Chapter 113
Chapter one hundred thirteen
Christianna
I come downstairs to the sound of the piano.
It is the song he composed this evening, the one born from the memory of my release. The notes are still raw, searching, edged with something restless. Erik sways with the music, lost in it, while Remy leans against the instrument, whiskey in hand, watching him with quiet focus.
They both look up when I enter.
Erik lets the final note hang, suspended in the air like a held breath.
“I was just replaying our morning,” he says.
He rises slowly and crosses to me. His eyes are darker than the music. Before I can ask what he means, he lifts me easily and sets me on the polished lid of the grand piano. The wood is cool beneath my bare thighs.
He steps back, taking me in.
“Let’s see if we can find that note again,” he murmurs.
He leans over me, bracing his hands on either side of my hips. When my legs instinctively press together, he glances down.
“Leave them open,” he says quietly.
Something in his tone makes my pulse spike. I let them part, slowly this time, teasingly.
“Then don’t look away,” I whisper.
His mouth curves faintly.
Remy sets his glass aside and moves between my knees. His hands trace up my thighs with deliberate patience. I feel Erik’s gaze on us both as he returns to the bench.
The melody begins again, softer now. Slower. Not the frantic climb from earlier. This is measured. Controlled.
Remy’s mouth finds me, and I exhale sharply, my fingers sliding over the slick surface of the piano lid for balance. The music shifts in response, slow, methodical, layering. Building.
“She’s climbing,” Erik murmurs.
But this time his hands falter for a fraction of a second on the keys.
That tiny break sends heat curling through me.
Remy adjusts without needing instruction, his touch deepening, steady and relentless. The music follows.
I reach for Erik’s wrist when he stands to join us, catching him before he can regain composure.
“Stay with me,” I breathe.
The song changes then. It loses its polish. The rhythm turns rougher, more urgent. Not symphonic. Not refined.
Real.
Remy’s grip tightens. My back arches. The piano vibrates beneath us as the tempo surges, and this time it is not perfect timing that breaks me.
It is the way they both lose it.
The final chord is not clean. It crashes.
So do I.
The release tears through me, messy, overwhelming, breath-stealing. I am not graceful. I am not composed. I shatter.
The music dies out unevenly.
For a moment, none of us moves.
Remy presses a kiss to my thigh before rising. Erik does not speak right away. He stands over me, breathing hard, the composure gone from his face.
Not triumph.
Awe.
He leans down, resting his forehead briefly against mine before kissing me, slow and deliberate.
“Perfect,” he says softly.
I stare into his eyes. “I want more. I want you. Take me upstairs?”