Eternal Heat Read online

  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 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.

  Chapter 17

  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 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 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 pulls out and indicates he wants me to turn over. I obediently get onto my hands and knees, arching back to meet him. My long braid falls to one side—we didn’t bother undoing it—and I brace myself as he enters eagerly. Overcome with the pleasure of him inside me, I drop onto my elbows and drop my head at the same time. He’s filling me up and lighting my core on fire and it’s still not enough. I still need more.

  I rock back against him hard, angling myself so I’m open even more. He grips me by the shoulder, and his sack starts hitting my swollen bud.

  “Yes,” I breathe.

  I drop onto my chest, my ass curved up sharply. I start to tighten around him, approaching the tipping point.

  “Look at that pretty, little ass.” He slaps my ass hard, then grabs both cheeks and spreads them slightly, working us up toward the peak. The pleasure in my body is 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 I’m thrashing and shuddering. He comes with me and we both cry out, riding our joint orgasm unhindered by any self-consciousness.

  I’m in the grips of it for a long time, but eventually I’m limp and panting, with Erik coming down from his high too. He comes out and lies down next to me, partly lying on top of me.

  We take a few moments to catch our breath. 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 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 that 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.”

  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?”

  “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.”

  I don’t answer.

  “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.” 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 tha
t 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 my own music has a unique power over me. It draws something out of me that’s wild and vulnerable. 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 chest, I think it’s going to break loose. I’m always a bit overcome after playing like this, but now that I’ve stopped playing, that flicker of fear I felt earlier has returned as 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.

  Okay, 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 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 too. “Seriously Ashley? You’re still doing this shit?”

  “What are you getting irritated for?” I ask, pretty irritated myself. “I didn’t play that 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. He gets 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?”

  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. I can’t unhear what he’s just said.

  His expression softens and he comes up, 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 gives my shoulders a squeeze, puts a soft kiss on my forehead, and quietly leaves me to deal with the aftermath alone.

  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.”

  I know he’s at least partially right. I always pour my heart into my playing, but when I play raw and powerful like that, I expose myself in a completely different way.

  Playing that way on stage couldn’t feel any less vulnerable than if I were up there playing completely naked.

  But I’m afraid of more than that, I know I am.

  What is it? What am I afraid of?

  I don’t know for sure, but suddenly the thought occurs to me that I’m afraid to be too good. It’s a rather terrifying thought, so I must have hit on something. I don’t understand why that should frighten me, but it does. Part of me thinks, that kind of success can’t be me. Things like that don’t happen to people like me.

  I can’t be as good as he says.

  But there’s this other part of me that can hear the music just as well as Erik can.

  I think of his stunned expression when he heard me play, and that’s how I feel sometimes, too. Stunned. I’m not completely sure where such music comes from, even though it’s coming from me.

  Maybe that’s part of what scares me, too. Maybe if I set it free, really get it out there and take a chance on it, it will disappear and I won’t know how to get it back.

  I sigh and sink to the edge of my bed.

  I know Erik’s right. I do hide like I’m ashamed of it. But I’m not sure I have the courage to do anything else.

  On impulse, I pick up my phone and dial Sam’s number.

  “Hey stranger,” she answers jovially.

  But I’m not in the mood to play. As I fill her in on what happened, and my thoughts about it, she listens quietly. When I’m done, she says simply, “Go for it.”

  My heart pounds at these words from her. “I don’t know. I don’t know if I can. Or if I should.”

  I hear a sharp exhalation from the other end of the line. “Have you talked to Isabella or Chloe about this?”

  “Uh, no. I just called you.”

  “Why me?”

  I blink. What kind of question is that? “Because you’re my friend.”

  “Of course I am, but so are they. Out of the three of us, why did you call me?”

  This gives me pause. I could say it’s because she’s here and they’re not and I talk to her about lots of things first. The realization of the truth, though, is starting to settle in my stomach. I’m not ready to let it solidify yet. I’m still trying to hold it back. “Um... because you’re the only one I knew would be up?”

  “Bullshit. It’s fucking nine o’clock.”

  Yeah, I know, I think. I’m grasping.

  “I mean, because you’re the only one who’s heard me play like that. I thought maybe you could... I don’t know.”

  “I’ll tell you why. You called me because in spite of being kind of a chicken, you want to go for it and you knew that’s exactly what I’d tell you do to.” And there it is. “So do it already.”

  I grip the phone. I fee
l like I’ve been tossed around in the storm Erik stirred up inside me, and just like that Sam pulled me into the eye of it, where everything is eerily calm and certain. And deadly one foot in any direction.

  She’s right, though. I do want to go for it. I want to go for it so much I’m starting to suspect I’m actually going to do it. I’m so terrified I can hardly breathe.

  “So are you going to play your song or not?” Sam demands.

  “Okay,” I whisper.

  Sam doesn’t chastise me for such a weak pronouncement of intent. She doesn’t tell me to yell it out like I mean it, like we’re in some made-for-TV movie or something.

  She just says, “Atta girl. Give ’em hell, Ash.”

  Chapter 18

  It turns out, it was past the deadline to change songs for the regionals. When I told Erik that, almost like an excuse, he nodded resignedly and hasn’t said another word about it.

  When I sit down at the piano on stage at the regionals, I hesitate, as if there’s some question about which song the judges are expecting to hear.

  That storm Erik stirred up. It won’t calm down.

  It’s so nonsensical, I can’t help but wonder if I’m about to self-destruct.

  I’ve been sitting here too long. I can tell by the heavy silence settling over the audience. I can hear the shuffling of feet. Someone coughs softly and every person in the house can hear it. I look up to see Erik in the wings. He couldn’t possibly know what I’m thinking, but then again, maybe he does. He looks at me firmly and raises one brow, like he’s egging me on.

  Fuck.

  I look back at the keys and raise my hands. All I have to do is make myself play the first note and then I’m committed. Then the rest will come.

  I pause, then with more boldness than I’ve ever possessed in my life, I play the first note of the composition I played for Erik. It’s a composition I haven’t even been brash enough to name yet.

  But named or not, it’s making its debut right here in Benaroya Hall. As I play the first measure, my blood is pounding through my body. My fingers are a bit unsteady, and I miss a note. Though no one knows the composition, it’s an off note and I know it had to ring false in the ears of the judges, even if the audience didn’t pick up on it.