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She rolls her eyes but doesn't pull away. "My mother has changed so much since Dad died. It's like... she's finally allowing herself to want things." Evelyn's voice softens. "She never would have talked about grandchildren when he was alive. She never really talked at all."
I brush a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. "You've changed too."
"Have I?" Her eyes meet mine, curious.
"You smile more." I trace my thumb across her bottom lip. "You don't flinch when I touch you unexpectedly. And you play differently now."
She raises an eyebrow. "How so?"
"Like you're playing for yourself, not for anyone else." It's true. I've watched her transform these past months. The woman who once played to please others now plays because the music lives inside her.
"I guess we've all changed." She leans into me, her head resting against my chest where the bullet scar still aches sometimes. "My mother's planning her first trip to Europe next month. Jessica's talking about applying to Columbia. And I..." She looks up at me with those blue eyes that still knock the wind out of me. "I'm living with a man who kills people for a living, and I've never felt safer."
I can't help but laugh at that. Only Evelyn could make that sound romantic.
"Your mom might have to wait on those grandkids, though," I say, kissing the top of her head.
"Oh? Why's that?"
"Because I'm not done having you all to myself yet."
I can't help but grin at the way she's looking at me—a mix of challenge and desire that's become so familiar. Without warning, I bend down and grab her by the waist, hoisting her over my shoulder in one smooth motion.
"Put me down, you caveman," she demands, but there's no real heat behind it.
"Not a chance, violinist." I tighten my grip as she playfully struggles.
Her hair cascades down my back as I walk us toward the bedroom. "I can't believe I'm in love with someone who thinks this is romantic," she says, still laughing.
I kick the bedroom door open and move toward the bed. "Who said anything about romance?" I toss her onto the mattress, watching as she bounces slightly, her hair fanning out around her.
She props herself up on her elbows, looking up at me with those blue eyes that still drive me crazy. "You're impossible."
"Get naked," I command, my voice dropping lower. "Now."
Her eyes darken at my tone, that familiar flush spreading across her cheeks. She holds my gaze as she slowly sits up, reaching behind to unzip her dress.
"Faster," I say, crossing my arms.
She bites her lip, fighting a smile as she speeds up, pulling the dress over her head and tossing it aside. Her bra and panties follow until she's completely bare before me.
"Turn over," I tell her. "Hands and knees."
She hesitates for just a second—that little moment of resistance that makes it so much sweeter when she gives in. Then she turns, positioning herself exactly as I commanded, looking back at me over her shoulder with a mix of defiance and anticipation that makes my blood run hot.
"Like this?" she asks, her voice a challenge.
I can't take my eyes off her—on all fours, her back arched just slightly, those blue eyes watching me over her shoulder. Her skin glows in the dim light of our bedroom, smooth and perfect except for that small scar on her hip from when she fell during a performance in Vienna. I know every inch of her body now, but the sight of her like this still hits me like a punch to the gut.
"Fucking perfect," I murmur, drinking her in.
Her hair cascades down her back, those deep brown waves I love to wrap around my fist when I'm inside her. The elegant curve of her spine leads down to the perfect swell of her ass. Even now she holds herself with that dancer's posture—the discipline of years of training evident in every line of her body.
I unbutton my shirt slowly, never taking my eyes off her. Her breath catches as I shrug it off and toss it aside. My pants follow, then my boxers, until I'm standing naked at the foot of the bed.
She tries to turn toward me but I stop her with a command.
"Don't move."