Play Me (12 page)

“I’m in no
rush.”

I felt both a thrill
from the heat of his breath on my neck and relief in knowing he
wasn’t expecting one of those Hollywood,
rip-my-clothes-off-and-have-sex-against-the-door type situations.
Though when I finally glanced up at him and saw the twinkle in his
eye, I started to reconsider my previous reluctance to
against-the-door sex. He was gorgeous, no doubt about it, but that
insecurity still lingered—what did a guy like him, all sex and
food and deliciousness, see in me, with my drab clothes and obsession
with classical music? Was I just setting myself up for
disappointment?

He followed me into the
apartment, and I was thankful I hadn’t made much of a mess when
I got dressed a few hours ago, though maybe I should have left some
of my lingerie strewn provocatively around the apartment. No, I
thought to myself, he’s in no rush. You’re in no rush.
Take it slow. You’re good at slow.

“So here it is.”
Jake had moved to the middle of the room, confronting the behemoth
that was my piano. “My nemesis.”

“Your nemesis?”

“The beast that
wakes me up in the morning,” he clarified, but it was clear he
was teasing. “Though, I guess I do owe it some gratitude. After
all . . . ” He looked up at me, heat
burning in his eyes. “It brought me down here in the first
place.”

“Yes, well.”
I didn’t really know what to say, though my body was screaming
for me to stop messing around with a lifeless instrument and show
Jake the kind of music we could make together. But of course, my
logical brain won out, as it always did. “It appreciates you
being so understanding.”

“Does your piano
have a name?” Jake asked, settling himself on the bench,
examining the keys.

“A name?”

“You know how
some people name their cars, or their electronics, or . . . ”
He winked at me. “Other, more personal instruments.”

I blushed.

“Not that I’ve
done that,” he clarified quickly with a grin.

I cleared my throat,
trying not to think of the unnamed body part he was referring to and
how much I had enjoyed feeling it pressing against my stomach, hard
and hot, when we had kissed the other night.

“So, no name for
the piano?” Jake asked, and I shook my head.

“No name,”
I told him.

“What is it
you’re practicing for every morning?” he asked, his
attention focused back on the keys. He plinked one of them, the sound
echoing beautifully in the perfect acoustics of the apartment.

“A competition.”
I settled down next to him on the bench. “The winner gets a
mentorship with one of the best classical pianists in the city. And
money,” I added, though that was always the last thing on my
mind when it came to competing.

Jake let out a low
whistle. “A good mentorship is worth more than money, in my
opinion. Patricia, the former head chef of Grassfed, was my mentor
out of culinary school. I would never have gotten to where I am now
without her.”

I nodded. “Usually
these mentorships lead to positions at the Symphony, or sometimes the
opportunity to teach in a more prestigious setting.” I looked
down at the keys, recently polished and gleaming. “Though, I
would hate it if I didn’t have time for Jeremiah and my other
students. It’s almost more fun to teach novices than advanced
students.”

“I know what you
mean.” Jake plinked out a few more notes. “The cooking
program at the school with kids like Michael is way more fun than
training some of the recent culinary graduates. Especially those who
are like me—already looking to take over the restaurant.”
He gave me a sideways grin. “I’m not sure how Patricia
dealt with my attitude those first few months. I have no doubt I was
a major pain in her ass.”

“Well, you must
feel pretty good now that you’ve reached your goal,” I
said, thinking of all the articles I had read on Jake and the
restaurant—how all of them had commented on how young he was, a
Rising Star in the San Francisco culinary world.

But he only shrugged.
“I want to have my own place one day,” he told me. “One
that I own, that I have complete control over.”

“You don’t
have control now?”

He shook his head. “I’m
still cooking with Patricia’s recipes. The owner doesn’t
trust that people will still come if we try something new.”

I could sense his
frustration.

“Then again, if
my experiments turn out as well as the soup I served you the other
night, I suppose the owner’s fears are justified.”

“I never meant
to, I just, I—” I stammered, feeling terrible, but Jake
put his hand on my cheek.

