Chapter Thirteen
Nyxx
It’s hell climbing out of that bed. The sheets still smell like her—warm skin, night air, and the ghost of what we did in the gazebo.
For a second I hover there, every muscle screaming to crawl back in, to taste the quiet morning version of her.
But I don’t. Not yet. She deserves a breather before I make her remember how loud she got last night.
Even as I step away from her, my mind replays everything. Her soft sighs, loud moans, the way she moved against me, the vulnerability in her tone when she confessed she’d never climaxed with a man before—it’s all seared into my brain.
The revelation about her inexperience caught me off guard. It explained so much about her initial hesitation, her carefully constructed walls. After that, pushing for more intimacy felt wrong. Ana deserves to set the pace, to explore this newfound sensuality on her own terms.
The bedroom door creaks open, and there she is—hair slightly mussed, wearing one of my band t-shirts. My heart does a little flip.
“Morning, princess.” I turn the coffee machine on. “Sleep well?”
Ana’s cheeks flush as she nods, a shy smile playing at her lips. “Very well, thank you.”
Those words—sheer prim and proper Anastasia Ashcroft. I wonder if all the progress she’s made in letting her true self shine through has evaporated after the passion we shared last night. Then I see it, the rosy flush from the apples of her cheeks to the neckline of her tee.
She’s thinking about last night. I need to say something to evict the elephant from the room. I’m seconds from blurting out something stupid just to cut the tension, and—naturally—my mouth obliges.
“Is there a washing machine in this place, princess? I’ve got crust in my jeans.” Crude? Yes. Embarrassing? Yes. Hopefully enough to make her feel like her uninhibited release was less embarrassing than mine.
“Crust, huh?” She laughs, and I see her shoulders relax as her eyes sparkle with mischief.
“I read some of your reviews, by the way. Right after I read the one about your music sounding ‘raw and gritty, like a rat gnawing on an electric wire’ was the one that called you a wild man. I guess that fits.”
“I think of the two of us, you win the wild award.” My voice is low, rough, and the blazing desire I let her see in my eyes should reassure her she has nothing to be embarrassed about.
Her cheeks pinken as her mouth pops open, but she doesn’t argue, doesn’t deny it, and eases closer under the pretense of grabbing the cup of coffee I poured for her.
The urge to pull her into my arms and kiss her senseless is almost overwhelming. But today’s about something different. Something deeper.
“So, ready for today’s challenge?” I settle onto the couch and pat the cushion beside me.
Ana settles beside me, her thigh brushing mine. “I’m not sure. What do you have in mind?”
If I’m not mistaken, she’s trusting me. She looks less wary than she has before.
Turning to face her, our knees touching, I explain, “Today, we’re going to communicate without words. Just gestures, facial expressions, maybe some interpretive dance if you’re feeling frisky.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “All day? But how will we—”
Placing a gentle finger on her lips, I shake my head. “That’s the last thing you get to say until sunset. Trust me, Ana. This is about intuition, about learning to express yourself beyond words.”
Uncertainty flashes in her eyes, but then determination sets in. She nods, squaring her shoulders.
I stand and offer her my hand. Ana takes it, allowing me to pull her up. Our bodies align, and for a moment, we just stand there, drinking each other in.
Gesturing toward the kitchen, I mime eating. Ana nods, following me.
Before we can begin our silent cooking, a commotion outside catches our attention. Curious, we step onto the porch to investigate, Ana self-consciously pulling my t-shirt below her knees.
A group of elementary school kids on a nature hike has paused near our cottage, their excited chatter filling the air. Their teacher is trying to corral them, but they’re rambunctious and rowdy. Then they become even more distracted—by me.
“It’s Nyxx Night!” one kid shrieks, and suddenly all eyes are on us.
I glance at Ana, seeing the amusement in her eyes. With an exaggerated wink, I stride inside and return with my flute. This is the perfect opportunity to show her another side of the Pied Piper legend.
Without a word—fitting for our day’s challenge—I strike a pose and begin to play. The melody is playful and light, inviting. The kids are instantly entranced.
With a theatrical gesture, I beckon them to follow. Their teacher looks hesitant but nods her permission when she sees it’s just a short trek around the cottage.
As I march, the children fall in line behind me, giggling and trying to mimic my exaggerated high-kneed steps. I lead them along a winding path, occasionally spinning or hopping on one foot, much to their delight.
Ana follows behind us as though she, too, is caught up in the Pied Piper’s hypnotic spell, her expression a mix of disbelief and fondness. I can almost hear her thoughts: “So this is the Pied Piper in action.”
After a full circuit of the cottage, I end the impromptu parade with a bow and a flourish. The kids burst into applause, and even their teacher seems charmed.
As the group continues on their hike, now buzzing with excitement, I rejoin Ana on the porch. She’s shaking her head, but her smile is warm.
I shrug, grinning. Even without words, I know she understands. Sometimes, a little magic is all it takes to bring joy to others. It’s what being the Pied Piper is all about.
