Torrid (Sordid 2)

I hadn’t been to the opera since my mother died.

Luka stared at Vasilije like he had two heads. “Jesus. You bought opera tickets?”

Vasilije cocked his eyebrow. “Fuck you. I heard the girl gets naked on stage.”

“I heard that happens at strip clubs, too.”

I choked back a giggle. Vasilije was right. As Salome performed the “Dance of the Seven Veils,” she removed each one until she was naked. Like most operas, the story was one fucked up piece of work. Salome demanded the head of her lover on a silver platter, and once she had it, she kissed it until her father Herod had her crushed to death.

“It doesn’t open for two more weeks,” Vasilije said.

I grinned. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

It really was. The opera was twisted, and erotic, and dark, just like we were. I scrambled for his present and shoved it at him with nervous hands. He looked down with surprise. I hadn’t asked him for money, and was used to not having any, so my gift was something that couldn’t be bought.

He ripped at the paper and threw open the lid to the box.

His long fingers dipped inside and pulled out the stack of paper, bound with red ribbon. His eyes scanned the pages as he flipped through them, his fingers trailing over the printed sheet music. And then he noticed the other item in the box. He lifted the flash drive out and looked at me with confusion.

“It’s finished,” I breathed. “Your symphony.” Last week I’d asked if he would buy me composing software, and he’d done it. “The program you bought can play back the composition as a full orchestra.” It wasn’t anywhere near as good as a true, live performance, but the recording had depth and layers my performance on the piano couldn’t capture. “I hope you like it.”

Vasilije’s pleased smile was a slow burn and warmed me to my core.

After we’d come home from the party last night, he’d fixed me a glass of vodka with a splash of cranberry juice, taken me to our bedroom, and we discussed everything we had planned. It led to him fucking me until I was beautifully sore all over. I’d lounged in the bed, recovering and sipping my drink, while he went to the drawer and got out his metal lunch box.

The smell of his burning joint turned me on, even though he’d left me satisfied. Usually he smoked before the sex, and I had a Pavlovian response to it.

“You want some?” he asked, blowing a puff of smoke out the window and into the freezing night air. “Could be our last night together.” He extended the joint out to me, but I shook my head. I’d never smoked before, other than one tiny puff on a cigarette when I was fifteen, and it had sent me into a coughing fit.

“No, thanks.” I took the final sip of the glass and set it on the nightstand. “I’m already drunk.”

He finished, stubbed it out, and shut the window before crawling into bed beside me. The cold skin of his chest pressed against mine as he kissed me. He’d given me rough tonight, and now seemed to want to give me the other side. He gently brushed his lips over mine, slow but needy.

We made out for a while. Long enough for the alcohol to make me sluggish and warm, and long enough for him to reach the peak of his ‘high.’ His mouth was everywhere. It roamed from my lips, over my cheekbone, and onto the shell of my ear.

“It’s a good thing,” he murmured, “I don’t have a fucking heart.”

“Mmm?” I had my eyes closed, enjoying the sensation of his warm breath filling my ear.

The cadence of his voice was slow and hushed. “If I did, I might love you.”

I drew in a deep breath, letting it fill my body and using it to try to push away the warnings flaring up. This was the weed talking, I was sure. But . . . could it be true, just a little?

“Lucky for you,” I said on a shaky breath, “I don’t have one either. Because if I did, I . . . might feel the same.”

“Good,” he whispered. Then, his mouth sealed over mine and there was no more conversation.

37

After lunch, I sat on the edge of the leather sofa in the office, wanting to chew at my nails as Vasilije listened to my music pour from the computer speakers. Our music, really.

I felt like I’d swallowed a bag of nails, and with every expression that crossed his face, the nails scratched at my insides. I’d listened to the movements so many times, I could no longer tell if they were good or not, and I wasn’t going to throw around the word masterpiece, but I was proud of the work.