Asylum

Chapter 37: The Swan

The expression of intrigued surprise on Ivan's face was worth lugging that instrument on two buses, down four city blocks, and entrusting it to an uncertain fate in his bodyguards' hands. I wished I could watch the ensuing interaction between my Russian sex god and his unflappable security, but as comfortable as I'd become with Marshall (so much more than with Mateo), I wasn't about to be caught au naturel by him in the middle of Ivan's living room.

I fought back a giggle as I shimmied into the short negligee I'd brought and heard the front door closing. I glanced quickly in the mirror next to the closet to check my hair and started violently at my reflection. Lex's reflection, not Lärke's. Wearing satin and lace instead of vinyl and polyester, free of the garish stage makeup I usually wore to Asylum, and about to perform one of my favorite cello pieces, I realized I had been feeling ... well, like pre-OCCB, pre-vice, maybe even pre-orphaning me – strong, playful, confident, free ... happy. But the sight of Lex's dark sleeves of sinuous ink snaking up my arm snapped me back to the reality of my situation.

Fine, I assured myself. I took a deep, centering breath. A more sober attitude suited the piece I was about to play anyway. I smoothed my hands over the ebony satin skimming my belly and hips and glided through the partially open door.

Ivan looked up at me from his contemplation of the open cello case on the floor behind the sofa. His eyes seemed to ignite as he ran them over me, like matches swept over flint, but his voice was calm.

"A gift for me?" he asked.

That startled a soft laugh from me. "What would you do with a cello?"

"I was just asking myself the same thing," he admitted. "But from the expression on that angel's face of yours, I'm guessing that you know exactly what to do."

I gestured for him to take a seat on the settee while I pulled a chair from the table and placed it on the other side of the narrow coffee table. I frowned. That wasn't right. Conscious of the way his burning eyes were following my every move, I dragged the coffee table off to the side so there would be nothing between us. Besides my cello, of course, which was no barrier at all.

I carefully pulled the antique instrument out of its protective shell and attached the endpin, then tightened the bowstrings by twisting the screw on the frog. I had already tuned the cello's strings and applied rosin to the horsehairs of the bow before I'd left my apartment, so that everything would be ready for my audience of one.

I met Ivan's eyes as I settled into the chair, balancing the wooden behemoth on its pin in the deep pile of the rug, and suddenly, I couldn't speak. His gaze held me transfixed, and everything stopped. For a few interminable seconds, there was only the muffled whoosh of the occasional car on the street below, the soft ticking of a nearby wall clock, and the silent, percussive thud of my heart against my ribs.

Dumbfounded, I realized that I was entering uncharted waters. Though I had played for hundreds of onlookers at recitals, for family gatherings, for coins tossed into my open case on the cobblestone streets of Europe, I had never performed for just one person. And even with those larger audiences, I always focused on playing for myself. But now, I realized, I was truly going to play just for Ivan. I was going to give him my heart.

My mouth went dry, and I felt my hands begin to tremble. I drew in a shaky breath and slowly spread my legs. The heat of his gaze seared my every nerve, and I felt an answering fire building at my core and flooding out to flush my pale skin. I snugged the cello gently to my body, its polished wood cool and familiar against the bare skin of my inner thighs.

I had planned to play the Cello Concerto No. 2 by Shostakovich – partly because it was composed by a Russian, which Ivan might appreciate, but partly, if I was being completely honest with myself, because it was a difficult and impressive piece, and one that I often used when I wanted to show off. But I knew now it was all wrong for this very private performance.

I chewed on my lip for a moment. I wanted to play something personal, something I loved, something .... I smiled. And the piece I now poised my bow to play had the additional advantage of being less than four minutes long; with the growing tempest of sexual sparks flying between me and Ivan, there was no way any performance would last much longer than four minutes anyway.

The early morning quiet of the loft yielded sensuously to the opening notes. I pulled into the neck of the instrument, head alternately bowed forward and tilted back as my fingers thrummed and skimmed over the strings. As always, the piece made me feel as though I were flying, gliding over the mirrored surface of a placid lake, each effortless beat of my soft wings carrying me soundlessly over the waters, only an occasional concentric ripple left in my wake as my pinions delicately brushed the glassy liquid skin.

For a moment, I lost myself, and a few magical minutes and final soaring notes later, it was over. I opened eyes I didn't remember closing and emerged into Ivan's loft. I started slightly. He was no longer sitting on the settee, but kneeling on the swirling blue sea of the rug in front of me.

He reached out with one hand and gently touched the strings just above the bridge, probably still slightly warm from my playing; the other lightly traced the tendon running above my outer ankle. I felt a shiver in my core spread down to meet his fingers.

"What was that called?" Ivan asked softly, his eyes following his fingertips as they traced their way up to the thin, sensitive skin behind my bent knee.

"The Swan," I whispered. Normally I would have launched into an entire history of the Saint-Saëns piece, but the words dissolved like sugar in the heat of my mouth.

"Конечно (Of course)," he murmured, his sculpted lips turning up in a half-smile as he stroked lightly over my knee to the inside of my thigh. His exploring fingers reached the spot where the cello rested against my skin, and he turned his gaze to the instrument, tentatively running his fingers over the ornately curled S-shaped holes in the body. "And what is the cello called?" he asked.

I froze. "What?" I whispered, sure that I hadn't heard him correctly.

"What is the cello called?" he repeated. "Does it have a name?"

I didn't really know if other musicians – besides BB King, of course – named their instruments, but I had, an idiosyncrasy Ivan couldn't possibly know about; I had never told anyone. I flushed suddenly.

"It's name is ... um ... Nikolai," I said quietly.

Ivan looked up sharply, his fingers tense and quiet on the tailpiece, meeting my eyes for the first time since I'd opened them. I laughed nervously. "I guess I've always had a thing for Russians," I joked. "Rimsky-Korsakov was an early favorite."

After a long, breathless pause, slowly his eyes relaxed and his smile returned. "I guess I can share your affections with a dead composer," he allowed. "But not tonight." Ivan carefully took the cello from my grasp and laid it on the coffee table abandoned half-on, half-off the rug beside him. He moved between my legs, taking the instrument's place, and I felt my breath start to quicken as my sex clenched violently.

"Tonight..." he whispered, slipping one of the straps of my negligee over my shoulder and down my arm until my breast was exposed to his gaze. He leaned forward and took the rosy nipple into his hot, wet mouth, his tongue teasing it into a quivering, hardened peak as I gasped at the shock of pleasure that coursed through me.

He stopped and covered the breast with the palm of his hand as he nudged the strap off my other shoulder. "... you are all mine." Ivan lowered his head to my other breast and pulled it strongly into his mouth, drawing me toward him. I moaned and entwined my fingers in his soft golden hair.

"I am always all yours," I panted softly. "Every night. Every day." His lips released me and moved up to capture my mouth, thrusting his tongue inside to tangle with mine. His hands slid around under the bare skin of my behind and snugged me closer to him, my slick, hot sex pressed against the rippled plane of his abdomen, then he stood and lifted me with him, never breaking our impassioned kiss.

In fact, his mouth didn't leave mine until we were tangled on his bed, when it finally broke away to travel voraciously over my arching neck, tracing my collarbone, slipping down to capture my breast once again.

"If I'd had any idea you were such a music lover," I laughed breathlessly. "I would have brought the cello over weeks ago."

"And if this is how all your performances are going to end," he countered, "I think you should leave the cello here."