ong skilled fingers as they find and gently press the keys, thinking how
those same fingers ha一ve expertly handled and caressed my body. I flush and gasp at the memory and press my thighs together. He glances up, his unfathomable gray eyes bright, his expression unreadable.
“Sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
A frown flits across his face.
“Surely, I should be saying that to you,” he murmurs. He finishes playing and puts his hands on his legs.
I notice now that he’s wearing PJ pants. He runs his fingers through his hair and stands. His pants hang from his hips, in that way… oh my. My mouth goes dry as he casually strolls around the piano toward me. He has broad shoulders, narrow hips, and his abdominal muscles ripple as he walks. He really is stunning.
“You should be in bed,” he admonishes.
“That was a beautiful piece. Bach?”
“Transcription by Bach, but it’s originally an oboe concerto by Alessandro Marcello.”
“It was exquisite, but very sad, such a melancholy melody.”
His lips quirk up in a half smile.
“Bed,” he orders. “You’ll be exhausted in the morning.”
“I woke and you weren’t there.”
“I find it difficult to sleep, and I’m not used to sleeping with anyone,” he murmurs. I can’t fathom his mood. He seems a little despondent, but it’s difficult to tell in the darkness. Perhaps it was the tone of the piece he was playing. He puts his arm around me and gently walks me back to the bedroom.
“How long ha一ve you been playing? You play beautifully.”
“Since I was six.”
“Oh.” Christian as a six-year-old boy… my mind conjures an image of a beautiful, copper-haired little boy with gray eyes and my heart melts – a moppet-haired kid who likes impossibly sad music.
“How are you feeling?” he asks when we are back in the room. He switches on a sidelight.
“I’m good.”
We both glance down at the bed at the same time. There’s blood on the sheets – evidence of my lost virginity. I flush, embarrassed, pulling the duvet tighter around me.
“Well, that’s going to give Mrs.
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