The Earls take their leave as well, and Erik and I move to clean the kitchen.
“I’m going to run up and take a quick shower,” Tianna says as we clear the table.
Erik gives her a heated look. “Meet us in the music room when you’re done.”
She bites her lip and gives us a small smile before running up the stairs, the pups trailing behind her.
Chapter one hundred thirteen
Christianna
I come downstairs to the sound of the piano.
It is the song he composed this evening, the one born from the memory of my release. The notes are still raw, searching, edged with something restless. Erik sways with the music, lost in it, while Remy leans against the instrument, whiskey in hand, watching him with quiet focus.
They both look up when I enter.
Erik lets the final note hang, suspended in the air like a held breath.
“I was just replaying our morning,” he says.
He rises slowly and crosses to me. His eyes are darker than the music. Before I can ask what he means, he lifts me easily and sets me on the polished lid of the grand piano. The wood is cool beneath my bare thighs.
He steps back, taking me in.
“Let’s see if we can find that note again,” he murmurs.
He leans over me, bracing his hands on either side of my hips. When my legs instinctively press together, he glances down.
“Leave them open,” he says quietly.
Something in his tone makes my pulse spike. I let them part, slowly this time, teasingly.
“Then don’t look away,” I whisper.
His mouth curves faintly.
Remy sets his glass aside and moves between my knees. His hands trace up my thighs with deliberate patience. I feel Erik’s gaze on us both as he returns to the bench.
The melody begins again, softer now. Slower. Not the frantic climb from earlier. This is measured. Controlled.
Remy’s mouth finds me, and I exhale sharply, my fingers sliding over the slick surface of the piano lid for balance. The music shifts in response, slow, methodical, layering. Building.
“She’s climbing,” Erik murmurs.
But this time his hands falter for a fraction of a second on the keys.
That tiny break sends heat curling through me.
Remy adjusts without needing instruction, his touch deepening, steady and relentless. The music follows.
I reach for Erik’s wrist when he stands to join us, catching him before he can regain composure.
“Stay with me,” I breathe.
The song changes then. It loses its polish. The rhythm turns rougher, more urgent. Not symphonic. Not refined.
Real.
