Page 70 of Worth Every Game
“You have to stop calling me crazy. I’ll develop a complex.”
I shake my head, unable to process what he’s done.He is crazy. He must be to do this for me. “I can’t believe this. I can’t play here, I can’t…”
“Of course you can. Get up there,” he says, nodding at the stage. “You can play the piano, can’t you?”
“Yes. But…” I’m so overwhelmed that Jack would even think to do something like this, that he’d think I was worthy of performing in a space like this, that I struggle to find the words. Finally, I settle on, “I’m not wearing my slippers.”
“I know.” His seductive tone trickles over my skin like melted butter, then he switches it off, turning matter-of-fact. “But performing is part of who you are, and I like being around you, so I’ll have to get used to you being irresistible when you do.” My breath stutters, but Jack barely pauses. “This is practice. Performing somewhere different.”
“I’ve performed in other places.”
“Oh, yeah? When? And karaoke doesn’t count.”
I screw up my face, hating that he’s pushing me on this. It’s been a long time since I performed anywhere other than my bedroom or the Marchmont. To rocket from there to here seems like a dream come true, but I steel myself to do as he’s asking. “Fine.”
I stride through the rows of chairs and trot up the short flight of steps to the stage. Jack follows me, meandering slowly through the rows as I remove my coat, drop it to the floor and prop my handbag on top before I take my seat at the grand piano. I never,ever, thought I’d perform somewhere like this.I shouldn’t be here.
Jack settles into a chair in the front row and takes his phone from his coat pocket, deliberately pointing it at me.
“Are you filming?” I ask.
“Yes. We need the footage for those videos you’ll be making.”
I dismiss his comment with a sideways glance and begin to play a few bars ofI Vow to Thee My Country, which seems appropriate seeing as we came through a church.
“Nope,” Jack calls.
I lift my fingers from the keys. “Why not?”
“I want to hearyoursongs. Not a bloody hymn. Anyone can play those.”
Fine. I shuffle on the stool, getting more comfortable as I decide which of my songs to play.
As I strike the opening chords, I sense the shift in the room. I’ve chosen one of my more melancholic songs, about heartbreak and loneliness, and the notes prickle over me, raising the tiny hairs on my arms. The acoustics in here are phenomenal and I play right through to the end, lost in the song, the lyrics, allowing the pain of the words to flow through my voice.
I get so caught up that I completely forget that Jack is watching me until he starts slowly applauding, each booming clap making the air tremble.
He gets up from his seat and removes his coat, throwing it over the chair next to him before he mounts the steps and comes to stand closer to me. My body strains at his approach, as if a mere touch from him would reinforce the idea that I’ve done something good here.
“Play something else,” he says as he straddles the piano stool next to me. It’s a duet stool, so we both fit, but only just. In this position, his thigh muscles stretch against his trousers.He’s huge.I’m pretty sure I can see his dick through the fabric.
I avert my gaze, my body turning rigid at his sudden proximity.Why is it that with Jack, everything feels like foreplay?
Because it is, comes the answer.
He brushes some of my hair away from my face, tucking it behind my ear. Such a tender gesture, and somehow possessive… as though he has rights over my body. And I have absolutely no objection.
I begin a second song, but the rhythmic rise and fall of Jack’s chest in my periphery is soaking up nearly all my attention. His knee grazes my thigh, and I gulp, missing my cue. I can’t play like this.
I stop, and for a moment neither of us speaks, and I let my hands fall into my lap. The static crackling between us is so intense, I’m pretty sure we could power half of London with it.
“El?”
I swallow, keeping my gaze on the piano keys. “Yes?”
“I think you’re wonderful.”
His words nestle right inside my chest, where they swell and bloom like budding flowers. “Please…” I plead, not knowing whether I’m asking him to stop or keep going.