Chapter Six
Deceptive cadence: the most dramatic of any individual chord progression, where the chords move from dominant (V) to submediant (vi), rather than from dominant (V) to tonic (I) as expected.
Charlie
Damian and I have dinner together again on Thursday and spend a few hours in the instrumental rehearsal room playing through more music, which ends with more kissing. Friday is different, though. The university is hosting the Helios Quartet as a visiting artist, and Damian got us tickets.
I offered to pay for mine, feeling weird about letting him cover everything since I know I can afford it easier than he can, but he insisted.
We walk into the music building hand in hand after dinner at a fancy restaurant. He even made reservations. I’ve never had a guy go to this much trouble before. Usually our PR people would set up all the public appearances, including the restaurant reservations and organizing our activities. All we had to do was show up.
Nerves and excitement flutter through me every time I think about tonight and him and what all this means. This is our third date. And even in my string of fake and slightly-less-fake relationships, that’s a milestone. Damian’s been stepping up the touching with more kissing, even more tonight than last night. He kissed me hello, and before getting out of the car at the restaurant, and again after dinner. Plus hand holding, escorting me around with his hand on my low back, keeping me close to his side as we walk into the recital hall and get programs.
I shaved everything tonight in anticipation, and that seems to have been the right decision. Because I definitely think things will be moving to the next level tonight.
A grin comes to my face, and I squirm a little in my seat as we settle in. Damian glances over at me, and I beam a smile at him. He smiles back and reaches over the armrest to hold my hand, letting go so we can clap at the appropriate intervals.
I’m glad that he’s holding my hand, though, because apparently there are rules about clapping that I’m unfamiliar with. This is only my second recital—the first one was the faculty recital the first week of classes. That time we clapped after every performer.
The string quartet is playing multi-movement works, and I guess we don’t clap between movements. Someone started to after the first movement, and a few others joined in, but it quickly died out when the performers gave tight smiles of acknowledgment and kept their instruments up and ready to play.
At first I’m relieved that there are only a few pieces on the program, looking forward to the post-recital portion of the evening, but each piece seems to go on forever, making the recital last nearly two hours including the intermission.
After realizing that we’ll be here a while, I settle in to enjoy the music. It really is beautiful, and I especially love the last piece Adagio for Strings by Samuel Barber. When it ends, the full recital hall gives the quartet a standing ovation. The performers’ faces beam at us as they stand and bow together.
After they leave the stage, the lights come up, and I start looking around for a professor, so I can get my program signed and we can decide where to go next—Damian’s place or mine. Damian’s fingers wrap around mine again, and he starts to tug me to the aisle. As if reading my mind, he bends his head close to my ear. “Since we have paid tickets, you don’t need to get a professor’s signature. You just staple your ticket stub to the program when you turn it in, and you’re good. Come on. Let’s go see if we can talk to them for a few minutes when they come out.”
“Perfect.”
We mill around in the lobby while waiting for the quartet to come out. I keep looking around, hoping they’ll come out sooner than later. Just when I’m about to suggest that maybe we can go without talking to the performers, Zeke and Jason come over to say hi. Lauren waves and comes over too, Tamara and Madison, two of her friends that I’ve met before, following behind her. Once everyone is ensconced in conversation ranging from their opinions on the performance to their orchestra repertoire and a paper due soon in Music History, Lauren sidles closer to me. “Things are going well with you and Damian?”
Taking a tiny step back, I angle my body closer to her so that our conversation is less likely to be picked up on by the others, my giddy smile irrepressible. “It is.” I want to say a lot more than that, but not with everyone around.
Damian’s hand reaches out and wraps around my waist, pulling me closer to his side. Yeah, tonight is definitely a step up in where our relationship is heading.
Eyes dancing with mischief, Lauren leans in close enough to speak directly into my ear. “I’ll be in the practice room after this. Probably for an hour or two. Let me know when it’s safe to come home.”
“What’s all this girl talk going on over here?” Zeke’s booming voice cuts in. “Why’s Charlie blushing?” He points at Damian, Lauren, and me. “What’s going on?”
Lauren laughs, and gives him what I’m starting to realize is her signature eyebrow arch. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Yeah, I would.” Zeke’s tone sounds like he’s talking to a preschooler. “That’s why I asked.”
But I’m saved from having to answer by the quartet coming out into the lobby. “Oh, look.” I point in the direction of the four string players who’re scanning the crowd. The department head approaches them and shakes their hands one by one. “Didn’t you want to talk to them, Damian?”
“Yeah. Let’s go.”
With his arm still around my waist, he guides me in that direction. Lauren’s huge grin catches my eye as we move away from our group, and I grin back. Both of us ignore Zeke’s exclamation of, “Hey! Wait!”
Damian approaches the cellist first, another tall, thin man, this one several years older, with pale skin and short, medium brown hair. His eyes light up as we approach, and he extends his hand to us. Damian’s arm drops from my waist so he can shake his hand. “Great performance tonight.”
