Caressa's Knees (18 page)

Denise looked over at Kyle. “If you want to know why she’s still playing, why she keeps playing even though it hurts her…”

“I’ve heard enough to connect the dots, I think. You might have told me about this before now.”

“I thought she might tell you.”

“She didn’t.”

Denise sighed and looked at her hands. “It’s not a story she likes to tell.”

Kyle felt frozen. He’d drawn silly faces on her knees, thinking that might cheer her up. “Does she blame herself still? Did she believe it was her fault?”

“Oh, she had months of counseling and therapy concerning that issue, but how can you know the mind of an eight year old? She was so obedient
afterward,
she would tell you whatever you wanted to hear.
Whatever the right answer was.
She was spectacular at being good, at least for a while. And she played as if that would exonerate her. She made such strides that her teacher had to pass her over to another, and then another. By the time she was ten, she was playing in front of big orchestras on regular tours.”

Kyle grimaced, finally understanding the drive, the fury. The belligerence of her focused walk onto the stage each night. “She doesn’t play because she loves it. She plays as a penance.”

Denise sighed. “I don’t know why she plays, Kyle. Who really knows?”

He looked over at her, angry, accusing. “You enable her.”

She shushed him, looking back at Caressa. “Don’t wake her. She’s tired.”

“Yes, she is tired. Tired of touring, tired of playing and putting
herself
out there to be judged. What a sick thing to do to a woman who already probably can’t forgive herself.”

“It’s easy for you to play judge and jury,” she spit back. “I’m the one who had to pick up the pieces. I’m the one in the family who stepped up, who took her on out of love for my brother. And if you think it was me forcing her to sit and practice in the weeks and months after their death—” She fell abruptly silent. “You can’t understand what it was like. She was so haunted. I couldn’t have stopped her.”

Denise was crying now. Kyle knew he should let her off the hook. Apologize and smooth things over.
Of course, you did what you had to do.
But he knew a thing or two about enabling, about keeping quiet to achieve your own needs and rewards. “You need to tell her, somehow, that it’s okay to stop if she wants to. You have to, Denise.”

The woman shook her head, grieving now. “I can’t make her stop. I don’t know what to give her to replace it. Music is all she’s ever known. I can’t make it up to her.
All that obsession and mourning.
The way she cried…
So many tears.
I can’t, Kyle. I don’t know how to start that conversation.”

“Wake her up. Let’s have it now.”

“No!” Denise gasped in horror. “No—”

“No. We can’t have her stop now, can we? She has a tour to finish.”

“Well, she does. You can paint me as the avaricious stage aunt, whatever. You can believe what you want. But I told you
before,
don’t open this can of worms. Not yet.
Soon.
Someday she’ll choose for herself to be done, and I’ll respect that. But she’s not ready yet.”

“How do you know?”

“She chose Saint-Saëns herself. What else, but as a swan song? There’s not much higher to go. She may not even realize it herself, but I believe she understands this has to end at some point. But she has to finish this tour. She’s trying to prove something. She’s seeking something.”

“Expiation?”
Kyle asked after a pause.

“Perhaps.”
Denise set her jaw, appealing to him. “If she is, will you be so heartless as to stop her?”

Kyle could be heartless. He had been heartless many times. He glanced in the mirror at Caressa in the backseat, clutching her cello as she slumbered in the reclined seat. No, he’d been heartless before, but in this case, his heart was too engaged.

Chapter Nine:

Inside You

Kyle and Denise decided to stop for the night just north of Orlando. Caressa heard Kyle call to make the arrangements while Denise took over the driving. It was just a few more miles now, and Caressa watched him from the backseat in the gathering dusk. His hand rested on one long muscular thigh, over dark designer jeans.
His traveling clothes.
He looked tired and she knew it was her fault. When they’d stopped a couple hours earlier for dinner, she’d apologized to him for wigging out about the flight change. He’d reached out for her, slid a hand behind her neck and pulled her close.

“It’s okay,” he’d said. That was how she knew Denise had told him the whole story. At least now she wouldn’t have to tell it herself. She might have told him eventually, but probably not. It just made people pity her. Well, most of the time. Back after it happened, when she’d been at the hospital getting bandaged and rehydrated, when she’d been a bundle of shock wrapped in a warm blanket, she’d overheard one of the nurses.
She's lucky. It's a miracle she didn't die too.
She could still bring that voice to mind, the hushed wonder and the look in the nurse’s eyes. No pity, just amazement.

But Kyle pitied her. He looked back at her now with that panther-dangerous face sedated into gentle sympathy. “We’re almost there.”

“I know.” She wanted to snap at him to stop looking at her that way, but she bit her lip. She felt wrung out and fragile, not fit to do battle. To be honest, she didn’t want to fight with him
any more
. She wanted him to hold her close again. She wanted him to fuck her hard and rough. He hadn’t touched her that way—sexually, or even flirtatiously—for weeks. He’d been STD-tested and everything. If he wanted to…whenever…right now, he could pull her pants down, rip off her panties and take her.

She wondered how it would feel, skin-to-skin. No barrier between them.
His hot, hard cock slipping deep inside.
But if he even wished to do such a thing, he gave her no indication. In quiet times, when she least wanted it, she remembered every time he’d touched her, and how he’d touched her.
Where
he’d touched her.
That commanding tone in his voice… He still used that tone with her, but only to tell her when to get dressed, when to practice. Things she had to do. Places she had to go.

Let me come to your hotel room.

The words were
so
loud in her brain as she stared at him, she was amazed he didn’t hear them. He was watching the road, giving Denise directions. He had reserved them all separate rooms.
Unfortunate.
Well, she’d made her bed, so to speak. She’d have to lie in it—alone.

