Chapter 34 Verity
THIRTY-FOUR
Verity
I’m not sure how we go from nearly fucking on his shiny kitchen surfaces to eating and laughing about the crew’s on-set antics, but it’s a seamless transition. The chicken thing, as Monk called it, with rice pilaf, is delicious, and it takes me no time to get through my generous helping.
“I know you’ve noticed all the pining and longing going on between Neevah and Canon,” Monk says, setting his fork down. “But did you know Evan has a crush on our costume designer?”
“Linh?” My eyes go wide. “She’s married.”
“Yup. She doesn’t know he’s alive. Not like that anyway, but she’s a beautiful woman. I can see how he got… distracted. It’ll pass.” He stands and nods to my empty plate on the counter. “You done?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
He gathers our dishes and walks them across the kitchen.
“You know who her father is, right?” he asks, his words a little lost as he bends to load the dishwasher.
“No, who?”
“Chap Brody.” He straightens and heads back to me. “That sculptor Dr. Garrison loved so much. His exhibit was in the fine arts building. You remember?”
My lips are numb and my fingers tingle.
“What?” I ask, my voice seeming to come from far away, from a night long ago. “He’s who?”
“The sculptor.”
Shattered glass. Painful cuts. The cold floor beneath my naked belly. Handcuffs slicing into my wrists. Cruel laughter and rough hands.
Flame.
“Hey, you okay?” Monk frowns at me, canting his head. “Vee?”
“Yeah.” I nod, forcing myself out of the haze of the past, out of that nightmare. “I’m fine. I just can’t believe Chap Brody is her dad. That Linh’s his daughter. That they’re…”
“Yeah.” Monk retakes the seat beside me at the counter. “Small world, huh?”
“Very,” I whisper, little panicked breaths expanding in my chest. It’s not that big of a deal.
I was just blindsided, like some projectile landing in the middle of your plate at dinner.
Tonight I want what’s next, but again my past seems determined to sabotage my future before I can enjoy it.
If we don’t change the subject, I’ll fixate on this and ruin what has been a perfect evening so far.
“You, um, owe me a song,” I say, forcing a light tone and a smile.
Monk’s brow furrows and then smooths out. “That’s right. I did lure you here with the promise of my considerable musical talents.”
“Your humility never ceases to amaze me.” I chuckle, and the tightness between my shoulder blades gradually eases.
“Come on.” He takes my hand and leads us out of the kitchen, through the living room and up a set of floating dark wood stairs that empty into a hallway.
“Where are we…” My words trail into dust when we enter a huge open suite and a grand piano comes into view. “Going.”
“You wanted a song?” He walks us over to the impressive instrument. “My favorite piano.”
Through a door lies the primary suite decorated in shades of cognac and espresso. A king-sized platform bed and driftwood side tables take up much of the space.
“Conveniently located beside your bedroom,” I reply dryly.
“You noticed that, huh?” Monk sits on the bench and runs his hands over the keys in one sweeping flourish.
“You wine and dine the girls downstairs,” I say, settling on the bench beside him. “Then you bring ’em up here to Jodeci them out of their pants and slip right into bed.”
He gives me a wry look and quirks one dark brow. “I don’t resort to Jodeci.”
“Snob. You think I don’t remember that corny-ass song you wrote that Canon did the video for?”
“Oh, you wrong for that. That song gives me PTSD.”
He starts playing a tune almost absently, like he’s unaware and his hands are moving so deftly from muscle memory.
“And the piano is near my bed because I’m either stumbling to sleep after working all night, or I’m rushing out of bed trying to get some music down before I forget it.” He bumps his shoulder to mine. “What am I playing you?”
It’s dumb and sentimental and he probably won’t even remember its significance, but I do. And on the night when he makes love to me again for the first time since I lost him, I want to hear the song he was singing the night we met.
“Sing ‘As,’” I whisper, glancing at him from the corner of my eye to gauge his reaction.
“Stevie?” He looks over, a smile that looks like a secret only we know sliding onto his face. “You know I sit at that man’s feet.”
He launches into the familiar tune; the one I’ve never heard since the night we met without remembering how it—how he—made me feel.
It’s the first time I’ve heard him sing live since that night in Harlem a decade ago.
I’ve heard him perform, of course. At award ceremonies, late-night shows, many times and many places.
But it’s not the same as being his audience of one, of knowing all that talent is harnessed solely for you.
