She sits in the front row, glowing like a bright aria surrounded by dark instrumentals. Her red Versace dress follows the sinuous lines of her body from tits to toes, the thigh-high slit bordered with Swarovski rhinestones.
I know every detail because I handpicked it myself—just like I did all her clothes. But I chose this particular dress for a night just like this one, imagining her wearing it while watching me perform.
Despite my misgivings about her attending the concert, seeing her in that evening gown almost makes the risk worth it. Almost.
The parents of Le Moyne Academy students frequent these venues, and though Ivory drove separately with Stogie in tow, I worry about the wrong people making the right connections about our relationship. But she begged to be here, seducing me with Please on her lips. So I secured two front row seats and lined up her date.
Seated beside her, Stogie reluctantly wears the tux I bought for him, his big hand repeatedly rubbing his bald head, as if lamenting the absence of his beloved baseball cap. What a pair they make. Two musicians passionate about classical interpretation, and this is their first philharmonic performance?
I wonder if it meets their expectations. I’ll pay close attention to Ivory’s reaction after the show, as well as her responses to the other things I have planned for her in the coming months. She claims she wants to attend Leopold, that her ultimate dream is to sit where I’m sitting now, in a sold-out venue, shivering under the stage lights.
But what does she really know about the music world and the opportunities available to her? I intend to enlighten her. Then, if she still wants to go to Leopold, I have a plan to make that happen.
Two sections away, my parents occupy their season-ticket seats, heads bowed together in conversation. I asked them not to approach Ivory tonight, in order to maintain her disassociation from me outside of school.
Ivory and I willingly accept the risks of our entanglement. But it also puts my parents’ livelihoods in jeopardy. If I’m caught with her, no one would go to a doctor whose son is a convicted sex offender. And my mom? Leopold would burn her at the stake. So I’ve been holding Mom off from introductions.
The concert ends, and the next three weeks float by in a blissful fog of Ivory.
When Thanksgiving arrives, I finally give in to Mom’s demands to meet her.
As I drive my seventeen-year-old student to my parents’ house for turkey dinner, I’m on tenterhooks, not feeling any easier about the secrecy of our relationship.
The moment my mom opens the door and stares at my hand where it grips tightly to Ivory’s, my hackles go up.
Yes, I’m her teacher. Yes, I shove my cock in her, rigorously and with unadulterated depravity, morning and night. But the depth of my feelings for her goes so far beyond bullshit laws I really don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks.
But my parents worry. They’re also overly supportive and devoted to my happiness. That’s why I brought her here. She had a parent like mine once.
I want her to experience that kind of love again.
After dinner, I lean back in the couch, shifting the waistband of my skirt to ease my aching belly. I don’t know if it’s from my overindulgence of turkey, mashed potatoes, and buttery bread, or if I’m riddled with plain old nerves about being alone with Laura Marceaux.
“I see why he’s so taken with you.” She smiles at me warmly and reclines in the chair beside the couch.
My gaze wanders through the doorway of the kitchen and lands on the white t-shirt stretching across Emeric’s back. Sitting at the table with his dad, he straddles the back of a chair, deep in conversation. I can’t see his face or hear his words, but the deep notes in his voice vibrate through me, soothing me like a sensual lullaby.
He doesn’t wear briefs beneath his jeans, and right now, the denim hangs dangerously low on his hips, barely covering the hard muscles of his ass. If he leans over just a little more, my view will become a whole lot more distracting.
I clear my throat. “I’m taken with him, too.”
She swirls the red wine in her glass, studying me intently. It’s so strange to see Emeric’s blue eyes set in such a soft expression. She’s intimidatingly beautiful. Not a wisp of gray in her shoulder-length black hair. But there’s decades of wisdom in the way she looks at me, like she can read my thoughts and make sense of them.
She sips her wine. “You both seem happy. Maybe a little on edge, understandably, but happy. You’ve only been living together for…a month?”
“Five weeks.”
Does she think that’s insufficient? That five weeks isn’t long enough to measure the seriousness of a relationship?