“I’m
teasing,” he told me gently, his palm warm against my face. I
could feel the calluses there too, but I didn’t mind them. In
fact, I think I liked them, rough and real against my skin. “Besides,
you were right.” He returned his hands to the piano and I hated
the loss of his touch. “The soup was too complicated. Sometimes
we chefs forget how good simple things can be. We always want to
improve upon things that don’t necessarily need improving.”

“That’s
sometimes how I feel with music,” I told him. “Everyone
always wants to jazz up classical music—to make it more modern
or more exciting—when they should appreciate the skill and
beauty in the notes. For me, listening to someone truly gifted
playing one of Mozart’s concertos is enough to make me cry. It
doesn’t need any bells or whistles to make it special.”

Jake tilted his head
towards me. “You know, I’ve never really listened to a
lot of classical music.”

“What do you like
to listen to?”

“Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

“The Boss.”
He gave me half grin. “You know—”

“Bruce
Springsteen,” I finished and gave him my own smile. “Just
because I like classical music doesn’t mean I can’t
appreciate other kinds of music. I like ‘Thunder Road.’”

“He was my mom’s
favorite,” he said quietly, but it seemed more like he was
saying it to himself rather than me, so I didn’t press the
subject.

Instead, I spun on the
piano bench so I was facing the keys and played the opening bars of
“Thunder Road.” Even though I preferred classical, I
still knew a few other songs. Jake’s eyes widened and he
laughed.

“That’s
amazing.”

He slid out from the
bench and stood behind me. I could feel him, over my shoulder,
watching my fingers along the keys as I played the rest of “Thunder
Road.” When I was done, he applauded. Besides the polite
applause of the judges from the competition the other day, I hadn’t
heard someone applaud my playing in a long time. Usually it was just
silence, and then Mark would start listing all the things I had done
wrong. Even though I had messed up a few times just now, Jake either
didn’t mind or didn’t care. I was surprised by how happy
his applause made me feel.

His hands curved over
my shoulders.

“Can you play me
your favorite classical piece?”

I froze for a moment.
Of course I could, but no date had ever showed interest in my
playing, except for Mark, of course—but more and more I was
starting to think I could do without his interest.

Jake removed his hands.
“I’m sorry, if you don’t want to—”

“No.” I
took a deep breath. “I do.”

And then I started
playing my favorite piece, Chopin’s “Prelude in E Minor.”
I played the first few bars and then I felt Jake’s fingers in
my hair and my playing faltered.

“Sorry,” he
said. “I was just wondering why you wear your hair up all the
time?”

I stopped playing and
put a hand to the ever-present bun.

“It’s just
easier to have it up like this.” I looked back at him.

“Would you mind
if I took it down?”

I couldn’t
remember the last time someone else had touched my hair, but his
fingers felt so nice against the nape of my neck that I nodded.
Carefully and expertly, Jake removed the pins and placed them on the
surface of the piano. My hair fell heavily to my shoulders.

“That’s
better,” Jake said, his fingers sliding into the thick locks.

As his hands began to
play with my hair, mine started Chopin’s prelude again. This
time, I closed my eyes and focused on the music, the feel of the keys
beneath my fingers and the sensation of Jake’s hands in my
hair. When I was done, I felt as if I had played better than I had
ever played in my life.

I turned back to Jake,
my hair escaping his grasp, and he sank down onto the bench next to
me.

“That was
amazing,” he said.

Then, without thinking,
without second-guessing myself, I grasped the front of his shirt and
pulled his mouth to mine.

Jake

I could get used to
this, I thought as Ella pressed her lips against mine. The kiss was
eager and sure, her mouth already parting to let my tongue meet hers.
Without hesitating, I slid my hands into her hair—that
gorgeous, silken curtain of hair—and cupped her face, angling
it so I could kiss her more deeply. I couldn’t get enough, the
faint taste of frozen custard still on her tongue, and a sweetness
that was completely hers.

