Chapter 17
Rafe
Music had always been my confessional. When words failed me, when the weight of expectation and guilt became too much, my fingers found the keys and translated all that broken shit into something almost beautiful.
I'd been in the music room for hours, losing myself in Chopin's Nocturne in C-sharp minor, a piece Gabriel had loved.
The irony wasn't lost on me—playing my dead brother's favorite composition after finally telling Cecelia about him.
It felt like opening a vein and letting the poison seep out, note by painful note.
My eyes were closed, my body swaying slightly as my hands moved across the piano from muscle memory alone. Every chord progression, every subtle shift in dynamics was etched into my bones after years of repetition. This piece in particular was like breathing.
I'd left Cecelia to rest after our conversation about Gabriel.
The rawness of sharing that part of myself with her had left me feeling exposed, like I'd peeled back a layer of skin and was waiting for the air to hit the wounds.
So I'd retreated here, to the one place where I could process the tangle of emotions without words.
My fingers faltered suddenly, a discordant note breaking through the melody as awareness prickled along my spine. I wasn't alone anymore.
I opened my eyes and turned toward the doorway.
Cecelia stood there, her body framed by the entrance to my sanctuary.
Her hair was wet from the shower, dark strands clinging to her neck and shoulders.
She wore simple black dance tights and an oversized gray t-shirt that hung off one shoulder, revealing the delicate line of her collarbone.
No makeup, no jewelry, no armor of any kind—just Cecelia, stripped bare of pretense.
And fuck me, she was stunning. The kind of beautiful that made my lungs forget how to pull in air.
"Sorry," she said, her voice soft as she took a step back. "I didn't mean to interrupt."
My hands hovered over the keys, suddenly unable to remember what came next in a piece I could play in my sleep. "You're not."
She glanced down at the piano, then back at me, uncertainty written across her features. It was a new look for her, this hesitation. I was used to her sharp edges, her quick retorts, her unwavering confidence, not this vulnerable creature who looked ready to bolt.
"I heard the music," she explained, tucking a damp strand of hair behind her ear. "It was beautiful."
"It's Chopin." My voice sounded rough to my own ears. "Nocturne in C-sharp minor."
She nodded as if that meant something to her, though I doubted it did. "I'll let you get back to it." She started to turn away, and something in my chest constricted.
"Wait." I shifted on the bench, patting the space beside me. "Stay. If you want."
Surprise flashed across her face as she hesitated for a moment longer before crossing the room. I watched her approach, struck by the fluid grace of her movements. Dance was written into every line of her body, every step a carefully controlled placement of weight and balance.
The moment she slid onto the bench beside me, the air between us changed—charged with a current I could almost taste on my tongue.
The scent of her shampoo hit me first, something citrusy and clean that made my mouth water.
Then the warmth of her, radiating through the thin cotton of her shirt where her arm pressed against mine.
My skin prickled with awareness at every point of contact.
"Do you play often?" she asked, her eyes on the sheet music I'd long since abandoned for memory.
I shrugged, acutely conscious of how the movement caused our arms to brush. "When I need to think. When I need not to think. When words aren't enough."
"Like after talking about Gabriel." It wasn't a question.
"Yeah." I let my fingers rest on the keys without pressing down. "Sometimes playing his favorite pieces makes me feel closer to him. Sometimes it just reminds me that he's gone."
Eyes fixed on my hands, she nodded. "Which was it today?"
"Both."
She reached out tentatively, her finger hovering above a key before pressing down. "I never learned to play," she admitted. "Always wanted to, but dance took up all my time."
Without thinking, I covered her hand with mine. Her skin was soft, her fingers delicate beneath my larger ones. "Here," I said, guiding her hand. "Try this."
I positioned her fingers over the keys for a simple C major chord and pressed down gently. She smiled, a genuine smile that transformed her face and sent something warm unfurling in my chest.
"Again," she said, and I obliged, guiding her through the chord once more.
I should have been focusing on the music, on the simple lesson, but all I could register was her proximity. The way her shoulder pressed against mine. The damp tendrils of hair curling against her neck. The subtle shift of her body each time she leaned forward to reach the keys.
"Like this?" she asked, trying the chord on her own, her fingers pressing too lightly to produce much sound.
"Almost." I covered her hand again, applying more pressure. "You need to be firm."
Her gaze snapped to mine, and the air between us grew dense and heavy with possibility. I was acutely aware of how close our faces were, how I could count each individual eyelash still spiky from her shower, how her pupils dilated slightly as we held eye contact.