The words and his honeyed voice wash over me.
Tears prick my eyes for all we lost and can’t get back, but my heart thumps at the possibility of what we can become.
Not those naive kids whose youth and mistakes and immaturity stole what was and what could have been.
We’re grown now. Mature enough to enjoy each other with no strings attached.
“I feel like there are things you should know,” I say when the last note kisses the air. “Before we…”
My eyes wander to the bedroom a few feet away.
“Will it ruin the night?” he asks softly, sending me a look from under the sweeping curl of his lashes.
I frown, unsure of what I even want to say that would make a difference. He doesn’t know everything, but he knows enough. He wants this and so do I. It’s the no-strings, casual arrangement that suits us both.
“Never mind.” I shake my head and climb into his lap, straddling him as he sits on the piano bench. “It’s not important. Not anything you need to know.”
“All I want to know,” he says, pushing his hand beneath my dress and into my soaked underwear, “is do you still get so wet for me that you drip down my fingers?”
My hips surge into his touch. I gasp and nod frantically, framing his face between shaking hands and guiding his lips to meet mine.
His tongue slides into my mouth and I moan.
No one’s ever kissed me like he does; like I’m air, the breath of life; every stroke and lick tinged with desperation.
His hands, moments ago concerned with making music, busy themselves playing me like a song he composed and I inspired.
He kisses me like I’m his only muse, his touch roaming over my arms, legs, ass. Every part of me he can reach.
“Mmmph,” he grunts against my lips, shoving my underwear aside to rub and caress me.
I squeeze my eyes shut when one and then two fingers slip inside while he strokes the knot of nerves. Moaning, I clench around the welcome invasion.
“Don’t stop,” I beg, barely able to catch my breath from the onslaught of sensations. “Right there, Monk. That’s it.”
“Take this off,” he mutters, snatching the dress over my head. “This too.”
My bra is still discarded down in the kitchen. My underwear disappears.
And then he’s gone.
“Wait,” I cry out, afraid he’ll leave me like this, on the edge of combusting.
“I got you, baby,” he says, carefully setting me on the bench and dropping to his knees between me and the piano. “I wanna see if you taste as good as I remember.”
His words alone, the promise of his mouth on me again, is almost enough to make me come right then. I open my legs, reach down, and hold myself open for him. Anything. Everything. He can get it all, however he wants it.
“Look at you,” he rasps, an almost reverent look on his face. “Serving it up for me.”
“Stop playing with your food,” I chuckle hoarsely, “and get on with it.”
“Oh, you think you in charge now?” He glances up, his eyes filled with lust and humor. “I’mma take my time.”
“You do that.” I slip my fingers between my legs and stroke myself, pushing one finger in and then another. “I’ll get started without you.”
My head tips back at the first brush of my own fingers and I moan. He pushes my hand aside and latches on with his mouth. It’s hot and devouring, everything I remember and so many things I’ve never known with anyone, not even him before. I’m on the precipice, ready to fall over, when he stops.
“I hate you,” I pant, ruining it with a breathy laugh.
“I’ve waited this long,” he says, picking me up and wrapping my legs around his waist as he walks to the bed. “No way it’s happening on my piano bench.”
He lays me down, the silky softness of his sheets luxurious beneath my naked skin. He looks at me for so long I grow a little self-conscious, pressing my knees together and crossing my chest with one arm.
“No.” He pulls my arm away and lifts my fingers to his lips. “Don’t do that. I just want to see you.”
His gaze caresses every naked inch of me, stretching a few moments into eons. And I feel less and less like covering up and more and more like opening up; giving him everything to reward the look of awe and want in his eyes.
“You should be naked,” I say, allowing myself a small smile, which he returns with one of his own.
Slowly, deliberately, he strips off his clothes, letting them fall in a heap beside the bed.
He was always beautiful, but his body is a reminder of just how young we were then because now he is harder and more chiseled, defined muscles scalloping his chest and ribs.
There’s a confidence and grace in every movement when he sheaths the condom on and settles beside me.
In the light of the lamps by his bed, we turn our heads and consider each other for a moment, our breaths colliding. When we kiss, there’s nothing hesitant or sweet about it. It’s forceful and starved and sure. Our hands explore and grip as we grind.
“I’m ready,” I say, even though the pleasure is so intense, I squirm and writhe. When he finally presses inside, my breath hovers in my throat as I adjust to the size of him.