chapter ELEVEN
We arrive at the yacht; Asher pulls up to the dock on the starboard side.
We get off and Mateo hops on to park the speedboat.
Asher grabs my hand and leads me past the pool area and through the sliding glass doors I entered days ago.
I follow him through the living area, past the bar and up the stairs.
I get nervous as we round the corner to what I believe to be Devon’s private areas.
The staterooms and the office are back here.
I know Asher is impulsive, but I hope he doesn’t do anything to get himself in trouble.
Or me for that matter. I’d hate to piss off the man who went through so much trouble to help me and my sister.
I follow his pull down the hall to the door at the far end. I know this door very well and my heart starts racing when Asher opens it.
The grand two-story music room is just as impressive as it was the first time I saw it. The piano still sits to the side looking all polished and pristine. I hope he doesn’t expect me to play again because I don’t think I’d be able to after his appraisal of my performance last time.
He closes the door behind us and flicks on the light switch, setting them to dim. The sun is hidden from our view out the window. On the horizon, dusk awaits.
I turn toward Asher. “We shouldn’t be in here. This area is private. I don’t want you to get in trouble.”
he grins and places his fingers in my hair, pushing the ashy strands behind my ear. “No one is here. It’s just you and me.”
“No Devon?” My voice is shaky, like learning my boyfriend’s parents are out of town for the weekend. No supervision. No rules.
“No Devon. We’re free in here. It’s our sacred space.” Warm lips brush my cheek as he grabs my hand and whirls me around toward the cello. “I want to play with you. Together.” He walks around a seat and stands just behind it. “I know that wound on your hand runs deeper than the superficial scar.”
I stop just next to the cello and really think about that. I’ve been on one date and countless boats with the man. I think it’s clear I trust him in the physical sense. In the emotional sense, I don’t trust myself.
“Asher, I don’t think I can—”
“Shh.” He guides my body down onto the chair and slides another stool behind mine, so close the two are touching. He presses his body behind mine, his legs straddling my hips. “Close your eyes.”
I want to explain to him the cello and the violin are different instruments. I want to explain they’re the same instrument. I want to explain my injury prevents me from playing any bow and I want to tell him to stop whatever he is about to try.
But I can’t.
Because his entire body is wrapped around me, and all I can do is feel his heat.
I close my eyes and breathe in. His scent of sea and soap eradicate my senses and the velvet skin of his forearms along with his strong thighs outside my own feel like a warm blanket on a blistery cold night.
Asher glides his right hand underneath mine and lifts it in the air, palm to knuckles. “Hold onto me just like this,” his voice whispers in my ear.
I nod and then jump a little with the feel of the weight of the cello resting against my kneecaps. “Open your legs.”
I do so and allow him to place the cello between my thighs, resting on my left knee. He spreads his even wider to accommodate the heavy instrument between us.
He lifts my left hand and places it on the strings of the cello. My fingers instinctively find a chord even though the strings are placed further apart than I’m used to. With my hands in place, Asher weaves his free left arm around my waist and pulls me in tight.
“Are you ready?” His lips warm on my skin. I know he can feel me quiver from his touch. All my attention is focused on him and not the instrument in front of me.
“Ready for what?” I say with a swallow.
His mouth brushes up against my neck. “To feel.”
With his words, Asher raises his right hand, which mine is laying on top of, and grabs hold of the bow.
My hand gently forms around his in response.
His elbow up in the air, his palm poised for performance, Asher dips the bow across the strings eliciting a glorious sound.
He guides our hands and dips back across the strings again, creating more familiar tones.
His hand is gripped around the bow, taking the control I cannot obtain without screaming in pain. With my hand wrapped around his massive one I am able to imitate the feeling of playing.
Tension in my spine stiffens. It feels unnatural to be playing in this position. My elbow props up on his with each glide and I pretend not to notice when his forearm casually brushes against my breast with each stroke.
Instead of focusing on the unnatural, I keep my eyes closed and try to feel the movements.