It was hot, mid July, so as soon as Caressa let herself into her dated, shabby hotel room, she cranked up the air conditioner. She stood over it now in a scanty sleep tee and panties, her hair still wet from a low pressure shower. Not the best hotel they’d ever stayed in, but again, it was her fault. He’d driven for nearly eight hours because she was an idiot, so she wasn’t going to complain about the hotel he’d pretty much booked over the phone.

The air conditioning unit was so loud, or perhaps the room was just so quiet. She barely heard the knock on the door over the unit’s rattling hum. She checked the peephole and swung the door open.

He walked in, seeming too big for the space they stood in, trailing that devastating Kyle-scent she knew by heart. He took in her state of near-undress and shut the door behind him. He was still in jeans and a tee. His belt was cinched over iliac furrows she wanted to lick. Was that the belt he’d used on her?

His expression was impossible to untangle, and she tried to keep her own emotions shuttered.

“I just wanted to be sure you were okay,” he said quietly.

“I’m fine,” she replied, trying for nonchalance. “You’re the one who had to do all the driving.”

“Don’t be
flip
, Caressa. You know what I’m talking about.”

She gave a wild laugh. “Am I okay? Do you really want to know? What do you think? I was doing well enough before you came along.”

He slid a scathing look over her body again and turned to the door. “Okay. Good night.”

“Wait!”

He turned and she reached for him.
God, please don’t go away. Please, just touch me. Just hold me for a minute.
She was afraid he’d push her away and escape out the door, but he didn’t. He clasped her close and pressed his face against her hair. She shuddered from the sheer relief of him holding her. “Kyle, I don’t mean any of what I say to you.
Ever.
I’m just trying to drive you away.”

A moment later his question
came,
muffled against her forehead. “Why?”

“I don’t want to choose between you and…”

“Me and the music?
Your aunt said that too. I’m not trying to make you choose anything.” He pulled back, tracing a thumb along her jaw to her chin. “You’re so afraid of being made to choose. It doesn’t have to be me or the music. You have choices to make, but the way I feel about you isn’t one of them. I’ve come to realize that I love you either way.”

She sucked in a breath, trying to comprehend.
Trying to believe.
“You love me?”

“I’m afraid so. I’ve tried not to.
Really hard.”
He gave her one of his charming smiles, his hands tracing down to her shoulders and then over her hips. His warm fingertips came to rest between the gap in her tee and the waistband of her panties. He sobered, gazing at her. “I’ve tried to convince myself it’s just attraction.
Passion.
But it’s not. It’s deeper than that.”

“I love you too.”

“You don’t have to say that just because I did. Not unless you mean it.”

“No, I mean, you’re right. I don’t want to love you, but I do. I think I do. I’m pretty sure…”

His eyes
softened,
dark blue in the dim light. He leaned his head toward hers as if he might kiss her, but his mouth stopped just a fraction from hers, so close she could feel his breath against her lips. “I guess we shouldn’t question it. Or think about it so hard.”

Her soft agreement was cut off by a tender kiss, and then another. His hands trailed up her stomach again, up to caress her breasts. He was being too tentative, too gentle. She slid him a sideways look. “I don’t want a pity fuck.”

“If you expected a pity fuck I’m afraid you’re going to be sorely disappointed. With that said, this is your last chance to send me away.”

She didn’t answer, only pulled at the hem of his shirt, pushing it up to press eager kisses against his chest. Her fingers worked at his belt buckle, and the buttons of his jeans. She peeled down his boxer briefs as he whisked off her shirt, flinging it to the side. He was already fully hard, and she explored his cock with her fingers as she fell to her knees. He stopped her, tipping her head back.

“I don’t want an apology blow job.”

She sank back on her knees and blinked up at him in frustration. “I changed my mind. I’m back to hating you.”

He laughed, shoving his cock against her mouth. “I think what we have here is a power struggle. Let me take care of that. Open, girl.” He was twisting her hair in a firm grip that melted her. She knelt up again and took him between her lips, thrilled by the aggressive way he thrust into her mouth.

He groped down her front, pinching her nipple so she whined against his thick rod. She wanted to beg for mercy but she also never wanted him to stop. With him, it never stayed gentle. She didn’t want gentle from him.

When he pulled away she felt sharp disappointment, until he pushed her back onto the floor and pinned her down. She fought him a little, for no other reason than she liked to feel him restrain her. His soft chuckle spurred her on and she fought harder, knowing she would lose, but enjoying every second of his skin sliding against hers, his rough breaths and hisses.

He’d reached over to grab his shirt and he held it now, twisting it around her wrists over her head. He bound them tightly, knotting the shirt around them so she couldn’t escape no matter how hard she tried—and she tried her very hardest to be certain she really couldn’t.

“
Shh
,
shh
,” he whispered, trying to settle her. “I want you bound.”

“Why?” Her voice sounded rough from passion, or perhaps panic. He licked her, a slow, teasing slide up the side of her arm.

“Because I like you this way.
Keep your hands over your head. Don’t move them.” She went still at the commanding tone in his voice, and her pussy throbbed, growing wetter and wetter. God, her panties had to be soaked. As if he could read her mind, he slid his hand down the front of her silk bikini, right down to the spot that ached with arousal, and then further.

His fingers curled inside her, and she felt the slippery wetness as he manipulated her firmly, possessively. Her hands flew down, hobbled together and unable to stop him. He pushed them back up with
tsk
. “Be good.”

She stared into Kyle’s eyes, spellbound by the intensity she saw there. He moved again, grabbing her shirt next and wrapping it over her eyes. The room had been dark before, but now she saw only blackness. She clumsily reached for the blindfold, but he stopped her and she struggled again, stilled by an impossibly strong thigh across her hips. Her breath sounded loud in her ear, and then came his whisper. “The other woman—she was so submissive. I thought I liked that, but I like that you fight back a little.”