Page 27 of Serving the Maestro

Oh, man. What had I gotten myself into?

NINE

TRENT

I’d been playing piano for nearly thirty years and writing music for the last twenty.

Falling into a world of music and sound was effortless, welcomed, even. My life didn’t suck. To me, music was life.

So it was a pain in the ass when I found myself struggling to concentrate.

For the third time in under ten minutes, I restarted the song I’d been listening to. Not twenty seconds in, my mind drifted back to the conversations with Jazz days earlier.

To our agreement.

She’d delivered a contract a few hours ago, blushing as she handed it over. Her gaze had been level, holding mine steadily as she mentioned the appointment she’d had the day before for bloodwork.

She'd even spoken with a friend of hers who was a doctor about the kidney situation.

She'd hurriedly assured me that she'd been discreet and hadn't shared any names, the earnestness on her face oddly...endearing.

A discordant note jerked my attention back to the music, and I sighed, then rose from the couch. Pacing over to the floor-to-ceiling windows that ran the length of the room, I stared out. It was finally getting warmer. The snow from several days ago had mostly melted, except for the graying, dirty clumps where it had been shoveled to clear a sidewalk or road.

“Go for a walk,” I told myself. Clearing my head might help me focus on getting some work done, but I doubted it. My thoughts were trained on two things—Jazz...and the night I had planned.

Pulling my phone from my pocket, I opened the messages. All day, I'd resisted calling or texting, and it hadn't done any good.

Are we still on for tonight?

Three little dots popped up almost immediately, indicating she was typing a response.

Yes.

I smiled. She was quick with a reply.

I didn't respond. I tucked the phone back into my pocket, then braced my hands on the treated glass in front of me, arm spread wide. Anticipation pulsed inside. Having Jazz in my bed again was already reason enough for distraction.

But tonight, I was going to take the first few steps into showing her how to be a sub. My sub.

In exchange for some biological fluids that would hopefully impregnate her—not too fast, I hoped, Jazz had consented to letting me introduce her to BDSM.

A whisper of music slid through the back of my mind, a soundtrack for the excitement building in my veins. Turning from the window, I went to the piano and started to play, letting the new melody filter into my consciousness.

* * *

Jazz was right on time. I was still at the piano, refining the melody that had come to me a few hours earlier. I'd paused briefly to text her, telling her to come in, the doors were unlocked.

She'd responded with a thumbs-up emoji and asked if I liked Chinese.

I'd responded in kind and resisted the impulse to offer to buy.

We weren't dating.

But I figured it wouldn't hurt to keep in mind what was going on between us had an expiration date.

Although I couldn't hear her over the rising swell of the music, I knew when she came in. Bringing the song to a close, I continued to lightly stroke the keys. “Hello, Jazz.”

“Hi.” The husky sound came from behind me.

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