Sonata (North Security 3)

“Yes,” he says, hot against my inner wrist. It feels like I’m branded by him, as if he signed this devil’s bargain with a breath. “I’ll keep you with me, even if it fucking kills me. It just might, Samantha.”

“What if I don’t come with you? What if I refuse?”

“I may not spank you, little prodigy, but I won’t have any problem picking you up and walking you down the road until we get to Paris.”

Acid churns in my stomach. I want for this nightmare to end, but not if it means putting Liam in danger again. Not if it means playing the violin on stage again. My whole being shies away from that thought, like a night creature from the light. It’s like I’ve become afraid of the bow. Afraid of the music. As if they’ve become gunshots. “Why does it matter so much to you if I play? Is that all I am to you? A machine to produce music?”

“A machine?” He licks the point of my pulse. “No. You’re afraid. They wanted you to be afraid. That’s why you sent your violin away. I’m going to get it back for you.”

A quiver in my stomach. It might be too late already. I’m not the girl who stood on that stage in Carnegie Hall. Liam North presses an open-mouthed kiss to my hand—an ordinary hand. It used to play the violin with enough skill to rival anyone alive.

Now it’s useless, useless, useless. “No.”

“I’m not going to touch you until you play the violin again.”

Surprise steals my voice. “Excuse me?”

It’s annoying that he’s being so high-handed but all I can think about is the pressure between my legs. I want him to touch me, and he knows that.

“Play the violin, and you can come.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’m always serious.”

My skin feels tight with arousal. “You’re really going to leave me like this?”

“Yes. Although you don’t have to wait for me to help you.” He pushes it down, beneath the loose waistband of my linen skirt. “Touch yourself.”

“Now?” Sunlight filters through the pale curtains. Arousal thrums through my body. He kissed my hand in the most sexual way, but that was different. That was… passive. I could accept what he did to me. This makes me a participant. From the gleam in his green eyes, he wants to see it. This isn’t only about the violin.

“Yes. Now. Play a song for those clever little fingers. The way they move beneath the sheets. The way they hold the strings against the board.”

A flush heats my cheeks. “You don’t mean that.”

“Of course I do. You haven’t been practicing, have you? You need discipline. It’s my job to give you that. We’ll start now. Today. Practice on your pretty little pussy.” As if to punctuate his command, he nudges my hand farther down my skirt. Private curls touch my fingertips. What am I thinking? Nothing, nothing. When he gives me an order, I’m trained to obey. I may not be the girl who performed at Carnegie Hall, but some things haven’t changed.

I cup my sex beneath my panties, startled to find myself wet. It’s one thing to be turned on. Another thing to be drenched when all he’s done is kiss my hand. The same hand that brushes my clit. It’s almost like he’s kissing me there. Almost, but not quite. It would change everything, for him to really kneel in front of me. For him to touch me in this place. Oh, but I can touch myself. He watches my hand move beneath the free-flowing linen, his green eyes dark, his jaw clenched. It’s a form of power, performing for him, even though I’m small and defenseless against him. Maybe that’s what he wanted me to feel. Maybe that’s what he wanted to remind me about playing the violin.

Or maybe he just wanted to see me climax.

His eyelids are heavy now. His lips a grim line on his harsh face. “Play the song you composed, little prodigy. I’ll know if you don’t.”

“How?” I demand, the word almost voiceless. My fingers already do what he wants. “There isn’t a bow. There aren’t any strings. You can’t hear anything.”

“I’ll know.” He’s implacable. Enough that my fingers form the positions, brushing my clit and then moving away. Brushing my clit and then moving away.

My breath catches. “Don’t make me do this alone.”

He’s standing a foot away from me, half-naked and bleeding—but somehow coated in armor. I can’t touch him. “You’re always alone when you play,” he says softly, almost sadly. “I’m the audience. The only thing I get to do is watch.”

Stricken, I try to pull my hand away. He really is punishing me.

He holds my hand between my legs, implacable, merciless. “Play the notes, Samantha.”

A sob escapes. “You won’t kiss me. You won’t.”

Emerald eyes show no mercy. He watches the fabric move as my hand plays, the notes pitch perfect, the music halted and strained on every breath. I come in a harsh pulse that’s almost painful, and he does kiss me then—not on my lips. He brushes his lips on my forehead, a balm and an indictment all the same. I’m alone in the tight little orgasm, muscles clenched hard enough it feels like I’m crying.