Chapter 4 #2
The interior of the barn is neither smelly nor rustic.
Luxurious rugs of various shapes, patterns, and sizes cover the floor.
Some of the rugs are crimson and gold, others are blue with creamy white tassels.
Brass tripods hold censers that unfurl scented smoke into the air, opening the way to a decadent world of candlelight and sultry music, of couches and cushions, of mattresses cloaked in smooth sheets and soft woven blankets.
There are several low, square tables, some with game pieces, cards, and dice scattered over them, others bearing platters of food, trays of cups, and decanters filled with liquor.
Some of the guests are clustered around the games, while others laugh and drink.
A girl plays a violin languidly, her bare legs draped over a man’s lap.
A young man plays a pipe while two other men stroke his chest and thighs.
There’s a piano off to the right, which piques my interest. Mama taught me to play, and I used to practice every day for years until we had to sell the piano.
I drift toward the instrument instinctively, as if it’s a refuge, an old friend.
The bench is empty, draped in a gauzy bit of scarlet cloth.
Parts of the room are swathed in deeper shadow, but I’m too nervous to inspect those shadows more closely, fearing the things I might see. I want sex, and yet I’m terrified of it, too. I don’t know if that’s normal.
Music is seduction, but music is also safety. The piano offers me a way to nestle between the two, to find refuge until Beresford seeks me out.
Without bothering to remove my cloak, I sit down and place my fingertips against the keys.
For a moment, I listen to the merged melody of the pipe and the violin, and then I join them with a flutter of twinkling notes.
Behind me I hear murmurs of delight as the other guests notice the addition to the music, and I smile, feeling my rapid heartbeat ease a little. I can contribute something here.
The other musicians and I meander together through melodies that are akin to each other, floating in the same key, harmonizing, echoing, wandering and whispering. I lose myself in the music, in memories of how much I used to enjoy playing.
Until a large, muscular hand covers both my eyes. I smile, recognizing the pine and citrus scent. Though I can’t see, my fingers never falter on the keys.
With his other hand, Beresford drags my hood from my head, revealing my hair. His mouth brushes the curls by my ear. “I thought I recognized your soul in that music.”
My breath hitches. “You seem to think you know me. May I remind you that this is only our third meeting?”
“Some people only need a few encounters to understand the fundamentals of each other’s being.” His fingers slide away from my eyes, trailing along my cheek. “Your skin is exquisitely soft.”
“Thank you.” I’m trembling. Why am I trembling? I wanted this… I want this. I just need a little courage to follow through with it. “I need some wine.”
“Of course.” He plants a bearded kiss on the side of my neck, and a thrill ripples between my legs.
His presence disappears for a moment, and I take the opportunity to unfasten my cloak with shaking fingers and let it drop to the floor by the bench.
Beresford returns with a corked bottle, which he sets atop the piano. “If you would allow me.”
I nod without knowing what I’m agreeing to, and before I can rethink my response, his massive hands close around my waist, and he lifts me, swinging me around and setting me on top of the piano. He catches my skirt in his hands, pushes it up, and tucks it around my hips so both my legs are bare.
“You have fucking gorgeous legs.” He grabs my foot, unbuckles first one shoe, then the other, and tosses them aside.
Then he places my bare toes on the piano keys and begins playing around them, a bold, tempestuous melody that remains both majestic and coherent despite the way his fingers have to dance around the keys where my toes are perched.
I watch his face while he plays—the little dent between his dark brows, the way he bites his plush lower lip occasionally, the way the candlelight glows on his high cheekbones. The music seems to pour from somewhere deep inside him, some violent, glorious, passionate place that I ache to visit.
His loose white shirt is open partway down his chest, revealing flecks of blue hair across his massive pectorals. Unless he dyes the hair on his chest, the color must be natural. I’ve never heard of anyone whose hair was naturally blue.
What are you? I want to ask him that, but it feels like the wrong question, and I’m not sure that it really matters to me. All I care about is the skill and passion with which he pounds and rattles the keys. The vibration of his music flows through my body as I sit atop the instrument.
Emboldened by the tumultuous melody, I place one of my feet on each of his shoulders. They look so small against those mountains of bone and muscle. As he moves his arms to play, I can feel the shift of sinew beneath my toes.
