Chapter 25 Jamie
Jamie
The next week passes in a blur.
This is the thing with competitions: It’s not like you get to speed through every round over the course of a few days.
The preliminary round takes over a week to get through, with seventy-five pianists competing and each of them playing for three-quarters of an hour or more.
The second round isn’t much better, even with the competition pool cut in half, because this round means concertos—and those sure as hell aren’t short.
It’s very hurry up and wait, and the waiting is absolute fucking torture.
“I’ve played this piece so many times I want to claw my own eyes out,” I mutter to Marigold one evening as we unpack our freshly delivered dinner on the floor of my hotel room.
“How am I supposed to have musicality when I’m starting to feel like a Chopin-bot?
Is there such a thing as too much practice? ”
She shrugs. “I dunno. It’s starting to feel that way, though.”
She looks how I feel, shadows pressed under her eyes like thumbprints and her hair fraying free from its low ponytail.
We’ve been here for over four hours now, trading on and off.
At one point, I had to wake Marigold up for her turn, because she’d fallen asleep on the floor, slumped against the wall and surrounded by sheet music.
We’re both exhausted, and the pressure isn’t going to let up anytime soon.
Not that my traitorous body pays much attention to how tired my brain is.
I’d thought the biggest impediment to me winning Stockholm would be my musicality.
It never occurred to me to worry about Marigold’s sleep-tousled hair when I wake her up from a nap to take her turn at the keyboard, or the sweet scent of her perfume when she leans past me to examine my sheet music as I play.
And there’s no escape from the constant throb of want that pervades every second of every day, because we practice together every chance we get—at the Opera House but also in the hotel, me working through Chopin while Marigold lounges—very distractingly—on my bed, scribbling away on her score, oblivious to the way I keep missing notes from thinking about her thighs.
But there’s been no time. And I haven’t wanted to push the matter, because sex should be pretty far down the priority list right now.
Not that this knowledge stops my body from wanting.
“I think it’s down to us, Xinyan, Naoki Yoshida, and Iza Krajnc,” Marigold says as she unpacks our bag of doner kebab, passing one of the foil-wrapped sandwiches over to me. “So when you think about it, it’s not really us against forty other people. The actual competitive pool is a lot smaller.”
Marigold takes a huge bite of her own kebab, eyes falling shut in bliss, like it’s the first time she’s had food in twenty years. I decide not to point out the smear of white sauce on her cheek. Thinking back, I’m not sure either of us remembered to eat lunch.
“That sounds right,” I say. “Zijian Chen is probably a contender, too.”
“He’s like eight years old. It personally offends me to imagine him beating me, so no, I’m pretending he doesn’t exist.”
“He’s sixteen, I think.”
“Like I said!”
I give her a Face, but I’m smiling as I take a bite of my own sandwich. “Man. We really need to make doner kebab more of a thing in New York. Why is this not a thing?”
“It exists. I’ve seen it before.”
“Yeah, like once. And not anywhere near Parker.”
“True.” She finally notices the sauce on her cheek and swipes it away, sucking the residue off her finger. Which, of course, does indecent things in the pit of my stomach.
“Would be worth it just to watch you make a mess of yourself again,” I say, unable to help myself after all, and she makes a face at me.
“Dick.”
“Slob,” I shoot back.
“You like me this way.”
And god help me, but I do. “Bit.”
“Just a bit?” One corner of her mouth quirks up.
“Okay, more than a bit. A smidge.”
“A smidge is definitely less than a bit.”
I make a skeptical face. “Is it? Pretty sure it goes bit, smidge, slice, lump, hunk.”
At least it earns me a laugh. “What the hell does it mean to like someone a slice?”
“Exactly what it sounds like! You have positive feelings for that person that are more than a little, less than a lot. Just a nice medium amount. Like a perfect slice of apple pie.”
“Somebody needs to put your brain in a vat and study it.”
But she’s smiling at me like she likes me more than a smidge.
More than a slice, even. Something warm curls up in my chest and smolders there.
I’m abruptly hyperaware of everything my body is touching, from the warm kebab in my hand to the hard floor I’m sitting on and the scratchy feel of the industrial-grade carpet beneath my other hand.
