Kellen woke to the beautiful sound of stirring piano music. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, his gaze unfocused as he let the sound wash over him. It wasn’t an original Dawn O’Reilly composition—the sequence of notes wasn’t arousing enough to be hers—but she was the one playing the piano piece that filled the house with music. He’d know that tone, that skill, anywhere, even if he’d had to pick her playing out of a thousand virtuosos. He could tell it was her by the aggression of her playing, the way one note blended seamlessly into the next, and the way shivers raced down his spine each time she transitioned into a new stanza. She was a rare artist. He could have listened to her play all day or all night. The inky darkness outside gave no hint to the time, but it had to be either very late or incredibly early.

When the music ended, he took a deep breath and held it, anticipating more. Longing for more. When the first note of the next song greeted his ears, a spasm clenched his abdomen and he released a tortured gasp. Lord, what her playing did to him. He’d never been a huge fan of classical piano until Dawn.

At the end of the next song, the piano fell silent and he waited in breathless anticipation for the next to begin. When it didn’t start at once, he sat up in the bed. When minutes passed and he heard nothing but the muted sounds of the crashing waves outside, he climbed from the mattress and padded to the upper landing, straining for sounds of her. He took the steps slowly, one at a time, listening. When an almost imperceptible tinkling of the piano keys greeted his ears, he paused about halfway down the stairs. He stood there for a long moment, letting the slowly building music wash over him, and when the bones went out of his legs, he sat right there on the stairs, closed his eyes, and relaxed into her sound. Rock music invigorated him, and he’d always be a fan, but this . . . this music, this sound, made him feel something deeper, something magical, some connection outside of himself.

He almost wished he wasn’t currently on tour so he could follow her to Prague and watch her perform. Would it be difficult to sit among an audience who would be as enraptured by her as he was? Or would it make him proud that she’d chosen him? That he knew her. That he’d touched her, kissed her, made love to her.

When that piece ended, he heard her sigh.

“Again, Dawn,” she said, as if coaching herself. She played the same piece over from the start, and if it was any different from her first run-through, his ear wasn’t trained well enough to pick up any variances. She paused about halfway through a particularly rapid series of notes and played the same measures again and again before finally moving on. She was trying to improve upon perfection, he realized, when as far as he was concerned, no improvements were possible.

At the end of the piece, Dawn grumbled, “Stop thinking about him and focus, Dawn.”

Kellen grinned—hoping the distraction she referred to was himself—and rose from the steps, hurrying to make it to the piano before she started playing her next piece and made him weak in the knees once more.

He paused behind her bench, and her body stiffened. He knew he hadn’t made a sound as he’d crossed the tile floor barefoot, but she obviously sensed his presence since she turned.

“Did I wake you?” she asked, the low light of a nearby lamp casting gold over the deep red waves of her hair. “What am I saying? Of course I woke you, banging on the piano at four a.m. I’m sorry. Maybe you should go to your place to sleep. I really need to practice.”

“I’d rather stay,” he said. “If it won’t disturb you.”

“Disturb me? I’m the one doing the disturbing here.”

He smiled. “That’s not the word I’d use for what you were doing. Entertaining. Enchanting. Enrapturing. But not disturbing.”

“Wes sent me my set list for Prague. I allowed them to choose which songs they wanted me to play, and of course they chose the one most challenging for me. I figured they’d just want the nocturnes and ballades. Those were written for solo piano, and I know them all by heart, but they’ve chosen several piano excerpts from his concertos. Not unheard of, but definitely not the norm. Apparently I approved the set list weeks ago without looking at it closely. I was in writer’s-block deadline hell at the time.”

“You could always tell them to change the set list.”

“They’ve already printed the programs. I’ll get it. I just need to practice. So if you want to sleep—”

He shook his head before she finished the thought. “I want to watch. Will it make you nervous?”

She grinned. “I’m the odd sort who performs better under pressure.”

“Just tell me where to apply my pressure, and I’m on it.”

“Pierre used to stand right behind me and stare at my hands.” She produced an adorable little snort. “God, how that used to turn me on.”

“This sounds like a win-win to me.” He shifted to stand directly behind her, and a shudder moved through her lithe figure. If all it took to turn her on was for him to stand behind her while she played, he’d be wearing a spot through the tile behind her bench.

She stretched her fingers, scrunched them into little fists, shook out her hands, and then set her fingers on the keys. He watched her hands as she played, imagining them on his body, remembering her sure, firm grip. The music poured from her, flowed into him, and bound them together.

“There it is,” she murmured, apparently pleased by whatever nuance she’d now perfected. “When I’d finally get something perfect, Pierre would touch my shoulder to let me know I’d pleased him,” she said.

Kellen supposed that was his cue. He wasn’t sure he liked following in her music teacher’s footsteps, but she seemed to need reassurance. He lifted a hand and gently touched her shoulder. She missed a note. He actually heard that mistake.

“And when I’d make a mistake like that, he’d drag me off the piano bench and kiss me breathless.”

Kellen’s eyes widened. “What?”

She laughed. “If he’d really done that, I’d have been messing up on purpose.”

“Were you really that into him? I mean his name was Pierre, for fuck’s sake.”

“He’s a brilliant teacher, an amazing pianist, and has the sexiest French accent I’ve ever heard in my life.” She produced an appreciate purr and returned her hands to her keyboard.

“So it was him you were thinking of earlier when you couldn’t focus.”

“Huh?” She peered at him over her shoulder, her fingers hovering over the keys.

“I heard you say to stop thinking about him and focus. I thought it was me—”

“It was definitely you stealing my focus. I was remembering our first time on the lid of this piano.”

“Ah, so this Pierre talk is just to make me jealous?”

She lifted a brow at him. “Is it working?”

“You were a girl when you wanted him,” he said, lowering his hand to cup one of her small, firm breasts. “You’re very much a woman now. So, no, I’m not jealous of Pierre.” Much.

Her fingers began to move on the keys again. He caught the rhythm—a stranger’s rhythm—and gently massaged her nipple to keep time. After a moment she jerked her hands from the keyboard and released a shuddering sigh. “You shouldn’t do that while I play my set list,” she said. “If I start to equate Chopin with your touch, I’ll end up embarrassing myself with a rather large puddle on my bench.”

He chuckled softly, still tormenting the hardened peak at the tip of her breast. “Then maybe you should play something sexier. Something of yours.”

“I need to practice,” she said, but he didn’t think she was saying it to him.

Her hands shifted down the keyboard to a lower register. From the first note of “Blue.” he felt her. Not only the soft breast in his hand or her back brushing against his rapidly rising cock when she moved, but the embodiment of her soul rising up and reaching out from her composition. It tangled around him like an invisible rope, binding him to her in a connection he knew he’d never escape. He never wanted to escape. His hand circled her long throat, fingertips finding the rapid pulse. Could this song possibly affect her as intensely as it affected him? He was torn between the unmistakable need to possess her body, to forge a deep physical connection between them, and his unquenchable thirst to hear this melody.

Maybe there was a way he could have both.

Tugging upward on her throat and breast, he urged her to stand. He shoved the bench aside with his leg and shifted his hand from her breast to her skirt. The song sounded different without her feet operating the pedals, but it was close enough. He could still hear its usual perfection in his head. When he sank into her hot, soft center, they both gasped. She fumbled over a few notes, but soon found enough focus to continue playing.

He was lost in her—her body, her music, her heat. Still holding her neck with one hand, his other found her clit and he played her just as fiercely as she pounded out the rising crescendo of “Blue.” Higher they moved together. Higher and higher. Until the final note rang out and they touched the stars.