Leather & Lark (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #2) (80)
Ruinous love’s all I know how to do
I’m not scared of damnation, I’m just new to this desire
I do believe the best things come out of the fire
I do, I do, I do
I set the glass down. Everything in the room disappears. Lark’s song invades my senses, like it’s seeping through blood and bone.
Ashes out the window
Moonbeams catching dust
Lay me down, baby, don’t let me rest too much
The end of life as we know it is a beautiful view
Here I am, looking at you, you, you
It aches. Feckin’ burns in my veins. That’s my wife. And she’s singing to me. Holding my eyes the whole song. Reaching right into my chest and tearing back the layers until I’m sure she can see my soul.
I do believe the best things come out of the fire
I do, I do, I do
You’ve been forgiven, got my permission to carry on sinning
You’ve been forgiven, got my permission to carry on sinning …
I never wanted to be in love, afraid of the decimating power of its loss. So I buried it. Starved it. Tried my best to keep it out. But Lark has blasted through every defense, a supernova in my life. And now as she sings about pain and longing and the fire that I now know burns us both, I can’t fathom my world without her. The only thing more powerful than my fear of losing Lark is my consuming need to be with her.
The song ends. The crowd cheers. Lark is luminous. Her gaze traverses the audience as she nods in thanks, even blows the occasional kiss to people she recognizes. But she always returns to me. Always smiles most brightly at me.
Xander starts talking into the mic as Lark pulls the guitar strap over her head and sets the instrument aside. She settles on the chair and lifts her cello from its stand to center it between her legs, taking a moment to quietly tune the instrument while Xander introduces the next song. My eyes are fixed on every motion she makes. There’s no way I’d miss it when she looks at me. Her brows quirk. Leaning the bow against her legs, she hooks her thumbs together and crosses her hands to make a flapping motion with her fingers, a little bat in flight. I snort a laugh.
Open it, she mouths.
I pull the box from my pocket and open the small card. “Turn me on,” it says in Lark’s handwriting. When I meet her eyes briefly, she grins, and then I refocus on the box to tug the ribbon free and set it next to my drink. When I lift the lid, there’s a small, oval-shaped remote control inside, the center constructed of soft black silicone. There are only three buttons—a plus sign at the top, a minus sign at the bottom, and a power symbol in the center.
I tilt my head, my question met with a smirk as the song starts and Lark slides the bow across the strings.
Power on, she mouths.
Guided by her reassuring nod, I press the power button and Lark closes her eyes, just the same as she often does when she loses herself in a melody. Nothing is happening. It’s not like glitter confetti is raining from the ceiling, or pyrotechnics start shooting from the edge of the stage. I’m about to dismantle the battery casing when Lark catches my eye and shakes her head.
Turn it up.
I press the plus sign, over and over until Lark’s eyes go wide and she shakes her head. Her cheeks blush as she bites down on a grin.
Down down down.
Oh. My. Fucking. Christ.
I press the minus sign a few times until Lark’s head drops in relief, and then she keeps her gaze shuttered, swaying gently to the melody as she balances notes with sensations.
My blood froths in my veins. My heart is a riot in my ears. I look from the remote in my hand, to my wife on the stage, and back again.
“I am going to feckin’ die,” I mutter to myself.
I press the plus sign once. Twice. On the third try, Lark’s brow furrows and she shifts in her seat. My cock hardens as I watch her squirm, desire spiraling through my thoughts, pulling me down into near madness.
She’s given me control to a toy she must be wearing. And she wants me to watch her come on that feckin’ stage.
I turn it up by two. The crease deepens between her brows. She doesn’t miss a note, but maybe I want her to. A bounce of the bow across the strings. A stuttering melody.
My thumb stays pressed down on the minus button until she meets my eyes with a petulant sulk.
Lips curled, I give her a dark smirk in reply before I turn the vibration she’s feeling down one more notch. The glare I receive is incendiary, burning so brightly that I grip the edge of the table to keep myself from storming to the stage.
I press the plus sign four times and relief washes through Lark’s expression.
I leave her there, watching as she draws the bow across the strings, her weight shifting from one hip to the other. For a long moment, she seems to feel the balance between music and pleasure, as though she’s lost in a void beyond the reach of the world that surrounds her.
But she’s not so far from my control.
I press the plus sign two times. Lark’s eyes snap open and she finds me without delay. There’s a dare in the way she watches me. She wants to see if I’ll take her further, with all these people watching. Maybe they won’t notice the blush that creeps up her neck, or the way she bites her lips as her lashes flutter closed.
Or maybe they will.
I turn the remote up three more times.
Lark’s lips part. Even from this distance I feel attuned to every minor change in her body. The rise and fall of her chest. The tension in her forearm, the way she strains to stay with the music. I’m right there with her, like a note in her melody.