She lifted her head from the tablet and watched Nick through the glass.
He stood straight, shoulders stiff, one hand on one side of the headphones, as if he were getting ready to sing instead of talk. Which made sense, she supposed. He played nicely into the mic, straight on, never moving his head lest the movement change the sound. His Brock voice was hypnotic. That hushed whisper, fog trawling over a rocky riverbed, whiskey tumbling over ice, velvet-draped steel . . . however it was his fans described his voice.
But that wasn’t what held her attention. She was watching his eyes as they moved over the tablet in front of him.
Nothing.
Vacant.
It was the simple act of taking in information and sending it back out.
He could get away with it because That Voice, but she couldn’t help thinking how much better it would be if there were more . . . Nick in it. How the superficial would become substantial.
Twenty minutes later, he stepped back from the mic. “You want to come in now?”
Sewanee held down the button. “Sure.” Cosmo jumped up to open the soundproofed doors. She grabbed her tablet and walked into the room, stopping at the music stand across from Nick’s. While Cosmo flitted around her, she stayed in the text. Then he left them, closing the double doors again.
She read a paragraph while Cosmo made his adjustments at the board and then said, into her headphones, “Is good.”
“Great, thanks,” Sewanee murmured.
“Si. Rolling.” He trilled the R again and she smiled.
She glanced up, hoping to catch Nick’s eye before he began, hoping for a moment of connection. But he started reading.
“Aren’t you going to say something?”
Sewanee read her line. “I think we’ve done enough talking.”
Nick continued, “The tightness in her voice stopped me. I went down to my knees in front of her. I plucked her fingers up, which had been nervously toying with the bedspread, and held them. ‘This is safe. This is us.’ I clenched my jaw. ‘This is my job,’ I said, though I wasn’t sure who I was reminding, her or myself. ‘When you filled out the preference sheet, you had to think about what you wanted. Now, I want you to voice your wants.’ She swallowed and I watched the ivory column of her throat bob. I had an irrational desire to bite it. I ran a finger lightly over her hand.”
Sewanee said, “‘I want you to touch me,’ she finally said.”
Nick, in his own voice, said, “Hang on, I need to say the dialogue tags.”
“Right, sorry,” Sewanee said. “Gotta get used to this. Cosmo, can we punch in right before my line, ‘I want you to touch me’？”
“Si, rolling.”
They heard “I ran a finger lightly over her hand,” in their headphones and then Sewanee said, “I want you to touch me . . .”
And then Nick said, “She finally said. ‘Where?’ I asked,” and they were back on track.
“Wherever you want.”
“I tsked at her.” Nick paused again. “Should I tsk?”
Sewanee considered this, glad he was engaging her. “Have you ever done it and made it sound good?”
“No! Never! It pops on mic.”
“Yeah! Or sounds like static.”
“Right? So weird. I’ll keep it the way it is.” Audio nerd moment over, Nick signaled Cosmo and asked him to come in after “I tsked at her.”
“Si, rolling.”
Nick picked up his cue: “‘Where would you like me to start?’ I asked. ‘Here?’ I tapped her knee with the hand that wasn’t already engaged with her fingers. She shook her head.”
“Maybe higher.”
“I removed my hand from her knee and placed it on her cheek. I slid my fingers under her chin and gently raised her head, so we looked each other in the eye. ‘High enough?’ I said with a whisper of a smile.”
Sewanee murmured back with the faintest sensual giggle, “Maybe lower,”
“She murmured with a sensual giggle. I freed her chin and ran the backs of my fingers down that throat, let the knuckles pass down over her collarbone. Lower. Her breath hitched. I flipped my hand over and gently squeezed her breath. So perfect, so–”
“Ooh, kinky.”
“Huh?”
“Squeezing her breath.”
“What?”
“Who knew June French was into erotic asphyxiation?”
“What in the world are you–”
Sewanee finally let out her laugh. “Breath! You said breath!”