But I realize it’s not the light at all . . . It’s me.
“Save her,” I beg into the darkness, but it swallows me before I’m sure the words reached out.
Chapter 39
Scarlet
I wake up with a start, blinking through the haze to bring the room into focus. But even with the faint moonlight streaming through the tall stained-glass window, I can’t see much because it’s still the middle of the night. I turn and reach next to me through the darkness, but all I feel is the barely warm, soft sheet.
The moody chords of a violin filter through, caressing my senses, calling to me.
I answer, throwing the sheet off of my body and climbing out of bed. Barefoot on the ancient stone floor, I walk out of the bedroom, toward the haunting melody.
It can’t be Carter.
It’s too slow. Too sad. Too . . . emotional.
But as I walk into the church’s main nave, I find him lying back on the sofa, eyes closed as he holds the instrument under his jaw. He strokes the strings like he caresses each and every one, a delicate, tragic song spilling off of them like tears.
It’s been a few weeks since we were both given a clean bill of health and released from the hospital. He woke up a couple of days before me, and Morrigan confessed he threatened every single nurse and doctor in that place, explaining in vivid detail everything he would do to them if I’m not well and whole. And he was still strapped to IVs at that point.
That story gives me hope that maybe he does care about me more than the others. I know “love” is off the table. I understand it’s something I’ll never have from him. But I think I’ve made peace with that.
He cares for me. He protected me. He fought for me.
And that’s more than I could have asked for.
Now, if he would stop coddling me, that would be great.
Due to my CIP, the doctor advised me to take itveryeasy for at least another month, but the man took it like the only thing I’m allowed to do is rise from the bed to sit on a chair. The heaviest thing he’ll allow me to lift is a fucking fork. I love the attention, but I’m fucking fine.
My family, on the other hand, seems to agree with him. Even if they’re fucking furious at the man and may never forgive him for what happened to me. The fact that he almost died seemed to have buttered them up a bit, though.
But I’m fine . . . and I need him.
Stepping over the stones and soft rugs, I reach him just as he opens his eyes; he’s slightly startled by my presence.
“Don’t stop,” I whisper as I ease my sleep shirt over my head and bend over him.
I slide against his body, situating myself under his bent arm as he maneuvers the bow over the strings. Straddling him gently, I keep my shoulders under his arms and try not to disrupt his song. The slow melody is too mesmerizing to ruin, the chords played with incredible passion, touching parts of me that ignite at the sounds.
One particular part especially, which has been begging for the man.
I reach between us, find the seam of his loose pajama bottoms, and tug it down until his cock breaks free. With my head against his chest, listening to his increasing heartbeats melting into the melody he creates with his precious violin, I stroke his length. He hardens beneath me, soft groans vibrating through his chest as precum coats his broad tip.
Carter’s melody falters but doesn’t break. With his dark eyes locked on me, he follows every shift of my body as I guide him where I want him.
The haunting notes wrap around us—a slow, melancholy tune that feels like it’s being ripped right out of his chest. It vibrates through him, humming in the air. In my body. My strokes along his length match the tempo of his bow, slow and deliberate.
I don’t rush, keeping the pace teasing, watching him fight to maintain control of the song. His fingers tremble slightly on the strings, and a raw edge creeps into the notes as I shift my hips, positioning my core above him.
The head of his cock presses against me, and I lower myself slowly, taking him inch by inch, piercing by piercing, a quiet gasp leaving my lips as he fills me. His bow drags across the strings, the sound vibrating sharply and aching in the air.
“You’re cruel,” he murmurs. But he doesn’t stop playing.
“Not cruel,” I whisper against his ear. My breath brushes the shell as I begin to move, rolling my hips in slow, deliberate circles. “Just making sure you remember I’m still alive.We’restill alive.”
He groans softly, and the sound blends with the violin’s mournful song. It swells, the notes trembling with each movement of my body, each time I rise and fall back around his length, taking him deeper. The rhythm of his bow adjusts to match the pace I set, slow and sensual. A wordless conversation between us.
