Eternal Heat (Firework Girls #3) (17 page)

The relaxed mood in the kitchen changed once I started telling them about seeing Erik on campus. I decided to tell them the story from the beginning, hoping it’d be easier to take if they could see how everything’s unfolded, but as soon as I get to the part about asking Erik to tell me his side of the story, my dad interrupts.

“Wait,” he says, frowning. “Are you back together?”

Boy, he put things together quickly. I really wasn’t at that point in the story yet, but my face betrays me.

“After what he did to you?”

“Robert,” my mom says warningly. She wasn’t exactly happy with Erik either, but she didn’t seem to hold a grudge the way Dad has. Or the way I did. Not that I fault either one of us.

“Will you just listen?” I ask.

He makes a gesture to indicate he will, even if he doesn’t want to. I rush to fill in the rest, eager for him to forgive Erik like I did once I knew what happened, and to stop looking at me like he thinks I’ve been taken by a sleazy con artist or something. By the time I’m done, my dad is rubbing his forehead, looking pretty unhappy about how it’s all come back full circle.

“Poor Erik,” my mom says, leaning on her elbows on the table. “I feared it might have been something like that, but I sure wish we’d known at the time.”

I think again about how hard it must have been for Erik to have his own family working against him when he was still so young.

“Okay, that’s all well and good,” my dad says, looking at me firmly, “but do you really think it’s a smart idea to start things up again?”

I feel my defenses starting to come up. Between my dad and Jack, this is getting ridiculous. I’m not a little girl who needs protecting. I’m twenty-three. I can make up my own mind. “Why wouldn’t it be?” I ask, trying to keep my voice controlled.

“Look, you guys aren’t kids anymore,” he says, in a tone that suggests we’re still acting like it. I furrow my brows in frustration. “You’re at an age where things have the potential to mean a lot more. For any relationship you’re in at this point in your life, you need to ask yourself what kind of future you have together.”

“Robert,” my mom says, trying to soothe him.

“No, really,” he says, refusing to be reined in. “It’s hard enough for concert pianists to have any sort of meaningful relationship because they’re on the road all the time.”

I try not to roll my eyes at him. Why is he saying this as if I don’t already know?
I’m
the one who freaking told him what it’s like for people in my field.

“What chances do you have if you’re
both
on the road?” he asks. “Not to mention all this history you have.”

“We just barely got back together dad,” I say. “Slow down.” I’m still not ready to think much into the future, and this isn’t helping. Things with Erik are amazing, but they’re also incredibly intense. I can’t ever seem to get enough of him and he seems to feel the same about me. Taking it a day at a time is all I can handle right now. “I wish you would just... be happy for me.”

He sighs. “I just don’t want you to get hurt again.”

“Don’t worry,” I say a little petulantly, tired of having to defend my relationship with Erik. “I’m on the pill.”

He gives me a look. “That’s not what I mean.”

“Well what
do
you mean?”

“What’s going to happen if one of you decides it’s just too hard and isn’t going to work?”

I frown. I can’t know for certain the future of our relationship any more than anyone can know the future of
any
relationship. I don’t have a crystal ball. What does he want from me?

“I’m an adult now,” I say at last. “Let me worry about that.”

As much as I hate to admit it, my father has planted a sliver of doubt I haven’t been able to completely remove. Practicing for the upcoming regional competition is keeping it fresh in my mind. There
are
complications with us being in the same field. But it isn’t the travelling lifestyle of concert pianists I worry about the most, although there is that. It’s the fact that we’re both always going to be competing against one another for the precious few opportunities in the world of professional pianists.

The truth is, the Myra Hess Piano Competition is just the beginning.

On the other hand, the fact that we’re going to be competing against one another is going to be true whether we stay together or not. Neither one of us is going anywhere. And if I’m going to compete against him on stage, regardless of the outcome, I’d rather go home in his arms afterwards than not.

I’ve decided to keep these concerns largely to myself, for now at least. First, because it’s my hope that they’re fleeting. I was able to live in Erik’s shadow before, so I should be able to do it again, even though the stakes feel a lot higher now. Second, it’s my problem, not his. I’m the one playing second fiddle, so I’m the one who has to make peace with it. Erik’s only ever been encouraging, and that’s no different now. Why should I lay all this on his shoulders?

In some ways, the whole situation is a vortex of swirling emotions vying for attention: I’m deliriously in love with him and relieved to have him back in my life, I’m terrified to face him in the competition, and I’m just as determined to win as I’ve ever been. I just keep thinking about the possibility of performing at freaking
Lincoln Center,
and that pushes me to try harder, against all odds.

As we practice together, even if I’m able to hide my little doubts, there’s one thing that’s clear to us both: I’m desperate to win, and so is he.

That doesn’t stop us from taking the inevitable break from practice and winding up naked on his living room floor or in his bed and going at it like our lives depended on it. If I had any sense at all, I’d practice on my own more than with him. Here at his place, he’s a bit of a distraction.