“Thank you,” he says, giving Damian’s hand a firm pump before turning to me and shaking my hand. “Thank you both for coming. I’m glad you enjoyed it.” He releases my hand and sticks his hands in his pockets. “You both students here?”
I nod as Damian says, “Yeah. I play cello, and Charlie plays piano.”
“Nice.” The two of them chat about cello things, and I scan the room. The second violinist, a pretty woman in a full black skirt and sleeveless top with a scattering of sparkly beads that shimmered under the stage lights, sees me glancing around and comes over to say hi.
We chat for a few minutes while Damian finishes up his conversation, then someone else comes up to congratulate her on her performance and claims her attention.
Damian’s arm slips around my waist again. “Ready?”
“Definitely.” Another flutter of anticipation goes through me. For the first time in a long time I’m excited about the third date expectations instead of strategizing how I can put them off or get away with the minimum amount of groping. The difference this time is that Damian cares about me. I’m looking forward to seeing him without some of his clothes—or all of his clothes. And I feel safe sharing my body with him, confident that he’ll care enough to ensure my pleasure as well as his own.
He lifts his chin in the direction of his roommates as we head toward the door, and Lauren gives me a little wave and a thumbs up. I can’t help laughing, which has Damian turning to me. “What?”
I shake my head. “Just Lauren.”
“She is pretty funny. Are you enjoying living with her?”
“Yeah. She’s not around much. But we have fun when we’re both there.” I open my mouth to spill the fact that we both know Gabby, but that would create more questions, so I bite it back and swallow it down. I’m not ready to risk our new connection with the crazy details of my life outside of Marycliff. Yet. I hope we’ll get to the point where I can bring him into the tiny circle of people here who know the truth about me. But right now that’s limited to Lauren, the dean of students, and the chief of campus police. The more people who know a secret, the less likely it is to stay a secret, after all.
After we climb into the car, Damian hesitates for a second before putting the key in the ignition. “It’s still early for a Friday night. Do you want to get some coffee? Or dessert?”
At first I’m not sure if that’s his way of working up to inviting me to his place—coffee or dessert and then invite me over. Or maybe he’s hoping I’ll invite him over? Well, I already know we’ll be alone at my place. “What about going back to my house? Lauren’s going to be practicing for a while, so we’d have the place to ourselves.”
His Adam’s apple bobs visibly as he swallows. And when he answers, his voice is lower, huskier than normal. “That sounds good.”
That voice and his direct gaze have all my nerves flying away. Anticipation skitters down my spine and warmth starts spreading low in my belly. Knowing how good he is with his hands on his cello, how he can alternate between firm and delicate touches to evoke just the right sound—what can those hands do to my body? Will he play me, changing the pressure, the stroke, the timing to find out what kinds of sounds I’ll make?
And what about him? I can’t wait to taste him. To see what he looks like when he finally loses control. Is he loud? Growly? Or as quiet and self-contained as he is right now?
I cross my legs and squeeze as I shiver in delightful expectation. No words pass between us on the short drive to my house. But Damian’s hand reaches for me across the console, glancing at me as he gives my leg a squeeze and turns his hand palm up, wiggling his fingers so I’ll cover his palm with mine.
When we get to my house, I lead the way inside, enjoying the way he never lets me more than an arm’s length away, his hands staying on me the whole time. But once we’re inside, he turns shy again, standing in the entryway, looking around the house with his hands in his pockets like he’s never seen the place before.
I’m not used to taking the lead like this, but if I don’t we’ll end up standing here all night. Dropping my keys and purse in their place beside the door, I move to the couch to sit down, patting the space next to me. “Come sit. Make yourself comfortable.”
While I wait for him to decide what to do, I cross one leg over the other and unzip the short zipper on the side of my bootie. By the time the first one is off, he’s crossed the room and sat down next to me. I give him a smile as I unzip the second one, enjoying the way his eyes follow the movement of my hands.
Once my shoes are off and sitting side by side on the floor next to the couch, I pull my legs under me, shifting to face him on my knees. His face is still, neutral, as his eyes roam over all of me. I take a moment to do the same thing, taking him in, the way he’s sitting on the couch, one leg pulled up next to him so he can face me, his arm along the back of the couch, his wiry body looking ready to launch into action. Is he readying himself to launch at me? Or holding himself back?
Maybe he’s worried that I don’t want to move things to a more physical relationship? Maybe he’s waiting for a signal from me?
Then I’ll give him the signal he needs.
Leaning toward him, I reach out with both hands, cupping his cheeks, and tipping his face up so I can kiss him. He’s initiated our previous kisses, but now it’s my turn.
His hands wrap around my wrists, holding me as my mouth moves over his, his lips soft and warm under mine. We kiss, kiss, gentle and sweet, just lips. The longer it lasts, the more relaxed he becomes, his body pliant and supple rather than tightly coiled. But when my tongue licks along his lower lip, he tightens up again, his fingers clenching around my wrists, his whole body jerking to attention. With a low groan, he opens for me, allowing me access to his mouth. His tongue meets mine, sliding, welcoming, dipping into my mouth in return.
