Page 83 of Love & Letter Charms
Prince Ryden studied her hands for a moment, then attempted to join in with what should have been a complementary bass line. What emerged instead was a series of notes that bore only the vaguest relationship to the proper key.
Aurelise bit her lip, trying desperately not to laugh as he fumbled through another measure, his timing completely at odds with hers. “That is …”
“Magnificent?” he suggested.
“Atrocious,” she corrected, finally allowing a giggle to escape as her hands stilled on the keys. “Truly, spectacularly terrible. Your poor grandmother must have possessed remarkable patience.”
“She did frequently invoke the stars for strength,” he admitted. “Shall I try again?”
“Please do. Though perhaps this time you might consider playing in the same key as I am?”
“Such rigid expectations,” he murmured, but he positioned his hands again, this time managing something that at leastresembledthe proper accompaniment for several measures before dissolving into chaos once more.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” she accused, though she was laughing properly now.
“I assure you, I am not nearly skilled enough to be deliberately this bad.” His fingers brushed against hers as they both moved toward the same octave, and she felt the contact like a spark. “Though I admit, there are certain … advantages to my lack of talent.”
He did it again—let his hand drift just close enough that their fingers tangled briefly before pulling away. Her breath caught, and she missed a note.
“You’re distracting me,” she said, heat flooding her cheeks.
“Am I?” His voice had dropped lower, taken on that particular quality that made her stomach flutter. “How unfortunate. Please, continue. Pretend I’m not here.”
She tried to focus, but he’d shifted closer somehow, his shoulder now pressing against hers. Every breath she took brought that intoxicating scent, every movement created friction that sent little shivers along her skin.
His attempts at accompaniment grew increasingly sporadic until finally, his hands stilled entirely on the keys. She felt him turn toward her, his body angling so that he was no longer facing the instrument but facing her instead.
“You know,” he said softly, “you always seem to disappear when you play. As though you’ve slipped into another world entirely.”
Her fingers continued their movement, though the tempo had slowed considerably. “It’s true,” she admitted, though there was little chance of such a thing happening now, with him sitting so near. “That’s why I love it so much. When I play, I feel … transported. Nothing can reach me when I’m truly lost in the music. No worries, no fears, no overwhelming feelings. Just me and the instrument and perfect, blissful focus.”
She closed her eyes, fingers tracing the familiar path of the keys. The rhythm of it soothed her, the effortless slide and rise of each note, the whisper of touch and response. For a moment, she could feel the promise of that tranquil focus hovering close, as though she might actually be able to grasp it if she kept her eyes closed long enough—even with him sitting so near.
“You cannot say something like that,” he murmured, “and not expect me to take it as a challenge.”
Her eyes flew open, that glimpse of perfect focus flittering away in an instant. “What do you?—”
His fingertips touched the back of her hand, the lightest possible contact, barely there at all. Just a whisper of skin against skin as he traced the delicate bones beneath. Her playing faltered for a moment before she forced herself to continue.
“Keep playing,” he murmured, and there was something dark and delicious in his tone that made her shiver. “Show me this perfect focus of yours.”
His fingers began a slow journey upward, tracing the inside of her wrist where her pulse hammered frantically. She tried to maintain the melody, but the notes were becoming uncertain, the rhythm uneven. His touch moved higher, following the line of her forearm, finding sensitive places she hadn’t known existed.
I should stop this, she thought hazily.I should tell him to cease immediately.
But she did not. Could not. Because despite her terror, despite the knowledge that this would consume her in the worst possible way, a part of her wanted to know what would happen if she let herselffeel everything.
His fingers reached her elbow, then traveled upward still, ghosting over the fabric of her sleeve. When they found the bare skin where her shoulder curved toward her neck, she inhaled sharply and bit her lip, her hands stumbling over the keys.
“Still focused?” he asked, and she could hear the smile in his voice as he leaned closer.
She tried to recover the melody, her fingers moving by pure muscle memory, but the music had become something else entirely—slower, dreamier, notes bleeding into each other without structure or thought.
His fingertips grazed over her collarbone, then began tracing up the column of her neck. Goosebumps erupted in the wake of his touch. Her eyes fluttered closed, her breathing shallow and uneven.
“Still transported?” His lips were so close to her ear that she felt the words as much as heard them. “Still unreachable?”
Her playing had slowed to almost nothing now, just occasional notes that rang out in the hushed room. His fingers traced the shell of her ear, then moved to tuck a strand of hair that must have escaped her careful arrangement. The gesture should have been innocent, but the way he did it—slowly, deliberately, his fingers gliding down over her skin and then around the back of her neck to thread into the soft coils of hair gathered at her nape—made it feel impossibly intimate.
