about any of that?