Breathe (Songs of Submission #10)(11)

Scales.

All f*cking day and night.

Monica’s voice went straight from her throat to my higher self. Its vibrations were coded to the wavelengths of my heart.

But scales? All the f*cking time? No words. No melody. Just up up up up and down down down down. Do re mi fa so la ti do without the cheerful little animals and sunshine. Or, more specifically, without a point.

“Monica?” I said, peeking into her studio.

She finished the scale. “Yeah.”

“I’m going to lunch with Eddie.”

“Okay.”

She didn’t just say okay though. She ran though half a scale to do two syllables.

I loved her. I’d give my life for her. And she looked like a queen just standing in the middle of the room with her mouth open and her hand clutching that stupid f*cking fork. But, man, I would have preferred a smart-ass answer to the boring earnestness of those notes.

“There’s a thing in March,” I said. “In New York. It’s a contest for money for the Arts Foundation. It’s more for the prestige than anything. All the guys are going.”

She tapped her fork and put the handle to her ear, keying, then answered. “When is it in March?”

I gritted my teeth, because she didn’t ask the question. She sang “When” to do, “is” to ray , “it” to mi , “in” to fa , “Ma” to so , she took a second “Ma,” and added “rch” to la . It wasn’t lost on me that she would have normally asked “When in March?” but needed the extra syllables for the full scale.

“First weekend,” I replied, and she tapped the fork. It vibrated. She opened her mouth to answer, but I couldn’t bear it. “If you answer me in scales, I’m putting a collar on that pretty little throat.”

She stood there, straight as an arrow, fork at her chest as if in prayer. I felt half an ounce of regret and a gallon or more of desire. The throat. I hadn’t had my dick down it in too long. It had become a prized piece of real estate, and I was losing a bidding war.

Then, like a child testing her limits, she tapped the fork.

I thought I made it to her in two steps. I didn’t know what I was thinking, but I put my hand under her chin and pressed myself against her.

“You’re pushing me.” I was gentle on her neck, but she couldn’t move.

“I have something the first few days in March,” she said.

Those were her words. And though she was telling me all kinds of truths, the words were a lie because she wasn’t talking about her schedule. What she was actually saying was I’m not scared of you .

Which was fine. I didn’t want her to be scared. I just wanted her to stop answering in vocal exercises. I wanted her to submit. Abdicate. All of it. To me. And she hadn’t in a week. I’d topped her, but it hadn’t been that . She was a china doll.

I wanted to own her again, but since she started with this teacher, she’d been distracted. Yes, I respected her talent. She needed her career and her work to thrive as a human. But I was getting frustrated, and it came out when I spoke into her cheek in the low register of a command.

“You have plenty in March. You’ll be so sore you won’t be able to walk. But that first weekend, you show where I tell you to show, or I take you on a leash.”

Her jaw set against my fingertips, but her eyelids fell a fraction of an inch. I got my free hand under her skirt. She had garters on, and stockings that stopped an inch below her beautiful cunt. I short work of getting around her lace panties.

“You’re wet. Again.” I drew my fingers along the length of her wetness and back. “Was it the leash? The collar? Or knowing how I can hurt you?”

“You can hurt me after opening day.” A smirk played on the edges of her lips, then she gasped when I put my fingers inside her. “Save it up,” she groaned.

“I’m going to destroy you.”

Two strokes, and she clenched and came, toes curling so hard her shoe fell off. But she didn’t scream. She didn’t say a word. I put my fingers in her cunt and felt it tighten and release, then tighten again as I rubbed her clit with the heel of my hand. She threw her head back, exposing her bare neck.

That throat. The length of it. The curves and rises no less than a topography of possession.

I let her go.

She straightened her skirt, looked at me, and tapped her fork. “ Do do do. Do do re. Do do mi —”

“What’s that?” I asked, grinding my teeth at this new pattern of offense.

“Intervals. You like?” She raised an eyebrow.

I was going to respect her talent and her music. I was going to give her space. I was going to be a supportive and good partner no matter what. Another six days. But she wouldn’t be finished with the word brave before I bent and broke her.

twelve.

MONICA

Mrs. Yuan hadn’t come to the club. I felt both good and bad about that. Sherri was there with a little klatch of Asian girls, but she didn’t look at me. I could only assume she was there to report back.

From the stage, I saw Jonathan sitting to the side with Leanne, who was talking on her cell phone while picking at her shoe, and Maura, my new agent. Eddie was there. Darren’s buddies were with his husband, Adam. Mostly though, the Thelonius Room was packed with strangers. Not fifty-five thousand of them, but scale wasn’t the issue. Singing this bitch of a song in front of anyone was the issue.