Sonata (Butcher and Violinist 2)

When we’d gotten out of the tub, he dried us off and carried me into the bedroom. I climbed into bed.

As always, he’d turned music on. It was slow jazz for the evening, nothing experimental or classical. Just a soothing sound in the background.

He brought the lit candles in from the bathroom and turned the bedroom lights off.

Damn. He’s so beautiful.

“I love when you look at me like that.” He climbed into bed and slid over next to me.

“I love looking at you like that.” I turned toward him as he wrapped his arms around me. It was cheesy, but true. I could play cool and smooth, but what did it matter, when it would all be a lie. He captivated me, and I couldn’t get enough.

I slid my breasts against his muscular chest and inhaled him. He smelled so delicious, I wanted to eat him. Dip that hard muscular body in chocolate. Lick honey off him.

Why do you smell so good?

Even after he ran in the morning. Right when he was sweaty and exhausted. Even then, I nuzzled him senseless. Even then, I wanted to do so much. Smell him. Eat him. Crawl inside his skin.

His smell was intoxicating.

Even in this moment, when I was a little on edge, I enjoyed cuddling against his warm body. Breathing, him in. Was it a primal urge with Jean-Pierre? Was it all pheromones directing my body to crave him so?

His voice smoothed over my skin. “Are you hungry?”

“No.” I snuggled closer into his warm hold. “Are you? I can get you something.”

He chuckled. “No, I’m not hungry. And the butler can get us something. You must stay in my arms, princesse.”

I grinned. “Are you really going to call me princess?”

“I am.”

“And what will I call you, my prince?”

“I’m more of a king.”

“Then, I’m more of a queen.”

“You’re correct, reine.”

Satisfied, I closed my eyes, enjoyed the heat of him, and the jazz filling the air.

In the song, the saxophone lifted its melody higher, adding more emotion to the notes. The slow thumping of a trumpet played along, helping the saxophone deliver its message.

Jean-Pierre spoke within the candlelit darkness. “I can change my room, if it’s too much for you…the colors.”

I opened my eyes and turned my view to him. Candlelight painted his face and some places and left shadows in others, not giving me a perfect picture of that face. More distorted and hidden. “You don’t have to change your bedroom for me.”

He shrugged. “Rafael said it looks like Hades, the god of the underworld lives here. He said you would hate it.”

“No way. I love it. Besides, Hades would’ve probably darkened the walls.”

Jean-Pierre chuckled. “That’s what I told him. He said that even Hades would be depressed in here.”

“I don’t think it’s depressing. It just reminds me of. . .”

He raised his eyebrows. “What?”

“It sounds crazy.”

“Tell me.”

“It reminds me of a vampire’s room.”

He snorted. “And that’s better than Hades? At least Hades is a god.”

“But my vampire, that owns the room, is sexy and mysterious.”

“I like that.” He ran his fingers through my hair. “What made you think of a vampire?”

“The bed reminds me of blood.”

His body tensed against me.

“Blood and darkness,” I said. “That’s what the room says, but. . .there’s brightness in the room where it counts.”

He groaned.

“What?”

“I’m definitely changing the bedroom. It does sound depressing. You should be in charge of it. When I let Rafael decorate, he goes too far.”

“What rooms did he do?”

“Everything but the bedroom. I don’t care about the decorating. I let him do it. It keeps Rafael busy.”

“Do you stay in Paris a lot?”

“I do. When I’m not here, then I’m in Nice.”

“Nice is where you were born and raised?”

“Yes. We left when I turned twelve.”

“Why?”

His body tensed again. “It’s a long story filled with. . .bad memories.”

I swallowed, wondering what had happened to him. “I’m sorry, if I’m asking a lot of questions. I just want to know everything about you.”

“I understand.” He touched me, sending lovely shivers through my frame. “I just don’t want to. . .scare you away.”

“I think we faced that possibility when you confessed everything. And…I’m still here.”

“You are.” He twirled one of my curls around his finger. “But, what would make you run away?”

“Not black carpets or a tragic story from when you were twelve.” I slipped my finger along his skin. “What happened today?”

He continued to play with my hair. “We haven’t found Celina or Shalimar, but there are more details that are coming up.”

“What details?”

“The man that I told you about, named Kazimir—”

“The Lion?”

“Yes. The Lion.” Jean-Pierre frowned at me. “Kazimir is not dead.”

“What does that mean for you?”

“That, I possibly bet on the wrong horse. I helped his stepbrother Sasha, plot to murder him. Now Kazimir has killed his stepbrother. I don’t know if Kazimir discovered my part in Sasha’s plot, but I would’ve been happier, if Kazimir was dead.”