DREARY UNDERTONE

Chapter 18

I can’t afford running shoes or food for my cat.

A heavy pressure sinks into my muscles, urging me to storm into her life and fix her problems. I have the money, determination, and desire to improve her situation. As her teacher, she’s my responsibility. To nurture. To protect.

All of which is appropriate as long as I don’t imagine the grip of her cunt around my c**k.

She scoops up the cat and nuzzles it against her neck as she carries it inside. The door closes, and the curtains fall across the window, shutting me out. Time to go.

On the drive back to the Garden District, I resolve to maintain professionalism around Miss Carter. If I manage to finish the year without burying myself between her legs, I might find a rather satisfying future at Le Montaigne. Of course, keeping my hands off her also means my future won’t include a jail cell.

As I walk into my house, I’m greeted with stacks of packed boxes, bare walls, and a total lack of warmth despite the humidity. I moved in three months ago, but haven’t really moved in. Unpacking feels a lot like acceptance.

Acceptance of a life without Dalia.

I drift through the spacious living room, hearth room, and kitchen, every corner and archway adorned with custom moldings and deep earthy tones. Maybe tomorrow I’ll begin filling the rooms with furniture and personal belongings. But tonight, all I need is the brilliant piece of craftsmanship that sits down the hall.

I make my way there, veering into my favorite room, the reason I bought this overpriced estate. The pristine hardwoods shine beneath the chandelier, and the Gothic arched fireplace at the far end conjures images of distant lands and mystical cultures. But the room’s centerpiece demands my full attention.

Approaching my grandfather’s Fazioli concert grand piano, I run a finger along the curved body. Rare and extremely valuable, it took three years to make, crafted with superb materials, down to the gold-plated hinges and screws. The heart of the piano is carved from the same red spruce trees Stradivari used for his famous violins. But that’s not why I cherish this sexy beast.

I take my position behind the keys and let my mood decide the melody. Inhaling deeply, I finger through the slow-building intro of “Toxicity” by System Of A Down. As the metal song changes tempo, growing heavier, more aggressive, every muscle in my body engages. My fingers grab at the notes, my torso sways, and my head rocks in time with the staccato beats, my entire being captured and controlled by the acoustics.

The majestic projection propels me to the top note as I bang my hands along the keys, wrestling every molecule of power the piano offers. The crystalline clarity enchants me, consumes me, and I fall in love with this instrument all over again. I depend on this experience. I’ve dedicated my entire life to mastering it, and I need it now to carry me through the days and months without Dalia.

Maybe I’ve reached the pinnacle of my success in the music world. Maybe I’m destined to be a lonely, bitter old man.

Or maybe I haven’t found my place yet, my part in it all, and maybe—as Noemi so passionately put it—I’ll be there when the music begins.

It’s universally known that the more forbidden something is, the more desirable it becomes. I feel this truth like a fist around my balls as I enter my classroom after lunch and find the forbidden object of my desire waiting for me.

Noemi stands beside my desk, alone and watching me with huge dark eyes. With her arms crossed beneath her breasts and her raised chin radiating attitude, she has no idea how badly I want to restrain her, whip her, and f**k her.

Her black dress hangs like a tarp on her small frame, which only glorifies my memory of her bare body, giving power to the secret we share. Is she thinking about yesterday, when I memorized all the skin she’s hiding? The mole on the rib just under her right breast, the delicate patch of freckles on her toned thigh, the decorative ink scrolling across her back—all of it belongs to me now. I crave another peek, more skin, more Noemi.

She straightens her spine, inadvertently pushing out her ample chest, and glares at me as if she’s reading my mind and deems it appalling.

I could no more stop my heart from being ripped from my chest—thank you for that, Dalia—than I can control the primal way my body reacts to Noemi Carter.

Heat floods my muscles as I erase the space between us. My mouth dries as her eyes track my movements around the desk. Gnawing pressure builds behind my abs as I take in the sensual shape of her lips, the vein bulging in her throat, and the wariness in her gaze.

I clasp my hands behind my back, stifling the urge to yank at the strangling tie around my neck.