My fingers shift chords and his hand dips to let the bow strike the strings in a new direction.
I allow my head to fall back against his shoulder and breathe in the sounds we are creating and suddenly my arm doesn’t feel like following anymore.
With a tightened grip on his, my hand glides free and takes control of the movements, this time telling his where to go. I weave and thread the bow across the strings, my movements faster and with more purpose.
I lean forward and play chords up and down, pulling the massive wood with me to create a musical force I haven’t felt in months.
The sounds keep playing and the song is magnificent.
It’s not one I know, but something that is pouring through me.
With every pump of his muscles against my body I play harder and with every feel of his breath against my very tender skin, I play louder.
Faster and with more control than I’ve felt in a long time, I play that instrument until the sound is so violently vibrating throughout the space I’m afraid I’ll shatter the windows.
I open my eyes and take in the site of the ocean in front of us. I play to the crash. I play to the white tops. I play to the rumbling of the waters beneath us.
Even before the accident, my heart and soul have never felt so liberated. You can’t truly learn of the bliss and joy of something until its been taken away from you.
In this moment I am feeling exhilaration.
In this moment I am feeling rapture.
In this moment I am . . . Feeling.
Asher chances releasing me and grabs hold of the cello and plays a few chords with me.
Together we play the instrument. Our bodies mold together as one.
If anyone were to walk in on us, they would think we are performing some sort of impressionist dance.
A modern movement of lust and love and passion.
That is what this song is instilling in us.
Passion.
Our breathing is tense and erratic. His heart is beating against my back, striking it like a ten-pound percussion. Our bodies are entwined so deeply with each other I feel like we are one.
When Asher puts his hand back around my waist he slows his hand control under mine and brings us to a slower tempo. We play this way until our bodies are calmed and we’re aware of how sweaty our palms are.
Our movements sashay and sway together in a dance of lovers and together we bring the song to a close.
When the humming has stopped, Asher leans over, placing the cello back in its stand and rests the bow next to it. I release my hand from his and rest the other on his knee.
I close my eyes and lean my head on his shoulder and breathe out the greatest breath of a lifetime.
“Thank you.”
His broad chest against my back is rising and falling in tantric rhythm to my own heavily beating heart. My own movements are steady, yet as intense as his. That’s why my skin hums with electricity as his hand comes circling around my waist and his palm lands on the inside of my thigh.
“I’ve never felt someone playing before. You ignite with a fervor and rage and ardor and devotion. I am infatuated.”
Warm, heated breaths play on the soft skin of my throat, and I constrict when his warm mouth crosses the nape so gently it feels like a breeze tickling my skin. His tongue darts out and licks the sensitive skin sending shivers down my body and into the very core.
I curve my back into him and let the warmth envelope me. Leaning my neck further to the side, I offer him more of me, asking to be taken.
And he does. French kisses dance up and down my neck, making my body feel alive—and I didn’t even know I was dead.
“Emma.” My name off his lips is the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard. I know he’s asking if I’m okay with where his hand is. Asher is a man who takes what he wants. And my heart beats a thousand strums for the fact he wants to know if I’m okay with his intentions.
I don’t know what I’m okay with. I know I’m scared. I know I’m turned on. I know I don’t want to cry and I know I want to feel alive.
So in quite the most impulsive moment of my life, I place my hand over Asher’s hand and move it further up my leg so it’s resting under the white shorts.
As his palm presses deeper into my thigh, his fingers caress the flesh and make their way up and down, playing me like chords of an instrument.
And I so want to be played.
I want to be the music.
I turn my head toward him and connect with golden eyes, powerful and full of passion. I take his mouth into mine and kiss him so intensely I think I might combust.
Two hands are now on my thighs, working them up and down until I am in a frenzy. My breasts push through my bra and my skin feels as hot and brightly colored as the tank top they’re trying to be free of.
I let out a gasp when one of Asher’s very delicate fingers slip further inside my shorts and brushes along the outside of my thong.
“You are so sensitive,” he says, his mouth in a smile I can feel against my skin.