Dark Notes(54)

Christ, this girl… She’s my music, my place in this life, my part in it all.

I move in and touch my lips to hers. “You’re going to follow me inside.” I slide a hand into her thick hair. “You’re going to tell me everything I want to know.” I tighten my grip and yank her head back. “Then I’m going to test the depth of your trust. Say yes.”

Her eyes flicker with vulnerability and desperation. Then she blinks, breathes, and relaxes in my hold. “Yes, Mr. Marceaux.”





I follow Mr. Marceaux through the wide, echoing passages of his monstrosity of a mansion. Between the questions I’ll have to answer and whatever punishment that will follow, my legs threaten to buckle with each step.

He touches my lower back and steers me forward. Oddly, the tremors in his hand give me strength. Like maybe he’s as freaked out as I am.

His fingers have been shaking since he climbed into the GTO, his breaths fluctuating in volume and tempo all the way here. I’m well-acquainted with the indicators of a man in need, but this feels different, safer somehow. Maybe it’s because he’s not attacking me like the other men I’ve encountered. Or perhaps it’s because the hand on my back is guiding me, not forcing me.

We pass a living room filled with plush leather furniture, a hearth room with more couches, and a massive kitchen gleaming with stainless steel. Compared to the gloomy Victorian Gothic exterior of stone and steeples, the inside is warm and bright, flaunting the kind of luxuries I’m not sure a teacher’s salary can afford.

Wrought iron chandeliers, long heavy draperies, shiny wood floors, black damask wallpaper, it’s all so old-world-ish yet modern at the same time. Such a profound reflection of his personality. He seems like such an old noble soul in the sense that he loves knowledge and truth—those pursuits interest him far more than the latest gossip or high-tech car. But after two months of lectures, I’ve learned he also appreciates the transience of life, the fleeting trends, and the way people and music change over time.

After countless rooms, a spiraling staircase that wraps around the atrium, and a maze of corridors, I’ve lost my bearings. Why would a single man need so much space?

I really don’t care how much money he has or where it comes from. I’m more interested in the man himself, what he has planned, and where he’s taking me.

“Mr. Marceaux?”

“It’s Emeric.” He stops, turns me to face him, and strokes the pad of his thumb across my cheek. “I’m Mr. Marceaux when I’m your teacher.”

His touch races a shiver across my skin and electrifies my heart. “If you’re not my teacher right now, what are you?”

The mechanisms in his watch tick beside my ear as he slides his fingers through my hair and holds my head in the frame of his hands. “I don’t think you’re ready to hear that.”

Maybe not, but I think he’s showing me. As I stare into the stormy blue of his gaze, the wall sconces, arched doorways, and dark woods in the hallway all melt into oblivion. He’s wearing his dead serious face, the one that says I want to f*ck you and so much more.

That look in his eyes turns my insides upside down, pulling my breaths through a diaphanous haze of happiness and confusion. He doesn’t temper the hunger in his expression, but doesn’t act on it, either. It’s as if he’s letting it build naturally while keeping it contained. As if he’s enjoying the way it makes him feel without thrusting it against me.

I could stand here and stare at him all night, at his model-perfect features, the barely-there stubble on his sculpted jaw, and the heat dancing in his eyes. My fingertips tingle to run through his hair again. Softly, though, unlike the way he stabs his hands through the black strands when he’s angry.

He’s just…so…damn gorgeous. Way too hot to be a teacher. But it’s his self-control I’m attracted to the most. Funny that, since he showed zero restraint with Prescott. Or maybe he did? Prescott is still breathing.

When it comes to me, though, his control is evident in his tight expression and even tighter breaths. He wants, but he doesn’t take. That alone makes me feel more drawn to him.

I grip the gathered sleeves at his elbows and glide my fingers along his sinewy forearms. “Can I bandage your hands?”

“Later.” His face moves an inch closer.

“I don’t get you, Mr. Mar— Emeric. You went from spankings to five weeks of nothing to swinging fists to…” I hesitantly reach up and touch his warm, chiseled cheek. “To looking at me like this. Why?”

“Well, something happened recently.” He gives me a half-smile. “About ten minutes ago.” He turns his face toward my hand and presses his lips to my wrist. “I had an epiphany.”

In the car? My heart rate jumps. “What do you mean?”

“I realized I’ve been in denial since…” His gaze lowers to my mouth momentarily then returns to my eyes. “For a while.”

“Denial about what?”

He steps closer, strokes his hands through my hair, and holds my cheek against his chest. “Let’s not give it a name yet.”

Love pops into my mind, unbidden, quickly followed by hug. Instinctively, my arms wrap around his torso. My hands grip the back of his wool waistcoat, and muscle by muscle, I relax against him. His fingers trail down my spine, shooting shivers from my head to my toes. The circle of his arms tightens, and every molecule inside me becomes hyper-aware of every inch of his body.