“Miss Carter.” I force my attention above her mouth. “You’re here early.”

She stabs a finger at textbooks stacked on the desk between us. “I found these in my locker.”

I glance at the supplies I purchased from the school bookstore this morning. “You’re welcome.”

“So it was you.” She closes her eyes, inhales deeply, and her glare returns. “I won’t take—”

“You will.”

“This?” She snatches the unopened tablet from the stack of books and holds it out to me. “I can’t accept this.”

“You can.” I turn away and begin writing next period’s discussion topics on the whiteboard.

Her footsteps approach, pausing beside me. I don’t look at her, but I feel her proximity like an electric hum. A cacophony of emotions pulse from her quickening breaths and grinding teeth. She may as well just tell me she’s an anxious mess.

Instead, she says, “I don’t take handouts, Mr. De la Croix.”

Damn her pride. I prefer to not belabor this simple thing, but nothing is easy when it comes to this girl.

I move the marker over the board, the felt tip squeaking through the silence. “You presume too much, Miss Carter. You will pay me back.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

She mumbles it so quietly I’m not sure I hear her correctly.

I cap the marker and glower down at her. “Repeat that.”

“I’m…” She holds her arms at her sides, as if forcing herself not to fidget. “What kind of payment?”

My pulse takes off as alarms blare in my head. She has a wealth of assets most warm-blooded men would value more than money. Whether or not she’s aware of her seductive beauty, her question isn’t birthed from naivety. Experience has shown her what men want from her, and the thought boils my blood.

“Cash. Personal check.” My voice whips through the room, brash and angry. “Something along those lines.” I soften my tone. “What kind of payment were you expecting I’d want?”

“Oh, I…” She swallows and stares toward the doorway. “I don’t know.”

The distant din of voices trickle in from the hall, a reminder class will resume in a few minutes.

“The truth, Miss Carter.”

Her eyes dip to my groin and dart away.

Fuck. I won’t make her say it out loud. At this point, I can’t bear to hear it.

She’s aware of my inappropriate interest in her, and now she knows I know she’s aware. But she’s misjudged the way I operate. I would never coerce a woman into s*x, let alone a student. While that infuriates me to a level that has my hands shaking, the ease at which she jumped to s*x as a method of payment makes me want to kill someone.

Maybe I’m paranoid. Maybe I’ve lost my mind, but goddammit, I’m convinced she’s been sexually abused. Someone from her past? Is it happening right now? Who the f**k is hurting her?

I fist my hands on my hips and glare down at her as everything inside me simmers to blow up. “Has another teacher asked for inappropriate favors?”

“No!”

A small relief, but it leaves me with nothing. “Who then?”

She steps back just as several students mill into the classroom, laughing and oblivious. The conversation will have to be postponed, but there’s something else that can’t wait. I join her at my desk as she gathers the stack of textbooks.

Under the guise of powering up my laptop, I watch her out of the corner of my eye and lower my voice for her ears alone. “I trust your brother didn’t touch you last night.”

Her grin is reluctant, dimpling the corner of her mouth and crawling across her lips. “Jermey stumbled in with a broken nose, whining about a headache until he passed out. Guess that’s karma, huh?”

“Yes.” My mouth twitches. “Karma.”

Arms loaded with books, she turns toward the room full of students, pauses, then pivots back to me.

“Thank you.” She stares at my tie, her chin pinning the tablet atop the tower of books in her arms. “I’ll reimburse you as soon as I can.”

Nodding, I return to the whiteboard.

Maybe I made things more difficult for her. Whatever she does to earn money, she has to do more of it to pay me back. But school supplies are a requirement. Besides, I don’t intend to accept her reimbursement.

While I know her sense of self-worth arises from paying her own way, from not taking hand-outs, I spend the next three hours obsessing over how I can beat that idea out of her without crossing the line.

If her mother’s unemployed, how will she pay me back? Performing arts students can’t work regular jobs. They don’t have time for anything outside of school and practice. Hell, students are required to practice their instruments at least four hours a day, every day, for years. If they don’t, they fall behind, lose their competitive edge and any hope for a musical career.