Now his face was close and their noses touched. He smiled, the skin creased at the sides of his eyes, which were misty, now, and gentle.
“Milácku,” he whispered.
Fuck, you should stop this now—you’re like a drug addict who can’t leave her fix alone. You’ll never be free of him.
But reason could not prevail now. Not now his arms were around her, one hand cupping the back of her head, the other resting lightly on her back, ready to hold her in place, should she change her mind and try to escape him.
She touched her lips to his. The power of it was instantaneous and knee-weakening. She was back where she belonged, back in the only place she ever wanted to be—in a kiss with Milan, connected to him.
The hunger welled up inside her and she pressed herself into him, pushing him against the wall, hanging on to him by the shoulders. Tenderness turned to passion and their tongues curled together, probing with that old urgency she remembered so well.
She rubbed her leg against his, sighing into his mouth. He gathered a handful of her long concert dress and bunched it up in his fist, exposing one leg, ready to explore much further.
“Well, well.”
A voice forced their disconnection.
Lydia looked around, guilt written all over her swollen lips and damp face, to see von Ritter standing on the top stair above them.
“I think you win, Kaspar,” he said, turning away and leaving them.
“Shit,” whispered Lydia, falling into a crouch, head in hands.
“What’s the matter? It’s okay.” Milan tried to reassure her, dropping down to her level, but she pulled herself away.
“It’s not okay. It’s a mess. A big, unholy fucking mess. Oh, God. I’m collecting my violin from the dressing room and then I’m going home. I don’t want to see you or von Ritter or anyone for a month. At least.”
She broke away from Milan and flew for the stairs.
As she hurried up, she heard his parting words to her.
“I’ll wait for you, milácku. I’ll be here when you come to me.”
Also available from Total-E-Bound Publishing:
Food of Love: Highly Strung
Justine Elyot
Excerpt
Chapter One
Of all the days for a bomb scare on the Victoria Line, they had to choose this one.
Lydia Foster hugged her new violin case, stripped now of all the shiny stickers and stars of her battered but beloved student number, as the strip lights flickered on and off. Despite the ominous situation, most of the occupants continued reading their newspapers and listening to their iPods, well used to sudden and inexplicable standstills in dark tunnels. But Lydia could not be so sanguine. She checked her watch, agitated, and puffed out her cheeks when the long and short hands gave her news she didn’t want.
“Are you late for a concert?”
She almost jumped out of her seat. People just didn’t talk to you on Tube trains, but the white-haired gentleman to her left didn’t seem to know this rule.
“Um, no. A rehearsal, actually,” she said, when she’d made all the usual lightspeed calculations—Is he a maniac? Will he ask me weird, pervy questions? Would it be very rude of me to ignore him?
“I always wanted to play the violin,” the man confided. “Are you in a string quartet?”
“No, an orchestra. It’s my first day. First rehearsal. So I really don’t want to be late.” She sighed, looking up and down the carriage as if this might set the train back in motion.
“An orchestra! Professional?”