“Careful,chérie,” I murmur, letting my hands linger a moment longer than necessary before releasing her.
She descends the ladder with flushed cheeks, clutching a stack of dusty hymn books against her chest.
The position pushes her breasts up, and I force my gaze back to her face before she catches me staring.
We work side by side at the long table, sorting through decades of music.
Every time our fingers brush passing a folder, that same spark ignites between us.
I watch her hands, those graceful fingers that create such beautiful pastries, and imagine them on my skin.
Would she touch me with the same careful precision she uses when decorating cakes?
Would she be bold or hesitant?
“You have beautiful hands,” I say, the words escaping before I can stop them.
Charlie looks up, startled. “What?”
“Your hands.” I reach across the table, my fingers hovering just above hers. “They’re artist’s hands. The way you work dough, the way you arrange flowers in the sanctuary. It’s like watching someone paint.”
Her cheeks flush deeper, and I notice the rapid pulse at her throat. “I never thought about it that way.”
“You should.” I let my fingers brush hers, just barely, watching her pupils dilate. “You create beauty without even trying.”
The air between us grows thick, charged with something dangerous and inevitable.
I’ve always been good at reading people, at understanding what they want before they know it themselves.
And Charlie wants this.
Wants me.
Even if she’s fighting it.
I stand and move to the piano, needing to channel this energy into something productive before I do something we’ll both regret.
Or maybe something we won’t regret at all.
“Come sit with me,” I say, patting the bench beside me.
She hesitates for just a moment before crossing the loft.
When she settles onto the bench, our thighs touch, and I feel that contact like a brand.
She’s wearing that cardigan she always has, the one that’s slightly too big, and I want to peel it off her shoulders, see what she’s hiding underneath.
My fingers find the keys, and I begin to play.
Not a hymn, nothing sacred or appropriate.
Something dark and sensual in a minor key, the kind of music that sounds like sin feels. My hands dance across the keys with the same precision I’d use on her skin, each note deliberate, building toward something inevitable.
Charlie watches my fingers, transfixed, and I watch her face. Her lips part slightly, her breathing shallow. The sexual tension is so thick I can taste it.
“Have you ever been to Paris?” I ask, my voice dropping lower, more intimate.
“No.” The word is barely a whisper. “I’ve never been anywhere.”
