Let me cook…what if she’s crying because she’s so happy you gifted her with an orgasm?
She’s overwhelmed. I’m overwhelmed.
It’s not that kind of marriage.
…Right?
I exhale. She’s still standing there, stunned—eyes shimmering, lip trembling.
“I’m sorry. I’m overwhelmed. You’re overwhelmed.”
The air between us hums. She is not the girl from the church anymore—no longer trembling under someone else’s control.
She’s here. Inourhome.
Feelings shift through me with tethered thoughts, is it fear? Regret? Or is that look on her delicate lips hope? I keep drawing more emotion than I should. I should be creating distance.
Take a step back, give her air…let her process…
That would be wise.
Too bad.
I force myself to move, to break the moment before it becomes something I can’t walk back from.
“Come on,” Isay quietly, nodding toward the hallway. “There’s one more room I want you to see.” Her head tilts, curiosity flickering through the haze of emotion. “This one,” I say, pushing open the glass doors to my studio, “is my world.”
My studio stretches out before us—dark soundproof walls, guitars hanging in neat rows, a baby grand piano near the window, cables snaking across the floor toward the mixing decks. The faint scent of wood polish and ozone fills the air, and the soft glow from the control panel paints her skin in shades of amber and blue.
I don’t even realize I’m smiling until she turns to look at me.
“You look…different in here,” she says, voice soft, tentative.
“Yeah?” I glance over my shoulder, trying to sound casual, though my pulse has already gone rogue.
“Yeah,” she nods, eyes glinting with something I can’t name, something that presses at my chest and makes it harder to think straight. “It’s your happy place.”
That…and somewhere in between a beautiful woman’s legs.
A mental whistle escapes.
Down, boy. Easy.
Horniness aside, flustered hormones in full riot mode…I can’t lie. The studio really is my sanctuary. The one place that’s ever-made sense. Every knob, every slider, every button feels like an extension of me. My fingers hover over the mixing board, skimming the surfaces, brushing the cold metal, the smooth faders. It’s tactile, it’s familiar. It’s where I can breathe, think, create, and maybe…just maybe, let some of the world’s noise fall away.
“This is where I get to say what I can’t out loud.” I admit.
For good reason…
“Every lyric, every sound—it’s all pieces of me that don’t fit anywhere else.” She walks around slowly, fingertips grazing the keys of the piano, the strings of a guitar. I’ve never seen anyone walk through this room like she does—softly, like she’s tracing the edges of a safe place she’s never had before.
She might not truly belong to me. But hell if I’ll let anyone take her away from me now.
Needy. Needy and childish. She can’t be mine. She can do better.
At least now, I can find peace knowing that I did a good thing, helped someone out of a bind with no ulterior motive. More importantly, Seraphina understands that now she’ll always have a choice.
A voice.
