She knows about condoms. “You do?”
“The oldest known use of condoms dates back fifteen thousand years ago, on a cave painting in France.”
Surprise comes out as a racking cough. “Where did you learn that?”
“A history book.”
I stare at her, shocked that someone so incredibly intelligent, an actual genius by multiple measures, is this clueless about sex. It’s my fault, of course. I’m the leader in this house. It was my job to make sure she knew about her body. About protection. “Here’s what you need to know about condoms. They’re absolutely mandatory. If you decide to have sex with someone—and it is your decision—you have to use a condom. Say it back to me, Samantha. I need to know you understand.”
“Condoms are mandatory,” she says obediently.
That’s good, but it’s not enough. How could it possibly be enough? How could it convey to her how many assholes were out there, waiting for the chance to take advantage of her?
Is this how fathers feel when they send their daughters into the world?
I’m not her father. Not even close. I can’t imagine Ambassador Brooks having this conversation with his daughter, even if he had lived to have the chance. He wasn’t exactly a concerned father. His daughter had been a little secretary in his house, given orders and expected to follow them.
Are you treating her any better, North?
“Samantha.”
She blinks up at me, so damn trusting. I want her to look at me that way with my cock in her mouth, with her eyes watering. “Yes, sir?”
“Call me Liam.”
A little cough that’s the closest she comes to telling me no. “Is there anything else?”
Damned if this little violin prodigy doesn’t know how to dismiss a hardened, experienced soldier. She sits there so fuckin
g prim and so heartbreakingly pretty I don’t know how to handle it. Maybe she is ready to go out into the world, to experience sex, to discover how much better a climax can be when given by someone else’s hand, but I’m not ready for it. Not even close.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Japanese word “karaoke” comes from a phrase meaning “empty orchestra.”
SAMANTHA
Four years old. Saint Petersburg. The teacher suggested that I be placed in the music program so that it would be easier for me to acclimate to the school. Daddy signed the paper because it wouldn’t cost anything. The school provided an ancient basswood violin with a hard plastic case. A wrinkled instruction booklet showed how to place your fingers and introductory sheet music. I stayed up night after night working my fingers until they were raw.
That began my love affair with the violin.
Even when I’m not playing, the music lives inside me.
I’m still warm between my legs, my body ready for something that’s never happened except in my imagination. I’ve made love with music a thousand times, but never with a man. Especially not the man who invades my thoughts every time I touch myself. He’s invading my thoughts right now, those green eyes and stern mouth a hazy picture in my mind. Muscles bunching in his jaw as he thinks about what to say next.
Things like, It isn’t right that I let my own… discomfort get in the way of your sex education. That’s what he thinks of when it comes to me and sex—discomfort.
I run up the stairs, still feeling the strings against my finger pads, the powder in the air. The hard gaze of Liam North. The sensations should be different, the structure of a violin wholly apart from the tangle of feelings I have around the man. They blur together anyway, a physical symphony I play and play.
When I get to my room, Laney is there. She’s been my best friend ever since I moved here. She holds a black long-sleeve sweater in one hand and a black floor-length skirt in the other. “Oh my God,” she says on a moan. “You could work in a funeral home.”
“Concert dress,” I say, rueful. There are black skirts in velvet and cotton and silk. Mandatory for playing in an orchestra, and even once I started playing solo, I still follow the rules.
“What about if you have to go to a party?”
“After a concert?”
“Is music all you think about? Don’t answer that.”