Turns out I’m not that hungry anymore. I wrap up what’s left of my sandwich in its foil and set it aside, shoving some of my sheet music out of the way to make room.
I wish we were on a bed right now. For Romance Reasons, but also because I feel like I haven’t actually laid down in days, even though I got at least three or four hours of sleep last night.
Time passes differently here. When you’re practicing nonstop, it’s hard to tell one day from the next.
But Marigold has been in all of them. So who cares?
“I’d let you study my brain,” she says. “If you wanted.”
“I definitely want.”
“You can study a lot more than that, if you’re very, very nice to me.” She has this crooked little grin on her face, and damn it, but she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.
“I can be nice.”
Marigold abandons her doner kebab to the trash bin. “Prove it.”
I shift over just enough to slide my hand around the nape of her neck and draw her in close. She goes easily, laughing, and her mouth is still smiling against mine when I kiss her.
“Is this nice?” I murmur as I smooth my hands down the long length of her spine, to the thin sliver of bare skin exposed between her shirt and her jeans. I slip my fingertips up beneath the fabric to splay against her warm back. She feels so solid to my touch, so real.
Her teeth catch my lower lip. “Mmm. Could be nicer.”
I tilt forward and push her back, both of us sinking down onto the floor with my weight resting atop her body, moving our hips together as I slide my tongue into her mouth. “How about now?”
She sighs, and the sound comes out ragged—good. On the right track, then.
She pulls my shirt off over my head and rises up to trace kisses along my collarbones, down toward my sternum. I shudder and catch her lower lip with my teeth.
“C’mere,” I mumble against her mouth, and pull her up to standing with me. I undo the first several buttons of her shirt and press my lips to the pale skin above her heart, imagining I can feel its beat quickening against me.
Her body shudders at my touch, and I revel in it. It’s still—always—a heady realization that I’m capable of doing that to her, that her body would react to my body, that she would want me at all.
“Keep going.” Her voice is low and husky; my pulse stumbles along as I obey.
Each button, loosened, exposes a new swath of Marigold’s pale-gold skin, her chest—her breasts—rising and falling shallowly with the quickness of her breath.
It’s only after I’ve slid the fabric from her shoulders, Marigold’s silk shirt slithering down to puddle on the floor, that Marigold moves forward again and crushes her mouth against mine again with sudden and surprising force.
She wrestles my jeans down below my hips a little more roughly than is probably warranted.
But it’s been so long, too long, even if I know it’s only been a matter of days.
I feel touch-starved and desperate, my hands greedy for her body as I pull her in toward myself, hungrily exploring the soft skin of her back, the divot of her spine.
“Keep going,” she murmurs again, and catches my wrist to guide my hand down between our bodies, pressing my palm to the placket of her jeans.
The back of her bra is one of those stupid types that always gives me trouble, doesn’t have the usual little metal hooks. Marigold lets me try fruitlessly for just a few seconds before huffing out a heavy breath and batting my hands away to do it herself.
“C’mon,” I mumble, kissing the curve of her neck, lips skimming down toward her bared breasts. “Get on the bed.”
I nudge her back one step, another. I’m so distracted—I trip over a doner kebab bag and curse under my breath. “Clean that up later,” Marigold mumbles against my skin as her mouth explores my chest, my stomach—as she twists us around and shoves me down onto the wide hotel bed.
I had put so much attention into learning every contour of her, back in New York.
But now, everything feels brand-new again.
I refuse to take her for granted this time.
I want to etch every freckle, every scar, into memory.
If we’re doing this again, I don’t want us making the same mistake twice.
Love might not be all about sex, but if I can somehow use sex to prove to her—to both of us—how fucking perfect we are, then I will.
Love. Funny word to pop up in my head right now.
A good word.
Marigold’s body is soft and pliant beneath my hands as I roll us over, bracing one forearm against the mattress to hover over her as my mouth explores territory that still feels new, even after the past few weeks.
There’s the constellation of tiny blanched scars from her appendectomy ten years ago.
The peach fuzz beneath her navel. The precise shape of her hipbones swelling up beneath skin as I slide my hands down toward her thighs.
Marigold pushes up on her elbows and kisses me on the sternum, right there above the furious pound of my heart. I wonder if my body is as feverish as I feel. I’m burning up—I can’t tell if it’s more arousal or anxiety over the competition. I decide I don’t really care.