A drop of water fell from her hair onto her bare shoulder, trailing down her skin beneath the neckline of her shirt. My eyes tracked its path, and my throat went dry.
"You're still wet," I said, voice rough.
Her breath caught. "Just from the shower."
Without conscious decision, I reached up and brushed a damp strand of hair away from her face. My fingers grazed her cheek, then slid to the back of her neck to dig into her impossibly soft skin.
Suspended in that moment of contact, we both froze. Her pulse jumped beneath my fingertips, a frantic rhythm that matched my own. Her lips parted slightly, and her eyes darkened, and something inside me shattered.
I leaned in slowly, giving her time to pull away, to say no, to remind me that this wasn't part of our arrangement. But she didn't move, didn't speak, just watched me with those enormous green eyes that had haunted my dreams since the first time I saw her.
When our lips met, it was barely a touch, just a whisper of contact. She tasted like mint toothpaste and something sweeter underneath, something uniquely her. For a heartbeat, she remained deathly still, and I thought I'd misread everything.
Then she made a small sound in the back of her throat, and pressed forward.
The kiss deepened instantly, any pretense of hesitation burning away under the heat of contact.
Her lips parted beneath mine, and I took the invitation, greedily sliding my tongue against hers.
The taste of her, the warmth, the wet slick of her mouth against mine sent blood rushing south with dizzying speed.
My hand slipped into her hair, fingers tightening to angle her head to deepen the kiss further. Her hands found my shoulders, fingers digging in as if she needed an anchor. I wanted to consume her, to crawl inside her skin and live there.
Breaking the kiss, I trailed my mouth along her jaw, down to the pulse point at her throat where I could feel her heartbeat racing beneath my lips. "You have no idea," I murmured against her skin, "how long I've wanted to do this."
Shuddering, she whispered, "Show me."
Those two words snapped what remained of my restraint.
In one smooth motion, I shifted and pulled her onto my lap.
My mouth found hers again, hungrier now, more demanding.
My hands slid down her back to her hips, fingers digging into the firm muscle there as I guided her into a slow rock against me.
"Fuck," I breathed against her mouth. "You taste so good."
Her head fell back as I trailed kisses down her neck, tongue tracing the hollow of her throat.
"Rafe," she gasped, her hips finding a rhythm against mine that made thinking nearly impossible.
I slid one hand beneath her shirt and smoothed it up her side until I reached the curve of her breast. Her skin was impossibly soft, like warm silk beneath my fingers. And when my thumb brushed across her nipple, she jerked in my lap as a broken sound escaped her.
"Sei così bella," I murmured against her throat, switching to Italian without conscious thought. "Voglio sentirti venire per me." You're so beautiful. I want to feel you come for me.
Her movements grew more desperate, her breathing erratic as she ground down harder against my erection.
I guided her with my hands on her hips, setting a pace that had us both panting.
The bench creaked beneath us, but I barely registered the sound over the rush of blood in my ears and the soft, needy noises she made with each roll of her hips.
"That's it," I encouraged, my voice a rough growl against her skin. "Take what you need from me."
Her fingers tangled in my hair, pulling almost painfully as her movements became more frantic. I could feel the tension building in her body, the way her thighs trembled on either side of mine.
"I can't—" she started, her voice breaking.
"You can," I insisted, one hand sliding lower to grip her ass and pull her harder against me while the other hand continued to tease her nipple. "Let go for me, Cecelia. I want to see you fall apart."
Her entire body went rigid, her mouth opening on a silent scream as she shuddered against me. I held her firmly, guiding her through the waves of pleasure I could feel rippling through her.
As the tension drained from her body, she collapsed against my chest and pressed her forehead against my shoulder.
I wrapped my arms around her, holding her close as her breathing gradually steadied.
My own arousal was a throbbing demand between us, but I ignored it, focusing instead on the weight of her in my arms, the scent of her hair, and the warmth of her breath against my neck.
For several minutes, neither of us spoke. The only sound in the room was our combined breathing and the occasional creak of the bench as I shifted slightly to accommodate her weight more comfortably.
Eventually, she lifted her head, her eyes meeting mine with a mix of wonder and uncertainty that made my chest ache.
I'd crossed a line. One I had no intention of stepping back from.
And based on the way she was looking at me—lips swollen from my kisses, cheeks flushed, eyes wide and vulnerable—I wasn't the only one.