A Love Song for Ricki Wilde (42)
When Ricki had told Ezra that she wasn’t afraid of what she didn’t understand, it was the truth. But she wasn’t satisfied with accepting that he was unknowable. Ricki ached to go deeper. She needed to.
Ezra had penetrated her thoughts.
With a languid sigh, Ricki sat up, pushing back the piano lid to expose the keys. Gently, she ran her fingers across them. She fingered a few, and they landed with an atonal thunk. She wished she could see Ezra play. Ricki imagined what his hands must look like in motion, working the ivories, coaxing them to sing. The mastery of it, the concentration.
Fuck, was the heat up too high? She laid her palm against her chest, her skin feeling sunburn hot and dewy with perspiration. You couldn’t control the temperature in these old New York houses. The clanking hothouse radiators were part of the “charm.” She swiped her forehead with the back of her hand and then unhooked her bra and pulled it through the armhole of her tank.
Ricki wondered where he’d trained and if he’d ever written music for a woman. (Come on, of course he had.) Had the woman been worth it? Had she wept at the gesture? His skill? The beauty? Was Ezra careful with his power? Or did he seduce for fun? Everything about him—his scent, the low drawl of his voice, that lingering, heated gaze—his entire being was a fucking provocation. But his walls were up. And so were hers.
If Ezra had her this undone already, what could he do to her if their walls ever came down?
With a small, frustrated whimper, Ricki rested her forehead against her arms on top of the piano. She squeezed her thighs together, trying to stop the simmering, low throb, but it was impossible to ignore.
Involuntarily, she rolled her hips in the heavy darkness, imagining his hands on her. His mouth, the tip of his tongue skimming her skin. Kissing her, biting, teasing, making her shake, making her wet, making her his.
Her whole body was humming now. Ricki slid her hand down between her legs, pressing herself against her palm. Tingles surged through her and she gasped into the darkness, her eyelids fluttering shut. And then she did something that surprised the entire hell out of her.
Placing a knee on the keys, Ricki crawled on top of the piano. She laid her cheek on the backs of her hands, feeling the supple wood against her core, breathing in the smoky, musky old scent. She imagined the piano pulsing, vibrating, throbbing with music beneath her. It was a dizzying sensation. And then, because of course, Ricki slid her hand under her body and down into the heat of her panties. She pressed her hips against her hand, rubbing herself slowly, her thighs beginning to quiver.
In her mind, she seized the power from Ezra. Because she was always the one who teased, who lured, who decided, and she dreamed of what she could do to him, how she could break him down, make him beg, punish him for torturing her like this.
I want him shameless, drowning, she thought. I need him to feel as desperate as he’s making me feel.
Did he know what he was doing to her?
A choked gasp escaped her as she writhed against her hand, waves rising and rising. She clenched her thighs together as the first sparks of orgasm spread deliciously through her, on and on until she was weak, panting helplessly.
When Ricki regained her senses—and her sense—she had exactly two thoughts.
The first being Did I really just fuck a piano? This is either a new high or a new low.
The second: If Ezra Walker ever touches me, I’ll die.
CHAPTER 11
A BEACON FOR THE LOST
February 15, 2024
So, Ezra Walker,” said Dr. Arroyo-Abril, one of the top-rated life coaches in her field, “when are you going to tell that adorable florist the truth?”
Ezra’s life coach had the excitable, rah-rah energy of a top-performing Mary Kay sales rep. With her skunk-streaked shag and stretchy capris, she projected a distinct Midwestern grandma aesthetic. No one would guess that fifty-seven-year-old Dr. Pilar Estefania Luz Arroyo-Abril was born to an aristocratic family in Barcelona, spoke four languages, and had a PhD. Her look was intentional. Dr. Arroyo-Abril wanted her clients to think she was a harmlessly goofy boomer—that way, her sophisticated wisdom would be a shocking reveal.
The most shocking reveal, however, was that she’d once served time for selling fake magic water from the Fountain of Youth in Saint Augustine, Florida. Her con artist roots came in handy when performing favors for clients in need. In her many years as a certified Perennial life coach, Dr. Arroyo-Abril had posed as an ex-wife, a co-op board president—and, earlier that month, Ezra’s “assistant.”
Ezra slunk into her office on the forty-fourth floor of the Chrysler Building. He was not in the mood to talk, nor to be assaulted by her office decor. From the purple mohair rug to the hot-pink couch in the precise shade of rest stop liquid soap, it looked like a set from Clueless. As usual, Shania Twain’s greatest hits floated softly into the room from a portable speaker.
Despite his mood, Ezra offered her a pleasant smile and shook her hand before taking a seat on the couch, which broke protocol. Dr. Arroyo-Abril encouraged her clients to lie down on the couch. The better for her to assert dominance as she swiveled about in her leopard-print office chair, delivering insightful declarations regarding their mental health.
But Ezra never lay down. He never laid himself bare at all.
Usually a paragon of composure, Ezra had lately been… not himself. According to Dr. Arroyo-Abril in their last session, he was Laden with regret! Paralyzed by indecision! Lost in a sea of confusion! But it wasn’t his fault. Years ago, he’d received a diagnosis that had altered the course of his life, rendering him incapable of committing to anyone or anything for very long. But what was he going to do, wallow? Of course not. Instead, he’d gotten used to it.