He laughs. “You’re so fucking adorable,” he murmurs. “Forty-eight days… at least I’ll be working through most of it, so maybe that’ll help pass the time.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I squeeze my eyes closed. The thought of sharing a bed with him always terrified me. I was scared he’d use me, that he’d be rough and hurt me, taking only what he needs with no care for my comfort. I assumed it’d be a new kind of punishment, and maybe in some ways it still will be, but I’m no longer scared in the same way I used to be.
“I have to go. I’ll try to call you every once in a while, alright? If you need anything at all, just text me. The time difference is a little inconvenient, but I’ll make it work.”
“Okay,” I murmur. “Have a safe flight, Dion.” For a moment, I consider asking him to text me once he’s safely landed, but then I think better of it. Part of me is still scared to inconvenience him. Drawing any attention to myself or asking for anything has always resulted in pain in the long run, and I don’t really want to risk it.
Dion seems to hesitate for a moment, but then he sighs. “Night, Faye. I’ll see you soon.”
He ends the call, and I stare at my phone, my heart heavy. I didn’t want to stop talking to him, and I’m not sure what to make of that.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Faye
Dion’s house is quiet as I walk from room to room, admiring the final result. There’s something so special about having decorated it myself. I never knew a house could feel like this — so warm.
Every time I set foot in here, I feel at peace. I know that technically, it’s just four walls, and they hold no mystical powers. Yet somehow, I feel safe here. It feels like my father can’t reach me, like the weight of my responsibilities is lessened. I’ve been using this house as an escape, telling him it was important I finish decorating before Dion gets back, and the reprieve it’s granted me has been invaluable.
The interior design in this home is a culmination of all my choices, and just being here brings me joy. In my father’s house, I wasn’t even allowed to pick the color of my desk chair, but I handpicked every last detail here, right down to the doorknobs. I spent weeks ensuring everything was perfect, and I felt like I was truly in my element.
I didn’t think anything else could bring me the peace playing the piano gives me, but I truly lost myself in design details. Maybe it was simply the aspect of being able to control my new living environment, and the hope that inspired, but it felt like more.
I pause in the living room, my gaze settling on the grand piano by the window. Grandma Anne had it delivered last week, and the state it had been in was painful to witness. She told me it’s Dion’s most prized possession, but it was so badly out of tune it was barely playable. I had it tuned and restored as best as I could, and it’s quickly become my favorite part of the house. I wonder why Dion let it deteriorate to that extent?
I can only assume it’s because he wasn’t around much, but somehow, I find that hard to believe. This piano probably cost more than my father’s house, and it was clearly custom made.
I sit down and lightly trace the tip of my fingers over the keys of the gorgeous and priceless Steinway, a rush of excitement thrumming through my veins as I begin to play Liszt’s La Campanella. A piano like this one was made to be played.
I smile as the melody fills the living room, the acoustics as good as they can be in a home. It took years of practice to be able to play this piece at all, and it’s since become my favorite. When life felt too hard and the weight of my family’s expectations became too heavy, I’d lose myself in piano pieces like this one. Playing La Campanella requires a certain amount of control, and being able to do it has always made me feel powerful. I sigh as I play the last note, my eyes falling closed. I wish I could feel this way every second of every day.
“Beautiful.”
I tense at the sound of Dion’s voice, my spine going rigid. I didn’t realize he’d be back so soon, and I certainly hadn’t expected to find him here tonight.
I inhale sharply and lift my gaze to find him leaning back against the wall behind me. “I… I’m sorry,” I murmur, frozen in place. I should get up and apologize properly, but somehow, I can’t do anything but stare at him. Once again, he’s dressed impeccably, and the light stubble on his face only enhances his sharp jaw. “I… I didn’t mean to touch your piano. I just… I… It’s just so stunning, and I couldn’t resist her,” I admit, my heart pounding wildly.
His gaze roams over me, but I can’t read that intense look in his eyes. He looks both haunted and mesmerized at once. This is exactly how he looked at me when he attended my concert, and he’s got me enraptured. No one has ever looked at me what way before — not even Eric.
“I know the feeling,” he whispers, almost as though he didn’t want me to hear but simultaneously couldn’t keep the words buried.
“Everything that’s mine is yours, Faye,” he murmurs, his voice louder this time. “Everything.”
He pushes off the wall and walks toward me, his steps slow, leisurely. He doesn’t stop until he’s right beside the piano bench I’m seated on, his eyes never leaving mine as he kneels down. “Play it again,” he murmurs, his hand wrapping around my waist. “For me, this time.” He inhales shakily and buries his face against my neck, stealing my breath. “Please, Faye.” His voice is a whispered plea — one I cannot deny.
My fingers tremble as I begin to play the piece again, and I miss a few notes. I expected him to reprimand me, or demand that I start over like my father always does, but instead, he softly kisses my neck, his grip tightening on my waist for a moment before his palm slowly slides down my stomach. His breath hitches, and he nips at my neck before sliding his hand further down, until he reaches the hem of my skirt.
His fingers slip underneath, and I tense, missing several notes as his hand slides up to my thigh. I squirm under his hold, confused by the way he’s making me feel. It’s just like when he kissed me in Hawaii. My body is heated, needy, and a soft whimper escapes my lips when he slips his fingers between my thighs, his thumb brushing against my lace underwear.
He keeps his hand there, and it takes all of me not to squirm in my seat in an attempt to bring him closer, to make his thumb brush against me just a little more.
“Sixteen days,” he murmurs, seemingly unbothered by how unrecognizable La Campanella has become. I’ve missed so many notes that I’m no longer sure what I’m playing, and for the first time in my life, I can’t bring myself to care. “Soon, I’m going to make you play the hardest piece you know, while I kneel between your pretty legs and taste your pussy.”
I hardly recognize the needy sound that escapes from deep in my throat, and Dion chuckles, his breath tickling my ear.
“Soon, you’ll think of me every time you play, and each time I hear the sound of a piano, I’ll think of you. My beautiful, delicious wife.”
My fingers still, and the room falls silent. Dion pulls away a little to look at me, his free hand gently cupping my cheek. He turns me to face him, and the desire in his eyes steals my breath. He looks at me like I’m the only thing he can see, like everything else fades away when he’s holding me like this.
His gaze drops to my lips, and he sighs. “I’ve thought of you every single day while I was away. When I close my eyes, I can just about imagine the way you taste… but I need a reminder, Faye. Won’t you remind me?”
Dion leans in just a touch, until his lips brush against mine, his touch hesitant, as though he wants to give me a chance to pull away. When I don’t, he groans and captures my lips, his movements soft but urgent.
I moan when his tongue brushes over my lips and open up for him instinctively. Dion’s hand wraps through my hair, and he grips tightly as he tangles his tongue with mine, tasting, devouring. I reach for him, my arms wrapping around his neck, and he pulls me closer, his touch as desperate as mine.
He captures my bottom lip between his teeth for a moment before letting go, his forehead dropping to mine, both of us panting. “Faye,” he moans. “I thought I’d be able to resist you if I saw you again, but I should’ve known better.”
He leans in and presses a soft lingering kiss to my cheek, partially on the edge of my mouth, and it takes all of me not to turn toward him and kiss him all over again. Every step of the way, he surprises me, and in turn, I end up surprising myself.
Dion kisses my forehead, and then he pulls away with a sweet, intimate smile. Something about that look in his eyes makes me smile back at him, and a moment that should’ve felt awkward instead feels natural.