Her hands find my shoulders, drag down my ribs to settle on my waist—a waist I’ve always thought was slightly too slim in proportion to my broad shoulders, although Marigold’s hands fit there perfectly.
She pushes down my underwear—I kick them off the side of the bed—and insinuates that hand between us to curl her fingers around my cock.
“Fuck,” I gasp, and Marigold laughs against my collarbone.
“Watch your tongue, James. What would your mother say?”
I love the way my name sounds on her voice. I love the raw, achingly tight edge to it. She sounds how I feel—shuddering on the edge, wanting so badly it devours. She draws a long, slow stroke up my length and I moan, earning a sharp bite from Marigold’s teeth.
“Don’t talk about my mother right now,” I manage to say once I’ve got my breath back. “Fuck, Marigold.”
I slide my fingers beneath the soft fabric of her underwear, and Marigold tilts her hips up, helping me shimmy her panties down to her ankles.
Then I settle my weight over her again and catch her mouth with my own, devouring that hitch in her breath when I reach down between us and slip my finger into the wet heat between her lips.
“I want you,” she says, reaching for my cock again, but I cant my hips back and out of reach.
“Wait,” I say. “My turn first.”
I make my way down her body, leaving a trail of kisses in my wake.
She spreads her knees for me automatically, and I lick her there, earning a shudder that buries something hot in my stomach.
I do it again, tasting her sweetness, skimming one hand up her soft thigh, the other finding her breast, thumb rubbing over her peaked nipple.
I want to make her come. I want to make her say my name again—to groan it, to lose all that perfect self-control and cry out.
She squirms beneath me as I keep going. My entire body feels too alive: tingling, half-numb with pleasure, even though she isn’t touching me anymore. I rock my hips down against the mattress, chasing what friction I can as Marigold twists the bedsheets in her grasp, knuckles blanched white.
My world has condensed down to the quiet little sounds Marigold makes past gritted teeth, her blond hair fraying loose from its bun to sprawl across the pillow.
One of her hands is tangled in my hair, almost painfully tight as she arches up to meet my mouth.
I slide two fingers inside her heat, working from the inside and out, chasing every sharp breath, every clench of her body.
She hums something soft and wordless, arching into my hand again as I tease my tongue against her clitoris.
At last she moans, thighs tightening on either side of my head as she crests.
For a moment she lies there limp, breathless, and satiated—but not for long. That hand in my hair tugs, and I follow up the length of her torso again, letting her catch my lips in hers, tasting herself in my mouth.
“My turn,” she murmurs, and grips my shoulder as she pushes and I go easily, rolling onto my back.
Marigold shifts down until she hovers over my hips, teasing her hand along my length.
When her mouth finds me, I shudder. My head drops back against the pillow, eyes fluttering shut, because…god, Marigold is too good. It’s indecent. It’s euphoric.
Marigold takes her time. She urges me closer and closer to the brink, her tongue teasing me until I tangle a hand in her hair and she grips my waist, holding me still even when I want to twist and writhe.
I come when Marigold decides I’m allowed to come—after she’s brought me to the edge a dozen times only to relent, dragging out my torment until I’m begging for release, clawing at her shoulders and scalp as I gasp her name again and again.
The aftershocks of my climax surge through me like heavy waves as I drop back against the pillow again, sweat beading on my forehead. “You’re—”
You’re everything to me. I don’t need anything else. I don’t need anything but this.
As if she knows what I meant to say, Marigold smiles. She makes a pattern of sloppy kisses back to my mouth, and I close my eyes, breathing in the nearness of her.
“I do, you know,” I murmur. It takes Marigold’s answering What? for me to realize I’d never said the first part aloud.
I draw back from the kiss just enough to see her properly. Her hair is tousled from my fingers, cheeks still apple-pink with exertion. I wouldn’t say I’m a brave person, generally. But with her looking like that, it’s easier than it could be to just…say it.
“I love you,” I say. “I really love you.”
She doesn’t make me wait in suspense. The grin that breaks across her face is answer enough, but that doesn’t stop her from reaching out with both hands and pulling me in for another fierce kiss.
“Good. Yes. You’d fucking better, because I love you, too.”