Her fingers were still
fisted in my shirt, her arms trapped between our bodies as I leaned
forward, wanting to be closer. One of my hands broke free from the
soft tangle of hair and curved over her shoulder and down to the
small of her back. The piano bench was narrow but somehow I managed
to pull her closer to me, my body wanting nothing more than to be
against hers. Every part of me was on high alert—from my mouth
to my hands to my cock—especially my cock. That particular body
part ached, straining behind my fly.

Then she broke away
from our kiss.

“Wait,” she
breathed, and even though my entire body seemed to vibrate with
desire for her, I stopped.

Slowly she stood and
came around the bench, standing in front of me. Her hair was wild,
her eyes dark, her mouth red and lush. Fuck. I wanted her so much, I
could barely think straight. I reached for her, bringing her mouth
against mine, feeling the sweet slide of our tongues meeting.

My hands slid down to
her hips, to her ass, and I pulled her onto my lap, her legs on
either side of me.

She gasped as we made
contact, the most intimate, desirous parts of us coming together.
Even through the layers of fabric, I was a hairsbreadth from losing
my goddamn control. The sound of her moan in my ear didn’t help
one bit. My hands clutched her hips.

“Careful,”
I choked, as she pressed against me. My cock was like a rocket, ready
to explode. But she didn’t seem to care, as her fingers fisted
in my hair, and her mouth, eager and greedy, settled on mine. I
grasped her hips, my hands smoothing over the fabric of her dress,
discovering her waist, her back, and that perfect round ass. Goddamn,
I wanted her. I wanted to tear off that dress and get a clear look at
the red lace that had peeked at me during dinner.

After seeing her that
first night in her black silk, I knew she was a woman with a penchant
for beautiful things, but the glimpse of her bra had nearly been my
undoing there in the park. Her skin seemed even more creamy and lush
against the bright red of the lace. If she were mine, I would shower
her with sexy nothings, gorgeous lingerie only I was allowed to see.

My hands moved
downward, searching for the hem of her dress, which was currently
bunched up around her thighs. My lips were distracted by hers, but I
paused when I found that her stockings ended near the top of her leg.
I tore my mouth from hers to look down at the dress I had been
peeling back. I nearly exploded when I saw the lacy tops of her
stockings against pale skin, held up by thin slips of satin.

“Are you wearing
garters?” I managed to ask, even though I could already see
that the answer was yes.

To my shock, Ella
blushed and nodded.

“Fuck,” I
moaned.

Who was this woman who
wore black shapeless dresses, blushed at each sexual insinuation, and
wore red lace and garters? She was a mess of contradictions I was
more than eager to explore. As long as I could explore the rest of
her as well.

One hand went around
the back of her neck as I pulled her mouth to mine, showing her with
my tongue and teeth exactly how hot I found her choice of
undergarments. My other hand busied itself with one of her garters,
finding the clasp and expertly unhooking it from the stocking. One.
Two. Just like removing a bra. Something else I had a great deal of
interest in doing. But for now, I was just going to enjoy the feel of
her bare skin against my palm as I dragged my hand up her leg,
beneath her dress, until I found the curve of her ass, clad in a red
lace thong.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Ella pressed her hips
hard against mine and this time I was the one who groaned into her
mouth. I could barely stand it, the feel of her bare ass in my hand,
a thin strip of lace the only thing between me and the most intimate
part of her. Even though my brain screamed, “Go slow,” I
knew that unless she stopped me, there wasn’t anything on earth
that would keep me from touching her. Instead, she leaned back,
giving me easier access as I traced the waistband of her thong from
her ass to just beneath her belly button and then slowly downward.

She was wet. So goddamn
wet, I could feel it through the thin lace. My fingers brushed gently
against her and she bucked against me.

“So fucking hot,”
I whispered in her ear, my other hand twisted in her gorgeous hair.

She leaned forward,
burying her face in my neck as I continued my exploration, dragging
my fingers softly across the damp thong. Gently, I pulled it aside,
skin touching skin. I felt her moan more than I heard it and it
guided me to the most sensitive part of her, the pad of my thumb
sliding slick against her.