Page 31 of Ruthless Daddy
He sighed. “I’m sorry.”
“Well, it’s not your fault, is it.”
He didn’t come in. Not right away. He watched me for a beat, then two, and I felt myself heat up under the scrutiny, something like the ghost of embarrassment from being caught living in his space, curled up on his rug, wearing his old ex’s sweatshirt with the sleeves rolled to my wrists.
He cleared his throat. “May I?”
Something in the request—it wasn’t sheepish, not awkward, just careful—landed on me. The word “may” from a man like him, brutal and gentle at once, felt like a trick question. I could have said no. I wanted to say yes.
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
He crossed the room. His shoes were off; he wore only socks, which made him look less dangerous, but not less striking. He sat at the piano bench, hesitated, then lifted the lid. He playedone note, then another, the sound startling in its clarity, the kind of clear that made you forget anything else existed.
He played eight bars of something I didn’t recognize—slow, spare, sad. Then, when he caught me looking, he changed. The second thing was harder, faster, a burst of sound that rolled over the room and landed between my ribs. His fingers were quick and precise, the music filling the space like water.
He finished, let the last note hang.
I realized I was clutching the paperback to my chest, one hand tight around the spine.
I said, “You play beautifully.”
He looked over his shoulder, face still. “Come,” he said, very softly. “I’ll show you.”
I put the book aside. The rug was soft under my feet. I walked over, the air in the room tighter with every step, and sat at the bench beside him.
He took my right hand and placed it on the keys, fingers splayed. His hand covered mine. The heat of his palm, the weight of his fingers. I could feel the roughness at the ends, calluses built up over years, and the pads of his fingers pressed into the backs of mine, guiding them.
He pressed my thumb into a key in the center of the piano.
“One,” he said. Barely more than a whisper.
He guided my next finger to the key next to it.
“Two.”
I felt the pressure, the authority in it, the careful gentleness that told me he was used to handling things that broke.
We walked up the scale, five notes. Each time, he pressed my finger down, making the sound, not letting go until I had heard it fully.
At the fifth note, he stopped, his hand still over mine.
I turned to look at him. He was already looking at me. I wasn’t breathing right.
His hand was still over mine on the keys, and his face was so close that I could see where his stubble had started to come in, the shadow of it across his jaw, the darker line at the edge of his upper lip. His eyes were darker in the lamp than in the hallway, not quite black, but the kind of brown that you got lost in.
He didn’t move. He held so still I could feel him holding still, like he was afraid that if he moved, I would disappear.
I moved.
I put both hands on the sides of his face and kissed him.
This time it was not an alley. This time it was not a move, or a distraction, or a way to escape something worse. This time it was the only thing in the room that I could do that made sense. This time, it was a yes.
He made a sound—low, rough, almost a growl—and his hand came up off the keys and tangled in my hair. He pulled me into him, mouth hard on mine, the pressure so good I could have wept. His other hand slid to my waist and then under the hem of the shirt, palm flat on my bare skin, hot and sure and not shaking at all.
I opened my mouth for him. I wanted him to know it was not a mistake. He took it, tongue pressing in, the taste of him warm and dark and a little like the wine from before. I could feel his breath, the heat of it, and the way his chest hitched when I bit down on his lower lip, just a little, just enough for him to feel it.
He pulled me onto his lap. I did not weigh much, but the shift put my knee on his thigh, the shirt riding up. I could feel him—hard, real—under the thin cotton, and the jolt it sent up through my body made me gasp.
