“Press a key.”
“Any key?”
“Any key,” Max replied warmly.
With her index finger, Bo pressed the nearest key. It was the silkiest, smoothest thing she’d ever felt, and she marvelled at how — after a slight, almost undetectable resistance — the key moved down, a note suddenly streaming out into the air of the room.
“There,” she said, going to stand again. “I played the piano.”
Max pulled her back down once more. “Play another one,” he ordered, and she swallowed, moving her finger to another key and pressing down. At the same time, Max pressed a key near him, and a new sound filled the room. It was richer and more intense, two keys playing as one, and Bo made an amazed noise.
“A chord,” Max explained. “Harmony.”
“That was lovely,” Bo replied honestly. “It sounds so . . . is clean the word?”
“As good a word as any. I’m so used to playing full concertos and complicated pieces that I sometimes forget how beautiful one simple chord can be.”
“Can we try another one?”
He smiled at her. “Sure. Pick a key.”
She pressed another one close to her, and Max met it with one of his own. She made a noise of delight, and he smiled again.
“I don’t give lessons normally,” Max told her, and as though it were on instinct, he began to play a short tune. “But I like talking about music.”
“I wish I could do that,” Bo admitted, nodding to his hands. “Play a song.”
Max paused, and he looked at her intently. “Let me show you.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t ask you to do that. You said you don’t give lessons normally, and even if you did, you’re a soloist for the Berlin Philharmonic, with an eighty-five-thousand-pound piano. I don’t think I could afford your tuition.”
He grinned. “Let’s call this lesson an exchange for the Indian food you ordered then.”
“You’re underselling yourself.”
“Hey, I like to think if I ever gave lessons my opening rate would be a tikka masala and an onion bhaji.”
“Two onion bhajis,” Bo joked, and Max nudged her gently.
“I should write that down.” He paused for a moment, looking thoughtful. “Is it okay if I, uh, touch you?”
After all her blushes in his presence, this time she went a solid shade of scarlet. “Umm, why?”
“I want to show you something.”
There it was again, that thrill of both arousal and excitement. Bo nodded mutely, and Max stood, resettling his body so that he caged her, his thighs on either side of her own, the warmth of his chest on her back. They’d been closer than this before —he’s been inside you,Bo reminded herself — but this felt strangely more intimate. Her skin tingled and her breath came in shallow pants, and as Max wound his arms around her, he rested his chin on her shoulder.
“Put your hands on mine,” he whispered, and it was the most seductive thing Bo had ever heard. Silently she acquiesced, letting her fingers rest against Max’s. He began to move hishands over the keys, slowly and gently, so that she could feel the tendons of his fingers moving as he played. Gradually, he interlinked their fingers, and although the sound was awkward, although they hit wrong notes, Bo was still amazed by the sound they created together. She felt alive, her nerves sparking and thrumming at both the piano under her fingers and Max’s close proximity.
“You asked me what it was like,” Max spoke abruptly, but his hands didn’t still. He continued playing gently, Bo’s fingers moving with his own. “What it was like to do this. Tell me, what do you think?”
“It’s wonderful,” Bo replied honestly. “If I’d known it felt like this, I might have asked for lessons rather than Barbie dolls as a girl.”
She felt rather than saw Max’s smile. “It can be intense though,” he told her. “When you play as often as I do, when you lose yourself in the music and the moment . . . it can be hard to bring yourself back. Performing is hard. Performing can be all-encompassing. It can fill you with anxiety if you let it; an anxiety that stays with you if you don’t release yourself from it afterwards.”
“What do you do then? To bring yourself back? To get that release?”
At that, Max’s hands stopped.
