My eyes are glued on her when I see her yawn and set down the book she just finished. She stands and walks towards the door.
My heart skips a beat, thinking this is it. This is when she tries to run.
But Adeline surprises me when she stops in front of the baby grand piano. Her eyes scan the length of the instrument as if admiring a beautiful and rare creature. Then, she pulls out the small bench and takes a seat.
I lean up in my chair, completely engrossed with the screen. I watch her delicate hands lift the fallboard, staring at the black and white keys with a serene look on her face.
Standing, I leave my office, my feet carrying me before my brain can even comprehend my next move. I have a sudden urge to hear her fingers gliding along the ivory keys. I don't care if she can't play anything other thanChopsticks. Just the idea of seeing and hearing her play sets my blood on fire.
I force myself not to burst through the door; and instead, slowly and gently open it, as to not startle her.
Adeline doesn't so much as blink when I enter. It's as if she's in some kind of trance…or maybe she knew I would be coming for her and was expecting me.
My feet stay planted several feet away, and I just silently watch her. Jackson told me she plays, so I don't even bother asking her. After a long pause, I finally request, "Will you play for me?"
Her brows furrow slightly as an unreadable expression slides over her face. I expect her to tell me no. But she surprises me by asking, "What would you like me to play?"
I shrug, not knowing the extent of her skills. "Whatever you'd like," I tell her.
She faces the piano and stares at the keys for a moment. When her delicate fingers line up on the keys and begin to play, I immediately recognize the music. It's Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata.
I'm completely mesmerized as I watch her play the somber music perfectly striking each key with precision. She's definitely a practiced pianist. That much is clear. She plays elegantly.
Her face looks so serious, and her brows are furrowed in concentration, but she doesn't mess up…not even once.
Once again, Adeline has amazed me beyond belief.
I swallow hard as I walk in a slow arc behind her. I'm completely enraptured as she plays, and this isn't the first time she's caught me in her seductive web. This woman has totally beguiled me in such a short time. It's almost as if she were made for me right out of my very own dream. Suddenly the cheesy line, where have you been all my life, comes to mind.
Her eyes are hooded, and it reminds me of when I took her for the first time, as if she's right on the edge of ecstasy.
I watch her skilled, delicate fingers fly over the keys, and I can feel my cock straining against my zipper. Fuck, I want her. And I'm starting to think I'll never be able to get enough of her.
"When did you start playing?" I ask softly, afraid of breaking her out of the trance she's in.
"When I was five," she whispers, and I can hear the sadness in her tone.
Five? Fuck, when I was five I was barely able to count to ten. My mother rarely sent me to school and never taught me how to do anything but steal and get her money to buy drugs.
Adeline and I obviously had very different upbringings. Even though hers would be considered glamorous to some, I have a feeling it wasn't. With a father like Salvatore Valenti, I don't see how it could have been. He's a ruthless, evil man, and I've heard the stories about how many of his daughters wound up in pieces on his doorstep. He has a reputation for being untouchable, and it only took his daughters dying for his enemies to realize how true that was.
"Do you enjoy playing?" I ask her.
"When I'm not forced to, yes," she answers solemnly.
I frown at her response. Does she mean when she was home, or does she feel like I'm forcing her now?
"My piano teacher always made me practice the same boring concertos over and over again until it felt like my fingers were going to bleed."
Okay. So maybe she doesn't mind playing for me then. I hope not, because, quite frankly, I could listen to her play forever. She's elegant and absolutely stunning as she sits perfectly on the edge of the bench, her fingers moving swiftly and her foot softly tapping the pedal below.
Not being able to stand it any longer, I reach out and touch her delicate neck. She flinches from my touch, having been so engrossed in the music that her hand slips off the keys, making a sour note.
She gasps and says, "I'm sorry," looking up at me with undiluted fear in her emerald eyes.
I frown, wondering why her messing up would cause such a reaction. The realization dawns on me slowly. Obviously perfection has been demanded of her for her entire life. She was locked away by her father, probably kept from the outside world.
And I'm doing the same exact things to her. The things shehates.
