Page 59 of Counterpoint and Harmony

Chapter Thirty-Three

Pedal point:a sustained or repeated note in a song, often in the bass register. The term is a reference to the bass pedal keys on a pipe organ.

Charlie

With my arms wrapped around his neck, I press myself into Damian, stroking his tongue with mine.

We haven’t had any time alone since my show in Seattle. I deliberately scheduled myself so that we couldn’t spend time alone when I went to Spokane for his recital. Crying after sex seemed like a good reason to put on the brakes.

But now?

I don’t know.

Even though we still talk as much as ever, he still hasn’t said he loves me. But I saw the way his eyes flashed, the surprise and happiness, when I was the one who brought his flowers.

And he offered me his hand and rescued me from the crowd, leaving behind the concert and his obligations as a competition winner.

That has to mean something, right? I mean,right?

His hands slide under my shirt, provoking a groan from him, and all fretting and worry about what this means, the status of our relationship, is driven from my head.

Because I’ve missed him. I crave his touch, even though I’ve been denying myself access to it. At this point, if he told me he only wanted to be friends with benefits, I’d probably agree. For now. I want him back in my life in whatever capacity I can get him, and if that means he withholds the only other thing I want from him—his love—then so be it.

On that thought, I bring my hands down, sliding over his chest, pulling back from our kiss to find the knot of his tie. Tugging at the silk, I slide it off, the knot untangling itself as I drop it to the floor. Then I fall to work on his buttons.

Damian’s hands stilled on my back when I undid his tie, like he wasn’t sure what was happening, but now that I’m working on his shirt, he catches up, pulling my top up, distracting me from my work so he can get the shirt over my head.

I’m pulling the tails free of his pants so I can get to the last few buttons when I have to stop again to let my bra straps fall off my arms. Damn bra straps. I need to start wearing strapless bras around him. They’d just pop off without interrupting me.

His hands cup my breasts, his thumbs brushing the tips, bringing them to hard points, again distracting me from getting his clothes off. And when his lips close over one nipple, I have to give up on undressing him, my fingers sliding into his hair.

After working over my nipples till I’m panting and my short nails are digging into his scalp, he straightens, his eyes still on my chest, surveying his handiwork. Without a word, he takes my mouth in a demanding kiss, guiding me back till my legs hit the bed. He breaks the kiss as he lays me down, taking a step back to quickly strip off his shirt. Toeing off his shoes, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet, extracting a condom and tossing it on the bed before removing the rest of his clothes.

Watching him, I arch my brow. “You always carry those these days?”

He lifts one shoulder and lets it drop. “When I know I’m going to see you, anyway.”

“Aren’t you a Boy Scout?”

A grin is his only answer. Which is fine, because I don’t know what I want him to say to that. But it only serves to prove my point that our relationship, at least our in-person relationship, has become more about lust and sex than love.

But that train of thought only makes me sad, so I push it away, wanting to enjoy this, whatever this is, while it lasts.

When he finishes undressing, I stand and strip off my own pants and thong, enjoying the flare in Damian’s eyes as he watches me. I also enjoy the way he grips himself, giving himself a squeeze and a short stroke, like he can’t help touching himself as he watches me undress.

With a cheeky smile, I slip my black wedges back on, then turn and bend over the bed.

Damian gives an appreciative grunt, his hand rubbing down my back and over my ass. “You want it this way again?”

“Yes.” I close my eyes at the memory of the last time I was bent over a bed with heels on, not sure if I’m trying to hold onto it or push it away. That was before. When he told me he loved me countless times a day. When we were making love, not just having sex.

But I don’t think I can handle looking into his eyes again while he moves inside me. I can’t handle being laid bare for him to see. And if I close my eyes this time, I don’t think I can handle it if he lets it go or if he commands me to open them again.

It’s better to not be face-to-face. This way we both get what we want, what we need, without risking more. Because being with him is a risk for me. Every time.

Not me professionally. No.

Personally. Emotionally.

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