But when have I ever had sense when it comes to Erik Williams?

Besides, we’re making up for lost time.

My last class let out only an hour ago, and I already find myself in Erik’s bed once again. I have one leg thrown up over his shoulder, and am watching the muscles in his firm chest all the way down to his pelvis as he thrusts his cock into me without mercy. This is the raw, animal side of Erik that reminds me he’s not a kid anymore.

I’m not a kid either. I’m so wet the room is filled with the sound of him slamming me. I’m crying out shamelessly, my face drawn in an expression of pleasure that would put even porn stars to shame. Everything about him gets me hot: his sexy body, his impossibly gorgeous face, his spell-bounding music, his tender declarations of love. Sometimes I just want to consume him.

He clutches my thigh to his chest and rams me until I’m close to the edge. He doesn’t let me go over though. He pulls out and lowers my leg across my body, wanting me to turn over. I want it too, and get onto my hands and knees, arching my ass back and up to meet his cock. My long braid falls to one side—we didn’t bother undoing it—and I brace myself as he aims and enters eagerly. Overcome with the pleasure of him inside me, I drop onto my elbows and drop my head at the same time. God, he’s filling me up and lighting my pussy on fire and it’s still not enough. I still need more. I rock back against him hard, my tits swinging furiously.

I’m climbing hard. I angle myself so I’m open even more, and his sack starts hitting my swollen clit. I moan in approval. He grips me by the shoulder so he can pound me harder.

“Yes,” I breathe.

His other hand grabs my tit and massages it eagerly.

I drop onto my chest, trapping his hand between my breast and the bed. He still squeezes me firmly. My ass is curved back and up sharply. I start to tighten around him, approaching the tipping point. His balls swing against my clit. Throbbing with heat, my pussy clutches his stiff cock.

“Harder,” I say.

He holds my shoulder more firmly and works us up toward the peak. I thrust against him over and over, the pleasure in my body so high I can’t believe I haven’t come yet. I grip the sheets with both hands and press my face into the mattress, stifling my cry as he rides me higher and harder. Finally, I break and my climax gets me thrashing and flaying. I clamp hard around him and he’s stretched as taut as he can go before his hot fluids rush into me. We both cry out, riding our joint orgasm unhindered by any self-consciousness. We lash against one another, and the pleasure in my body explodes in burst after burst. His cock is like a battering ram, pounding me deliciously. My climax keeps me in its grips for a long time, then releases until I’m limp and panting with Erik coming down from his high too. He slides in and out of me more slowly, then comes out and lies down to the side of me, partly laying on top of me. We take a few moments to catch our breath, then I turn my head so I can look at him and we both break into broad grins.

“Holy shit,” he says. “You’re like a little sex goddess.”

I laugh a little, still panting. “I don’t know about that, but I must say, having sex with the grown-up you is a completely different experience.”

He laughs, all low and rumbly. Someone should put
that
on a CD, because I could listen to it over and over again.

His arms pull me in closer and I adjust so we’re lying chest to chest. I exhale deeply, my body sinking into the kind of relaxed state that goes clear to my bones. He caresses my cheek and kisses me gently. “I love you, sweetheart.”

I smile and my heart jumps. I haven’t tired of hearing Erik say those words to me, and hope I never do. “I love you, too.”

He kisses me again, and then we sink into a deeper embrace. My body is getting heavy. I feel a delicious post-sex nap coming on.

He lightly trails his fingers along my back and arms. I can tell he’s wide awake, but I‘m so sleepy and relaxed I can barely move. He lightly kisses my cheek. “Will my playing bother you?” he whispers.

Eyes still shut, I shake my head slightly. We’re approaching the time in the day we reserve for him to get in an uninterrupted practice session. My slot’s a little later. Plenty of time for sleep.

He kisses me again and gently extricates himself, tucking me snugly under the covers and giving me one last kiss on the cheek. Just as I’m drifting off, his music comes up from downstairs and I smile, surrendering myself to sleep and his music at the same time.

Later, as I’m nearing the conclusion of my own practice session, he comes in from the study where he’s been doing some homework, and slides onto the bench next to me.

I wrap up my song and give him a kiss. “Just a few minutes more.”

“Will you play your song for me?” he asks.

“What song?”

“The one I heard you play in the practice room before. Remember?”

I do remember. I remember being a little mortified that he’d heard it. I still don’t know how much he heard. Hopefully just the tail end. “I don’t play that for people.”

“I’m not
people
,” he says. “Come on, it’s just me.”

I don’t know if I can. My heart has started to pound and I’m not even sure why.

He takes my hands in both of his. “Please,” he says. Then a slow smile blooms on his face and my breathing shallows. How I love his smile. He kisses me gently, still holding my hands.