Our kiss is a meeting of equals. A slow, sensual exploration. Not a duel. Neither of us trying to master the other. It’s like when we play together. Our mouths mingling the same way our sound does. It’s like no kiss I’ve ever experienced before. And I want more. More of this. More of him.
Leveraging our connection, I scoot closer until my knees bump his. He shifts, and my leg has room to fit between him and the back of the couch. Inch by inch, I make my way onto his lap, straddling him. When I lower myself, resting my weight on him, he lets out another low sound as I slide along the hard ridge in his pants.
I move my hands to the back of his head. His hands find their way to my waist. I take that as encouragement and move against him again, slow and deliberate. His fingers tighten reflexively on my hips. I do it again. And again. Until he’s bucking up against me, meeting me thrust for thrust. And I want this without clothes in the way. I want to feel him against me. His warm skin under my hands.
Breaking our kiss on a gasp, I attack the tie at his neck, yanking on the thin piece of silk, ripping it out of his collar. Then I go to work on the buttons of his shirt. He shifts underneath me, making me moan as he pushes his dick against my clit through the fabric of my leggings.
But his hands wrap around my wrists again, stilling me. “What are you doing, Charlie?” His voice is low and husky like it was in the car. When my eyes lift to his, they’re black and liquid with desire, but also guarded.
“Unbuttoning your shirt.”
“Why?”
I yank my hands back in surprise. “Um, well, that seemed like the next logical step. We’re both enjoying the kissing, and …” I trail off, unable to articulate my expectations in the face of his guarded and curious gaze. But I screw up my courage. “Sex. Isn’t that what this is leading toward?”
He shakes his head slowly. “Is that why you invited me over tonight? For sex?”
Backing off his lap, I climb onto my own cushion, wrapping my arms around myself, suddenly feeling naked even though we’re both still fully clothed. I only got three buttons of his shirt undone, and a triangle of bronze skin peeks over the top of it. “It’s the third date. Isn’t that …?”
He shakes his head again, his eyes never leaving mine. “I don’t … “ Glancing away for a second, he searches for what to say. “I like you a lot, Charlie. But I don’t usually sleep with someone this soon.”
“Oh,” I say softly. Then his words filter through all the cracks in my brain. “Oh.” This time it’s louder. I swallow hard and stand. “I’m sorry. I assumed … well, that doesn’t matter. I, uh, I don’t—” I give a hard shake of my head to stop my stammering. I don’t stammer. I’m a trained media professional. Except I do stammer in personal situations where I feel nervous or out of my depth. And I feel both of those things right now.
Damian stands too. “Charlie, look. Let me explain.”
I shake my head again. “No. No need to explain.” Blood rushes to my cheeks as it sinks in that he doesn’t want me. “I thought—but I guess—” With another shake of my head, I take a step back. “Give me a minute, please.” I turn and flee to the safety of the bathroom.
Okay. This isn’t going the way I’d planned. But we can still be friends, I guess. I’m just confused. The touching, the hand holding, the kissing. He was into it. I felt it.
But he doesn’t want to have sex with me.
Fine. Okay. No big deal.
I shove down the desire to cry, blinking rapidly a few times to dispel the telltale moisture that’s gathered unbidden in my eyes, and remind myself that I don’t cry in front of anyone, always saving that for when I’m alone. No one reduces Charlotte James to tears. And it doesn’t matter that no one else knows I’m Charlotte James right now. I armor myself with her thick skin and imperviousness to attention and criticism.
Sufficiently bolstered by my years of training and the fortress I’ve erected over the years, I return to the living room. Damian’s still standing in the middle of the room, but only the top button remains undone on his shirt, the tail of his tie sticking out of his pocket.
He looks up at my entrance, and I give him a smile, consciously telling the muscles around my mouth to pull my lips into a winning curve. “Would you like something to drink? Water? Coffee? I think we still have a few Izze sodas in the fridge.”
“Charlie.”
The way he says my name—tender but commanding—is almost enough to break through the layers I’ve erected around myself in the few minutes I was in the bathroom. “Yes?”
“Don’t do this.”
“Do what?”
He stares at me for a long moment, his eyes studying my face. Then he seems to deflate as his eyes drop to the floor. “Thank you for coming with me tonight. But I think … I think I should go.”
“Are you sure? Because I don’t mind making coffee.” I’m not really sure why I’m protesting, except that I’m afraid that if he leaves, that whatever might’ve been between us is over. If he leaves, we can’t recapture what we had before I ruined it by throwing myself at him.
He crosses the distance between us and places a delicate kiss on my forehead. “I’ll see you later.”
Before I can respond, he’s crossed to the door and let himself out. I stare at the closed door for a long time before I turn and go to my room, lying on my bed and staring at the ceiling, numb.