Christine clamps her hand over my mouth, cutting off my words. The humming has stopped, and my pulse quickens with dread.
But a moment later, the Phantom continues humming, and we both exhale with relief.
I’m still hard beneath the blankets, but the temporary terror eased things enough for me to rearrange my priorities. Decisions now, sex later.
“So…run or stay?” I whisper to Christine. “I can get us a hotel, a place where we’ll be safe.”
“He’ll find me wherever I go. It’s disturbingly sweet and weirdly flattering how obsessed he is.” She gives me an apologetic wince. “How unhinged would it be if I said that I want to stay?”
“Deeply unhinged. But I don’t really blame you. He’s gorgeous.”
“Right? And there’s something about him…a fragility underneath all the bravado. When he was holding you, there in the hallway, I could only see part of his face, but there was something so tender about his mouth, his body language. A sweetness almost. I can’t describe it.”
“I believe you,” I murmur. “I felt it.”
“I want to know more about him. He told me some things, but I couldn’t really grasp it all.”
“So it’s decided, then. We stay a little longer, of our own free will.”
“Yes.” With a weary sigh, Christine pulls back the blankets on her side of the bed and slips beneath them. She scoots over to me, and I savor the sensation of her body against mine. It’s like a dream, the two of us snuggled here in the welcoming darkness, listening to soft music in the night, guarded by a dangerous angel.
***
When I wake again, it takes me a minute to remember where I am. Beyond the curtains, muffled by their thick drapery, I hear a rippling cascade of notes, the most exquisite piano solo I’ve ever listened to.
It’shim, of course. His playing is magnetic, irresistible. I can’t stay in the bed—Ihaveto go watch him play. The music summons me like a compulsive spell.
Slowly, I ease out of the sheets, careful not to disturb Christine. My glasses are sitting on a little ledge attached to the headboard, so I pick them up and put them on. I emerge from between the curtains and descend barefoot from the sleeping area onto the thick rugs covering the concrete floor of the main living space.
The Phantom sits at the piano, wearing only a pair of black sweatpants. I’m mesmerized, not only by the delicate melody but by the flexing muscles of his arms and hands as he plays. He looks like a masked god carved of pale marble, set into motion by magic. My fingers itch for my phone or my little idea notebook so I can write down a hundred different phrases that describe him in this moment. But both the phone and the notebook were in my pockets.
I suspect the Phantom has hidden my things somewhere, including my phone. He showed me mercy last night, but I doubt he’s going to let either of us go easily. As Christine said, he’s obsessed with her, and while he views me as a rival, he’s obviously attracted tome, too. And I’m hot for both of them. As if this situation needed to be any more complicated.
Now that I’m out of the curtained bed, his dark, woodsy fragrance hits me like a delicious breeze. Never have I been so deeply affected by a scent as I am by his. It’s wildly different from anything I’ve experienced in my lifetime.
Christine’s scent is odd, too. It’s human, yet it seems to change slightly every few days, and I can’t figure out why. It’s as if her core scent remains the same, but it’s constantly being overlaid with new notes.
The Phantom continues to play while I approach. He’s wearing a half mask today, and the beauty-loving poet in me appreciates the sharp angle of his jaw, the way his glossy black hair clings in soft waves around his ear, the strong lines of his throat, and the prominence of his Adam’s apple. He has the broad shoulders and tapered torso of an Olympic swimmer, complete with not only a killer set of abs but a row of defined little muscles along his side, visible when his arm is lifted to play.
He has discarded his gloves, and his strong, veined hands move masterfully along the keyboard. His technique and finger placement are unusual, but he plays with a brilliance that steals every question I was going to ask him and replaces my curiosity with a sense of awe.
Suddenly I recognize the melody underlying the chords and runs. It’s one of my songs fromSidewinder, interpreted in a way I would never have imagined.
He looks up at me, still playing.
There’s just enough room on the bench, so I sit down beside him, facing away from the piano. Looking at him. Listening as he transforms my song into something utterly new and far more enchanting.
Fingers still dancing, he leans toward me ever so slightly. I mirror the movement, angling my body so we’re nearly nose to nose, facing in opposite directions on the piano bench. His tongue traces his lips briefly, his forearms still moving, but the music is slower now, heavier, richer. My mouth hovers near his while he plays, his warm breath ghosting over my lips.
“Fucking kiss me, poet,” he says hoarsely.
I lean forward a fraction and meet his mouth.
The music never stops, but it takes on a fervent timbre, a tender urgency emphasized by the way his tongue surges into my mouth. I bring one hand up to clasp the back of his head, to ensure he can’t escape my kiss. My other hand slides over his thigh, between his legs. The song falters, but he persists even when I cup his length through the sweatpants. He’s big, but not so big that I couldn’t take him in my mouth, or elsewhere.
He groans, the sound humming through my lips and jaw. My answering smile breaks the kiss for a moment.
And then, several things happen at once.
