“C’est dommage.” I transition into something softer, more romantic. “Paris in the spring is like nowhere else. The Seine at sunset, the way the light turns everything golden. The cafés where you can sit for hours watching people fall in love.”
I describe the city in vivid detail, painting pictures with words the way I paint pictures with music.
My accent thickens as I speak, French phrases slipping in naturally.
I tell her about the hidden gardens, the bookshops along the river, the way the whole city smells like fresh bread and possibility.
“I’d take you to Sainte-Chapelle,” I continue, my fingers still moving across the keys. “The stained glass there makes our windows look like children’s drawings. When the sun hits them just right, the whole chapel glows like it’s on fire.”
Charlie leans closer, drawn in by my words, by the music, and the promise of beauty she’s never experienced. Her shoulder presses against mine, and I can feel her heart racing.
“The music,” I say, transitioning into something even more sensual. “Paris has music everywhere. Street performers on every corner, opera houses, jazz clubs in basements where the air is thick with smoke and desire.”
Her hand rests on the bench between us, and I let my pinky finger brush against hers.
Such a small touch, barely anything, but it feels monumental.
“I’d show you everything,” I murmur, my eyes locked on hers now instead of the keys. “Every beautiful thing the city has to offer. Every secret corner, every hidden treasure.”
The music builds, my fingers flying across the keys with increasing intensity. Charlie’s breathing matches the rhythm, her chest rising and falling rapidly. I can see her nipples hardening beneath her dress, and the knowledge that I’m affecting her this way makes my own body respond.
I imagine laying her across this piano bench, pushing that sundress up her thighs, discovering what she wears underneath.
Would she be bold or shy?
Would she let me worship her the way she deserves?
“Elijah,” she breathes, and my name in her voice does something to me.
I lean closer, my lips nearly brushing her ear. “Yes,chérie?”
“I—” She stops, swallows hard. “The music is beautiful.”
“So are you.” The words hang between us, honest and dangerous.
Her hand finds mine on the keys, her fingers threading through mine, stopping the music.
The silence is deafening.
We’re so close now that I can count the freckles dusting her nose, can see the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes.
I’m going to kiss her. I know I shouldn’t.
This will complicate everything because we haven’t fully talked with Adrian yet, but I’m going to do it anyway.
My free hand rises to cup her face, my thumb tracing her cheekbone.
Footsteps echo on the spiral staircase.
We freeze, our faces inches apart, her hand still tangled with mine on the piano keys.
The footsteps grow louder, deliberate, and I know who it is before he appears.
Adrian emerges at the top of the stairs, and the look on his face makes me raise my eyebrows in surprise.
His gray eyes are dark, stormy, locked on the scene before him.
Charlie and I on the piano bench, bodies angled toward each other, the intimate atmosphere so thick it’s almost suffocating.