With that unexpected but delightful interlude behind us, we head back inside to silently prepare breakfast.
We work in tandem. It’s awkward at first—lots of pointing and over-the-top facial expressions.
But gradually, we fall into a rhythm. She steals the spatula from my hand, bumps me with her hip, and I realize how dangerously good it feels to move around a kitchen with her like we’ve done it a hundred times.
When Ana accidentally drops an egg, her face crumples in frustration.
Without a pause, we’re both on our knees cleaning it up.
After the floor is clean, it’s as natural as breathing for me to stand behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist. My chin rests on her shoulder as I guide her hands through the motion of cracking an egg. The tension in her body melts away.
For a moment, I’d forgotten that she was raised with money. Well, from what I read, I guess you’d call it wealth. Is it possible this woman doesn’t know how to crack an egg? The good part is she seems eager to learn.
Breakfast is a silent affair, but not an uncomfortable one. We exchange glances over our coffee mugs, communicating volumes without uttering a word. When Ana reaches across the table to wipe a bit of jam from the corner of my mouth, the simple gesture feels more intimate than any kiss.
After cleaning up, I lead Ana outside. The sun is high, warming my skin as I guide her to a patch of wildflowers. Kneeling, I pick flowers, motioning for her to join me.
Ana hesitates, her brow furrowing. I can almost hear her thoughts—what’s the point of this? But then she kneels beside me, tentatively plucking a daisy.
For the next hour, we weave flower crowns. Mine is a mess—lopsided and falling apart. But Ana’s … hers is a work of art. Delicate and perfectly balanced, just like her music.
When she places it on my head, her fingers lingering in my hair, my heart swells.
I return the favor, crowning her with my disaster of a creation.
She straightens her shoulders, lifts her chin, and wears it as though it’s made of the finest gold.
If she can make my lopsided mess look regal, God help the critics who ever doubt her stage presence again.
As the day progresses, our wordless communication becomes more natural. We explore the woods, our fingers intertwined. Every squeeze, every meaningful glance, speaks volumes.
At one point, Ana stumbles on a root. I catch her, spinning her into an impromptu dance. She laughs, her eyes sparkling as I dip her low.
For a second, I hold her there just long enough for our laughter to tangle.
Her hands are clutching my shoulders, mine firm at her waist, and we’re both breathing hard from the surprise of it.
When I straighten her, her body fits against mine for a heartbeat too long.
Her pulse flutters at her throat, and the sound she makes—half-laugh, half-sigh—slices straight through me.
I bite back a laugh, mostly to keep from kissing her.
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and pretends to look away, though I can see the smile she’s trying to hide.
We fall back into step, but the air between us feels changed—lighter, charged, full of the kind of promise that doesn’t need words.
Back at the cottage, I grab my battered guitar instead of my flute, then hand Ana her instrument. With a nod, we begin to play. It’s chaotic at first, our styles clashing. But then something clicks. Ana’s classical training melds with my rock sensibilities, creating something entirely new.
The music swells, filling the cottage with a sound that’s part symphony, part power ballad. As the final notes fade away, we stare at each other, breathless and smiling.
God, she looks beautiful when she’s loose and happy. She’s not performing anymore; she’s sharing. And I’m the luckiest bastard alive to be the one she’s sharing it with.
The sun dips below the horizon, marking the end of our silent day. But neither of us speaks immediately. Instead, Ana moves closer, her hand coming up to cup my cheek.
When our lips meet, it’s like coming home. Soft and sweet at first, then deepening with all the emotions we couldn’t express in words.
Finally, Ana pulls back, her eyes shining. “Nyxx, that was… incredible. I’ve never felt so in tune with someone before.”
Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, I smile. “That’s because you were listening with more than just your ears, princess. You were feeling it.”
She nods, comprehension dawning in her eyes. “I think… I think I’m starting to understand what you’ve been trying to show me. Music, life—it’s not just about following the notes on the page. It’s about what’s in here.” She places a hand over her heart.
“Exactly,” I murmur, pulling her close. “And what’s in there is pretty damn spectacular, Ana.”
As we curl up on the couch, Ana’s head on my chest, I realize something has shifted between us. This connection, this understanding—it goes beyond physical attraction or shared interests. It’s something deeper, something so big it scares me.
Outside, twilight has deepened into full dark, the world hushed except for the pulse of crickets and the soft rhythm of her breathing against me.
Every inhale seems to sync with mine until breathing feels like a duet.
She’s changed the shape of the air in this place—of me.
For the first time in years, silence feels like peace instead of punishment.
The room has gone dusky, filled with the faint hum of evening insects and the fading warmth of the day.
Ana’s breath is slow and even, her fingers tracing small, absentminded shapes against my chest. Now and then, she hums—a soft, wordless tune that feels like the echo of everything we played together earlier.
I tighten my arm around her and let the quiet stretch. For once, I don’t need to fill it. The music’s still there—just quieter, just ours.