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I've wanted her since the first time I saw her play. The way her body moved with the music, like she was fucking the air with every stroke of her bow. The control in her fingers, the passion in her eyes—all that discipline and fire wrapped in one delicate package.
I shift on the sofa, my cock hardening at the memory. How many nights have I lain awake thinking about her? How many women have I fucked while imagining it was Evelyn underneath me? Faceless women in hotel rooms, bent over my desk, against the wall of my apartment—all of them just poor substitutes for the woman now lying in my bed.
I close my eyes, picturing what I'd do if I crossed that space between us. I'd start slow, run my hands through that long hair, grip it tight at the base of her skull. I'd make her look at me while I touched her, watch those eyes cloud with pleasure as I slid my fingers between her legs.
I'd take my time. Make her beg for it. Make her admit she wants it just as much as I do.
My jaw clenches as I fight the urge to get up, to go to her, to show her exactly what I've been thinking about all these months.To press her into the mattress and make her scream my name until her voice gives out.
But I don't move.
Because as much as I want to fuck her until neither of us can walk, I need her to come to me. I need her to admit she wants this—wants me—as badly as I want her. I've taken enough from her today. Her freedom. Her safety. Her illusion of control.
I won't take this too. Not yet.
So I lie here, hard and aching, listening to her breathe, knowing she's just out of reach. And I wait.
Because Evelyn Anderson is worth waiting for.
CHAPTER 7
Ilie in the dark, my eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. The sheets smell like him. I clutch my violin case against my chest like a warrior. My only connection to who I really am.
Sleep won't come. Not in this strange bed. Not with him just a couple of feet away.
I turn my head slightly. Noah's silhouette is visible on the sofa by the window, illuminated by the faint glow of city lights filtering through the blinds. His breathing isn't deep or regular. He's awake too.
My thoughts drift to Jessica. By now she must be frantic. She'll have gotten my message, understood the code we created years ago when we were just girls playing spy games. Never imagining we'd need it for real.
I picture her pacing her apartment, calling everyone we know. Maybe even the police. My sweet, innocent sister who thinks I'm just a violinist. Who believes my trips abroad are nothing more than concerts and cultural exchanges.
She has no idea about Ivan. About any of this.
I close my eyes, remembering the first time I met him. Seven months ago in Moscow. After my performance at the Bolshoi Theater he approached me backstage. Distinguished. Elegant. His accent refined as he complimented my playing.
"Your Paganini was exquisite, Miss Anderson. Like you were born with the devil's own talent in your fingers."
I should have recognized the warning in those words.
He invited me to dinner. Just a patron of the arts supporting a young musician, he said. I went because my father insisted—Alexander Anderson never missed an opportunity to make connections.
That dinner led to another. Then a private performance at his estate outside Moscow. Then a contract—exclusive performances for his ‘associates’ when I visited Europe. The money was extraordinary. My father was thrilled.
I didn't know who Ivan really was until three months later, when I saw him in a back room after a performance in Vienna. Saw the blood on his knuckles. Saw the man on the floor.
By then, it was too late. The contract bound me to him for a year of performances. My father had already spent the advance. And Ivan made clear what happened to people who broke agreements with him.
I shift in the bed, trying to find a comfortable position that doesn't exist.
Jessica knows nothing about any of this. She thinks I'm just busy, successful, living the dream our mother had for me. She teaches kindergarten and dates normal men who work normal jobs. Her world is safe.
Or it was, until tonight.
I wonder if Noah is right. Would Ivan have taken me to hurt me? I hear Noah shift on the sofa, the leather creaking slightly.
"I know you're awake," he says, his voice low in the darkness.
I don't answer right away, letting the silence stretch between us. There's something intimate about lying so close in the dark, both awake, both pretending we're not.