Dark Notes

I can’t afford running shoes or food for my cat.

A heavy pressure sinks into my muscles, urging me to storm into her life and fix her problems. I have the money, determination, and desire to improve her situation. As her teacher, she’s my responsibility. To nurture. To protect.

All of which is appropriate as long as I don’t imagine the grip of her cunt around my cock.

She scoops up the cat and nuzzles it against her neck as she carries it inside. The door closes, and the curtains fall across the window, shutting me out. Time to go.

On the drive back to the Garden District, I resolve to maintain professionalism around Miss Westbrook. If I manage to finish the year without burying myself between her legs, I might find a rather satisfying future at Le Moyne. Of course, keeping my hands off her also means my future won’t include a jail cell.

As I walk into my house, I’m greeted with stacks of packed boxes, bare walls, and a total lack of warmth despite the humidity. I moved in three months ago, but haven’t really moved in. Unpacking feels a lot like acceptance.

Acceptance of a life without Joanne.

I drift through the spacious living room, hearth room, and kitchen, every corner and archway adorned with custom moldings and deep earthy tones. Maybe tomorrow I’ll begin filling the rooms with furniture and personal belongings. But tonight, all I need is the brilliant piece of craftsmanship that sits down the hall.

I make my way there, veering into my favorite room, the reason I bought this overpriced estate. The pristine hardwoods shine beneath the chandelier, and the Gothic arched fireplace at the far end conjures images of distant lands and mystical cultures. But the room’s centerpiece demands my full attention.

Approaching my grandfather’s Fazioli concert grand piano, I run a finger along the curved body. Rare and extremely valuable, it took three years to make, crafted with superb materials, down to the gold-plated hinges and screws. The heart of the piano is carved from the same red spruce trees Stradivari used for his famous violins. But that’s not why I cherish this sexy beast.

I take my position behind the keys and let my mood decide the melody. Inhaling deeply, I finger through the slow-building intro of “Toxicity” by System Of A Down. As the metal song changes tempo, growing heavier, more aggressive, every muscle in my body engages. My fingers grab at the notes, my torso sways, and my head rocks in time with the staccato beats, my entire being captured and controlled by the acoustics.

The majestic projection propels me to the top note as I bang my hands along the keys, wrestling every molecule of power the piano offers. The crystalline clarity enchants me, consumes me, and I fall in love with this instrument all over again. I depend on this experience. I’ve dedicated my entire life to mastering it, and I need it now to carry me through the days and months without Joanne.

Maybe I’ve reached the pinnacle of my success in the music world. Maybe I’m destined to be a lonely, bitter old man.

Or maybe I haven’t found my place yet, my part in it all, and maybe—as Ivory so passionately put it—I’ll be there when the music begins.

It’s universally known that the more forbidden something is, the more desirable it becomes. I feel this truth like a fist around my balls as I enter my classroom after lunch and find the forbidden object of my desire waiting for me.

Ivory stands beside my desk, alone and watching me with huge dark eyes. With her arms crossed beneath her breasts and her raised chin radiating attitude, she has no idea how badly I want to restrain her, whip her, and fuck her.

Her black dress hangs like a tarp on her small frame, which only glorifies my memory of her bare body, giving power to the secret we share. Is she thinking about yesterday, when I memorized all the skin she’s hiding? The mole on the rib just under her right breast, the delicate patch of freckles on her toned thigh, the decorative ink scrolling across her back—all of it belongs to me now. I crave another peek, more skin, more Ivory.

She straightens her spine, inadvertently pushing out her ample chest, and glares at me as if she’s reading my mind and deems it appalling.

I could no more stop my heart from being ripped from my chest—thank you for that, Joanne—than I can control the primal way my body reacts to Ivory Westbrook.

Heat floods my muscles as I erase the space between us. My mouth dries as her eyes track my movements around the desk. Gnawing pressure builds behind my abs as I take in the sensual shape of her lips, the vein bulging in her throat, and the wariness in her gaze.