The elevator doors slid shut with a soft metallic whisper, sealing us into the small space that suddenly felt electric with unspoken promises. My body still hummed from our night at the club—from his hands on me, from the rawness of what we'd shared. The memory of him losing control, of that perfect mask finally cracking open to reveal the hunger beneath, played on repeat in my mind. Pressing my thighs together, I was grateful for the wall I could lean against as my knees threatened to betray me all over again.
"You're quiet," Rafe observed, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the confined space and into my bones.
Mouth suddenly dry, I attempted to swallow. "Just thinking."
"About?"
My eyes met his in the mirrored wall of the elevator, and heat rushed to my face. "You know what about."
A hint of that dimple appeared as his lips twitched. "Tell me anyway."
Man, how could he be so composed? Just an hour ago he'd been shaking above me, coming undone in the most spectacular way. Now he stood there in his perfectly tailored clothes, looking for all the world like a man who hadn't just fucked my tits in a private room at an exclusive sex club.
"I'm thinking about how quickly you put yourself back together," I admitted as I turned to face him. "How easy it is for you to slip back into Rafael de Luca, controlled businessman, when I'm still..." I gestured vaguely at myself, unable to articulate the jumble of sensations still coursing through me.
His eyes darkened as they traveled down my body, lingering in places that made my skin prickle with awareness. "Trust me," he said, voice dropping lower, "there's nothing easy about it."
The elevator dinged, announcing our arrival at the penthouse, and I nearly jumped. Rafe placed his palm against the small of my back as the doors opened, guiding me forward down the hallway toward our door.
When we entered, the familiar space felt different somehow, as if our experiences tonight had altered the very air around us.
The penthouse stretched before us—vast, elegant, and suddenly too quiet. I wasn't ready for the night to end, wasn't ready to retreat to our bedroom and process everything that had happened between us. The thought of lying in that big bed, separated by our usual wall of pillows after everything we'd shared, felt wrong somehow.
"Play something for me," I blurted out before I could overthink it.
Rafe paused in the middle of removing his jacket, shoulders tensing slightly. "Now?"
"Yes." I stepped closer. "Please. I want to hear you play."
For a moment, I thought he would refuse. His jaw tightened, that muscle jumping beneath his skin in what I was recognizing as a tell that he was wrestling with something internally.
But then he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the tip of my nose, a gesture so unexpectedly tender it stole my breath. "Come on, then," he said, taking my hand in his.
His hand was warm around mine, his thumb occasionally brushing against my knuckles as we walked. It was such a simple touch, nothing compared to the intimacies we'd already shared, yet it sent shivers racing up my arm.
The music room was bathed in city light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The grand piano dominated the center, its polished surface gleaming in the low light like a black mirror.
Rafe released my hand to lift the keyboard cover, his movements reverent in a way that revealed how much this instrument meant to him. He settled onto the bench and patted the space beside him, a silent invitation I couldn't refuse.
I slid in beside him, acutely aware of how our thighs pressed together, how his shoulder brushed mine when he shifted to position his hands over the keys.
"Any requests?" he asked, fingers hovering over the ivory.
"Surprise me."
A mischievous glint appeared in his eyes, and before I could prepare myself, his fingers bounced across the keys in a jarringly familiar tune—"Chopsticks," played with exaggerated flourishes that made me snort with laughter.
"Really?" I smacked his shoulder in mock offense. "That's what you're giving me? I ask for a private performance and I get a song most eight-year-olds can play?"
"You said 'surprise me,'" he pointed out, still butchering the childish melody with dramatic hand movements. "Consider yourself surprised."
I rolled my eyes and made a show of standing up. "I'm going to bed. Clearly, this was a waste of—"
His hand shot out and caught my wrist, tugging me back down with just enough force to make me land against him. "Don't go," he said, his fingers lingering on my skin a moment longer before releasing me. "I'll be serious now. Promise."
He flexed his fingers, closed his eyes for a brief moment as if centering himself, and then his hands descended on the keys. The difference was immediate and startling. The playful atmosphere evaporated as the first notes rang out—deep, resonant, and filled emotion.
I sat transfixed as his fingers moved across the keys with practiced precision, coaxing a hauntingly beautiful melody from the instrument. Gone was the teasing man from moments ago, replaced by someone lost in the music and transported to a place I couldn't follow.