In this position, my center is open to him, nothing but a bit of thin material hiding me from his sight. He’s looking there, between my legs, with so much lustful violence in his eyes that I can’t breathe. I turn coward and remove my leg from his left shoulder, hooking it over my knee instead.
He keeps playing, ducks his head to kiss the side of my knee. “Have some wine.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” I tug the cork out of the bottle and take a sip. It’s delicious, so I drink deeply.
“Selfish girl,” says Beresford. “I want some.” But he doesn’t stop playing, only leans forward and opens his mouth.
“Your shirt,” I object. “The wine might spill and soil it.”
“I intend to be an absolute mess by the end of the night,” he says. “Help me get started, won’t you?”
He tips his head up, his fingers still manipulating the keys. With a low laugh, I pour a little of the wine into his mouth.
He swallows and shoots me a daring look. “More, and messier.”
“You asked for it.” I pour the wine sloppily, letting some of it splash into his mouth while the rest of it trails through his beard, runs down his throat, and trickles over his broad chest. The lines of red wine glittering on his skin are the most erotic thing I have ever seen.
I dump more wine into my own mouth, then into his again.
He keeps playing, while some of the guests gather around us, dancing, laughing, drinking.
The first man who danced with me at the dinner party comes to the piano and offers me a strawberry dipped in chocolate.
After taking a bite, I lift his hand to my mouth and lick the traces of chocolate from his fingers.
His pupils dilate, and the other guests are raucous in their approval.
The attention pleases me. Wine-warm and blissful from the music, I push the sleeves of my dress off my shoulders, baring them, and I tug my neckline lower, until my nipples are barely concealed.
I stroke Beresford’s beard with my toes while he plays, then push against his beautiful mouth with my foot.
He watches me with the devouring hunger of a bear, a lion, a wolf—some mighty untamed creature of the forest.
I’ve had enough wine to be perfectly at ease without losing my faculties, so I don’t drink any more, but I dole drinks out to others, pouring crimson, gold, and amber liquid into the mouths of lovely women and handsome men.
I watch it trickle over perfect breasts, glorious chests, and bare bellies as clothing begins to leave bodies, piece by piece.
I set an empty bottle beside me on top of the piano, and one of the girls hands a fresh bottle up to me. As I’m taking it, I notice a tall young lord pulling down his trousers, baring his cock for the woman kneeling in front of him. The next second, her mouth sheathes it from my view.
Reality snaps into focus. I knew where all this teasing and drinking was headed, but it’s actually happening now, right in front of my eyes.
Things I’ve pieced together from my mother’s instruction, from brief mentions in books, or from stray conversations—they’re unfolding in this barn, among Beresford’s guests.
Two girls are kissing each other on a couch, hands cupping each other’s breasts.
A woman leans back against pillows, letting a man climb on top of her.
I watch her legs bend on either side of his hips while his naked ass quivers and surges. He’s thrusting. He’s inside her.
The rum bottle almost slips from my hand, and some of its contents splash onto my leg.
My dance partner, who is still standing next to the piano, bends down and strokes my bare skin with his tongue, lapping up the amber liquid.
I inhale, shocked by how good it feels. Impulsively, I touch the man’s tight black curls.
Beresford strikes a discordant clash of notes, and I look at him, startled.
“I think I’m tired of playing. Do you play?” he asks the man who licked me.
“I do, but not well.”
“Excellent. Take over.” Beresford lunges off the bench and hauls the man into his place despite his faint protest. Then Beresford scoops me off the top of the piano with one giant arm. I yelp in shock, still clutching the rum bottle.
“Beresford!” I gasp, writhing a little as he carries me through the room, toward a heavy crimson curtain. He sweeps it aside, revealing three half-naked people. When he barks, “Out,” they scatter, and Beresford tumbles me onto the deep sofa they vacated.
Then he storms out again, and the curtain falls into place behind him.
What just happened?
I look around the cozy space. I think it was formerly a stall, but there are so many blankets, tapestries, and beaded rugs that I can’t be sure.
Stained-glass lanterns dangle from brass chains overhead, casting shards of multicolored light.
The sofa smells like roses and jasmine, the perfume of a previous occupant.