Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Blue eyes widened. “How did I do that?”
“By annoying me into this,” Amani deflected with a dry chuckle, before sighing and forcing himself to just…be honest.
He couldn’t shove Victor back by accusing him of using charm and platitudes to present a false face if he was going to be defensive and careful as well—and they were going to be working together for at least a few more weeks. He could at least let his guard down a little, especially when if not for Victor’s bizarre intrusion into his life…
It might have been years, before he rediscovered the feeling of strings quivering under his fingers again.
“No, I…” He wet his lips, then continued, “It’s true that I need this for my tuition, but I don’t think any other situation would have ever made me consider playing again. I’d thought it would be a humiliating and painful experience, to touch a cello again.” He took a deep breath. “Instead it was just…wonderful.”
“I’m glad,” Victor murmured, husky and deep. “I’m glad this doesn’t hurt you.”
Amani remained silent, simply looking at Victor, at…at that intense, almost consuming way Victor watched him, as if just looking at Amani fulfilled something for him. It was like the entire night was holding its breath, drawing in to whisper something between them—and Amani looked away sharply, tucking his hair back and forcing a smile that made his mouth feel hard and cold.
“Don’t get sentimental on me,” he said. Focus. Business. Lessons. And not this straight boy who was probably enjoying the fun little game of pretending to be as fascinated by the femme as he would be by a woman. “Show me your posture,” he ordered—then cut Victor off when Amani caught him, from the corner of his eye, reaching for the cello. “No, not with the cello. Have you been practicing?”
Victor froze, then let his arms drop and shifted to arrange his body, straightening his spine and spreading his thighs, muscle bunching against his jeans. He lifted his chin, looking straight forward, and raised his arms, one higher than the other, one lower, fingers of his left hand curled as if resting against the neck of an invisible cello.
“Every day,” he said. “Even in the office.”
“Very good.” Amani paused, wrinkling his nose as he took in the full picture of Victor’s body. “…not that good. You’re still holding your legs wrong, and your arms are like turkey wings.”
“Thanks. I feel very attractive right now.” Victor snorted. “This would be easier if I was actually holding the cello.”
“You shouldn’t need the cello to show you how to sit. Then you’re just using it as a prop, and an excuse not to develop the proper posture on your own.” Amani uncrossed his legs and stood. “Here.”
He circled Vic’s chair to stand behind him, and leaned over to curl his hands around the strong curves of his biceps, shifting his arms to the proper position based on Victor’s posture and the size of a 4/4 cello. His skin was warm under Amani’s palms, a faint brush of hair tickling as Amani stroked his fingers down to his forearms, then his wrists, gliding his touch over the backs of rough knuckles and thick yet graceful fingers to arrange them down to the minutest level. And if he wasn’t mistaken…
Victor caught his breath and trembled subtly, stomach sucking in tightly, as Amani’s fingers encircled his wrists.
When Victor turned his head, one blue eye watching Amani from the corner, their cheeks brushed, Victor’s scratching with a hint of stubble. “Posing me like a doll now?”
Amani paused, meeting that luminous eye; they were close enough that Victor’s stubble almost grazed his lips, so easy to whisper against his ear. “You don’t seem to mind it. You’re remarkably obedient.”
No, Amani definitely wasn’t mistaking it—the way Victor leaned subtly toward him, the throaty edge to that accented baritone voice. “Any more of that and I’ll start calling you Master.”
“Mm.” Amani leaned into his back, firm muscle pressing against Amani’s chest, so he could reach down and press his palms to Victor’s inner thighs. There was a touch of cruel pleasure in feeling how Victor tensed, how muscle writhed under Amani’s palms, how Victor’s breaths shuddered and turned shallow as Amani stroked toward his knees, fingers splaying—then pushed sharply, pressing his thighs apart until they were in the right position. “I’ll tell you if I ever want you to call me Master,” he breathed—then pulled back, breaking the contact between them.
Victor only sat there, frozen, breathing in quick bursts, his throat and cheeks flushed, his eyes a little wide and tracking Amani fixedly as he drifted back to the couch and sank down, curling with his legs tucked against his side and his shoulder leaning against the back of the couch.
Arching a brow, Amani met that rather shellshocked look, then chuckled, brushing his hair back. “You’re so easy, straight boy.”