“Yes, that would be lovely.”
They adjourned to one of the practice rooms; the same one Dominique had assaulted her in, earlier that day.
The lit candles cast a haunting glow upon the piano. She wondered silently what secrets the piano held, for it seemed every time she tried to figure him out, she ended up more confused than when she started.
“Tell me, Isabelle…” Dominique came up behind her his breath a soft whisper across her ear, “Why is it that you love music so much?”
What she wouldn’t have given to have been blessed with musical talent. “I love something that does not love me back, it seems.” Her intake of breath made her nearly fall backward into his chest. He wouldn’t think it a double meaning, would he?
“And you love music?”
“Desperately.”
“Do you feel music? Did you feel it this afternoon when I was teaching you?”
“I tried.” Her shoulders slumped. “I admit to being distracted.”
“By?”
“My own thoughts, your nearness, the room and dazzling view out the windows. It is so hard to concentrate when life goes on around you.” Never had she realized how much she was driven to distraction until she said the words aloud.
“Don’t move,” he breathed.
Terrified, she stayed immobile. Dominique withdrew a black piece of fabric and grinned. “Now, close your eyes.”
Not quite sure why she trusted the man, she closed her eyes as he wrapped the blindfold around her eyes. “Now… I begin your second lesson of the day.”
She nodded. His presence left, and she was immediately cold. Where did he go? She wrung her hands and finally clasped them behind her back as her ears listened for any sort of movement.
“Feel.” It was one word, one single word from Dominique’s lips. She couldn’t see his lips but knew the way the word would look as he formed it. No doubt they pressed together just slightly before he exhaled. Her breathing became ragged.
He pulled her body firmly against him, he held her from behind, his strong arms wrapped around her.
“Feel,” he said again, this time lifting her hand to his lips. Swaying, she managed to stay standing, but it was not without effort.
His skin was warm beneath her touch, his lips slightly wet as if his tongue had just licked the bottom half of their plumpness. Slowly, he grasped her hand and drew it down his neck until it stopped at his pulse. A healthy rhythm pulsed beneath her fingers, and again he moved her hand lower repeating the same word as her hand went to his hard lined stomach. “Feel.” His voice came out hoarsely as she felt his inhale and exhale of breath.
“Your body—” He wrapped his hands around her waist bringing her closer, “is the instrument, much like the piano is mine. You desperately want to sing, but have no idea how to control the one tool you have to your advantage. Much like a child who wants to play the piano but hasn’t a clue what the notes sound like, that is how you sing. Now, I want you to feel.”
“I did, I just felt…”
“Not me, I was merely demonstrating what you were to do to yourself. I want you to understand your body, understand your femininity so you may finally take ownership of what God has given you.” He grasped her hands within his own and laid them across her own lips. “Now, feel.”
Breathing heavily, she listened, the silent torture nearly killing her as his hands helped move hers over her own body.
Never had she felt so alive or so in desperate want of the man holding her so close to his warmth. “Touch, just here.” He cupped her hand and pressed it against her neck. “Listen to your pulse, listen to the rhythm.” Sliding her hand downward, he pressed it against her heart. “Your breath, it is shallow, is it not?”
She could only nod as he slid her hand further down to her abdomen. “Breathe from here, not here.” His hand left hers as he pressed it against her ribs. It was enormous and warm almost taking up the expanse of her chest as he pushed against it with each breath.
Now, his hands skimmed the tips of her br**sts as he met hers across her stomach. "When you sing, I want you to remember to feel, to have confidence in that feeling you have. Do not make noise for the sake of making noise, make noise for the sake of making music.”
With little effort, he lifted her into his arms and set her across a bench. He began to play a soft, haunting melody. The blindfold was still on, but it seemed with her eyes blackened she could finally hear the music the way it was supposed to be heard. Dominique’s gift was evident as he continued playing, almost as if he was telling her a story with his hands. Something he dare not communicate with his words.
“Don’t stop,” she pleaded when the music ended.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He played a new song, one that brought pain into her lungs. Tears formed in her eyes, without thought she reached out to touch his hands as they played, the minute she came into contact with them she knew something was horribly wrong.
He jerked away; the music came to a crushing stop. His hands were without gloves. Not knowing what else to do, she waited. Finally, after a few minutes he removed her blindfold. A sad smile played at the corners of his mouth. “I believe this is where I bid you good night.” He lifted her hand into his gloves and bestowed a gentle kiss on the tip of each finger.
“Goodnight.” She gulped and wandered out of the room all the while keeping her eyes trained on his form as he too exited without another word. So close, she was so close to knowing him she could feel it, even see it at times in the way he looked at her, the way he touched her. The problem, it seemed, was he didn’t trust anyone, not even himself.
Chapter Thirteen
I can no longer write music. For every time my hand stretches across the parchment to give life to the note, my mind thinks of her, and when my mind replays her image, all I see is blood. My compositions are my blood oath, to avenge her one way or another. To push forward when all I want to do is relinquish music’s hold upon me.
—The Diary of Dominique Maksylov
Isabelle awoke exhausted the morning after her first music lessons. The feel of Dominique’s hands across her stomach, and her neck, made her body tingle with awareness. His touch did things to her, funny things, that she never knew possible. For how was a woman to feel this, this feeling when the man touching her was so harsh?
Perhaps she would never figure out her own fickle emotions. She hastened through her morning toilette and went down to the dining room to break her fast.