“Please?” he says again, carefully letting go of me and sliding off the bench. “Okay?” He’s smiling but watching me, like he’s trying to keep me in place just with his eyes. It’s working. He lays down on the floor, looking up at me.

“For me?”

I sigh.
Dammit.

He gives me a satisfied smile, knowing I’ve given in.

I look at the keys.
It’s just us,
I tell myself. No one else has to know. I’m not playing for my professor or anything ridiculous like that. I’m just playing around, and Erik will understand that.

In the next second, I change my mind.

Then I change it back again.

Oh, hell.

I practically attack the keys, beginning the song with too much gusto but needing that to get me started. Soon, the music becomes what it’s meant to be and that magic thing inside me happens and it’s only me and my music. There’s that little flutter of fear in my heart—the only evidence that part of me knows I’m playing for someone on purpose, and not because I got caught—but playing this way has a unique kind of power over me. It draws something out of me that’s wild and vulnerable, and when I’m able to tap into it, it surges through me even more than the great classical compositions do.

It’s practically blasphemous.

When I’m done, my heart is pounding so soundly in my breast, I think it’s going to break loose. I’m always a bit overcome after playing like this, but that little flicker of fear has now transformed into an inferno and is violently competing for space in my heart.

I grip my hands together on my lap and glance at him nervously. He’s sitting up cross-legged now, with a stunned look on his face.

God, this is why I don’t play my own stuff for people. It’s one thing to be critiqued on how I’m playing fucking
Bach
or something brilliant and
centuries
removed from where I am now. I don’t know if I can handle a critique on something so personal.

“If you don’t like it,” I say, “I don’t want to know.”

He blinks and shakes his head sharply. “What the hell are you talking about? Ashley, you’re practically handing me this thing.”

“Handing you... what thing?”

“The Hess Competition. Why in the hell aren’t you playing that?”

I scoff. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was trying to sabotage me. Not that he would. Not that he needs to. “It’s just...” I don’t really want to talk about this. “It’s nothing.”

“Nothing,” he says flatly.

I frown and cross my arms at him.

He blinks at me, as if he’s had some sort of revelation. Then he frowns himself. “Seriously Ashley? You’re still doing this shit?”

“What are you getting irritated for?” I ask, feeling pretty irritated myself. “I didn’t play that for you so you could give me crap about it.”

I get up from the piano and head for the kitchen, not even knowing what I need in there. I hear him getting up to follow me.

“Why are you hiding your talent?” he says, and I cringe. “I don’t get it.”

“Hey, I’m hardly hiding my talent. I’ve won my fair share of competitions too, you know.”

“I’m sorry, but playing like that in secret like you’re some teenaged boy jacking off in the shower”—I spin on him—“is absolutely hiding your talent.”

“You know, I don’t really need advice about it from someone like you.”

“Someone like me?” he says.

My heart’s pounding like a cornered animal. Why can’t he leave me alone about this? “Yes. Someone like you. You have no fucking idea what it’s like to try to compete with people like you, who’ve had the benefit of professional training your
entire freaking lives.
I think I’m doing just fine keeping up, if you want to know the truth, so I’d appreciate it if you’d stop giving me shit about what I do or don’t play. I’ve got enough things getting in my way.”

He cocks his head at me, like he’s seeing me for the first time. His anger drops away immediately, but the intensity of his expression hasn’t changed at all. I cross my arms in front of my chest protectively. “Let me tell you something, Ashley. Lack of money and opportunities aren’t what’s getting in your way. The only thing getting in your way is your own head. Because when you can get past whatever your hang up is well enough to let loose, you’re a fucking
goddess
on that thing, doing shit
no one
at Hartman or anywhere
could
ever
teach you. So stop blaming me and everyone else for your problems and play that damned piano like I know you can.”

My arms are still crossed and I’m still frowning at him, but I’m blinking back stunned tears and I can’t unhear what he’s just said.

His expression softens and he comes up to me, putting both hands on my shoulders. I still can’t move. He’s stirred up a storm in me and I can’t push it down. I’m trying, but I can’t make it go away.

“Don’t be afraid to show people what’s inside you,” he says. He gives my shoulders a squeeze, puts a soft kiss on my forehead, and quietly leaves me to deal with the aftermath of his words in private.

After dinner, I head back to my place for a change of clothes. Erik hasn’t pushed me any more about the matter—other than to say he thinks I should change my piece for the regionals—and we’ve managed to rather soberly recover.

But as I gather my things together for another couple nights at his place, the silence of the apartment is shattered by my song lilting around in my head.

Am
I handing this competition to him? But having the gall to play my own piece feels far too risky. In seven days we’re heading to regionals in Seattle, where I won’t be up against just him, but the best in every music conservatory in the west. Only three pianists will advance to the finals in New York. If I want to be one of them, I can’t afford to screw around.

His words come back to me: “Don’t be afraid to show people what’s inside of you.”