Page 93 of Born into Darkness

I let out a surprised laugh. “How can you tell?” We both look at the large painting. It’s an Impressionist style painting, so the man at the piano isn’t done in detail, making him completely unrecognizable as any specific person.

Talia looks at the painting and points out certain parts as she says, “I recognize the line of your jaw and shoulders, and even if the fingers aren’t very defined, I can still tell their yours. Who did this? It’s really amazing.”

“Sveta painted it a few years ago. She was going through her ‘Gloomy Impressionist Phase,’ as she liked to call it. She was also bored, and so one day she showed up with one of her giant sketchpads and spent the day drawing while I practiced. Then she disappeared and brought me this a few months later.” I laugh at the memory. “It was more like she showed up, shoved the canvas at me and said, ‘Here you go. I’m gonna fiddle around with watercolors next.’ I think it was Mia who got the watercolor portrait. Sveta and her mom are very talented artists, and she gets bored easily, so she’s always trying new things.”

“I can’t imagine having that kind of talent,” Talia says, staring at the large painting. She turns her dark eyes to mine. “I’m starting to feel a bit dull, Max. I can’t paint you a beautiful picture or play you a song. I can’t even carry a tune, if I’m being honest. You’re going to be so bored with me.”

“Never,” I say, wrapping my arm around her and pulling her against me. “Don’t even think that. You’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met, and the truth is I’m in complete awe of you. I don’t want you to paint me a picture. If you want me to teach you how to play the piano, I will, but I honestly don’t give a rat’s ass if you can play an instrument or not.”

I tilt her chin up and kiss the tip of her nose. “I would really love to hear you sing off-key, though.”

She laughs and says, “Okay, but just remember that you asked for it.”

Bringing my mouth close to hers, I thread my fingers through her hair and pull her even closer. “What part of the house do you want to see next?”

Her breath hitches when I ghost my lips over hers. I want to consume this woman, taste every inch of her and brand her body as mine, but even though I wanted this night away with her, I’ll take things as slow as she needs me to.

That doesn’t mean I don’t let out a relieved breath when she runs her hands under my hoodie and says, “Your bedroom.”

I grin and say, “Ourbedroom.”

She lets out a squeal of protest when I grab her ass with my good hand and lift her up. Bracing my forearm under her, she wraps her arms and legs around me in a tight hug.

“Your arm,” she says, looking down at my injured hand.

“Is fine,” I tell her. I lift it up to show her. “See? I’m not using it. Just press your body to mine and hang on tight.”

“I think I can manage that,” she says, squeezing me tighter and pressing her face to my neck as I carry her down the hall. Her warm lips trace a line up my skin, and when I feel the heat of her tongue, I groan as my cock grows painfully hard and my restraint starts slipping away.

She’s momentarily side-tracked from driving me crazy when I step into the large downstairs bedroom and she gets her first look at it. There’s a king-size bed, a flatscreen TV, and a set of French doors that lead out to the back patio and pool, but that’s not what’s captured her attention. She’s staring at the Steinway Model M grand piano that’s taking up a large chunk of the bedroom. It’s a couple of feet smaller than my mom’s, but it’s still nearly six feet in length. I haven’t been in here since before I was taken, so there’s sheet music everywhere and some clothes on the floor.

“Can I see?”

I smile and lower her down, watching as she slowly walks over to it. When she reaches it, I can tell she wants to touch it, but she holds back.

Stepping up behind her, I say, “You’re not going to break it.”

“I might,” she whispers. Hesitantly, she reaches out and runs her fingers along the keys and then shifts her attention to my scribbled notes on top. Her touch is almost reverent, running her fingers over the notes I’d written in a frenzy. “When you see this,” she asks, “can you hear it in your head?”

I look at the piece she’s touching and run my eyes over the bars of music, hearing every single note in my head with perfect, sharp clarity.

“Yes,” I tell her.

“You’re amazing,” she whispers, and I let out a laugh at how sweet she is. I sit on the bench and pull her into my lap.

Burying my nose against her neck, I breathe in the vanilla cinnamon scent of her. “I’m not amazing, sweetheart. I’m far from it.”

She lets out a soft sigh when I drag my nose along her skin. “You’re amazing to me.”

I smile and kiss the crook of her neck. Putting my left hand on the keys in front of us, I say, “Put your hand on top of mine.”

Waiting until her small hand is resting on mine, each finger lined up as much as they can, I start to play a few notes from the song she’d just been looking at. Turning my head, I watch her as I play. With her eyes glued to our fingers, a huge smile lights up her face, and she’s so beautiful that for the first time in a very long time, I miss a note.

“Hmm,” I say, stunned that I fucked it up. “That might be a problem.”

“What might be?”

“I just missed a note.”

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