Leather & Lark: The Ruinous Love Trilogy (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, 2)

“I made this for you.” I pass Lark a matte black box embossed with the Kane Atelier logo, a gold ribbon tied around its edges.

She’s sitting crossed-legged next to Bentley on the couch in our apartment, illuminated by the setting sun. She beams at me as she rattles the box. My nerves and excitement war with every thud of my heart. She’ll love it. Thump. She’ll hate it. Thump. Too much. Thump. Not enough. Thump.

“It’s nothing really. Just good luck for the show, I guess.” I try to bank the heat that courses through my veins. My voice is gritty and raw when I say, “It’s no worries if you don’t like it.”

I shrug like it’s no big deal, but Lark sees right through it. I can tell by the way her grin spreads as she slowly tugs one end of the ribbon to unravel the bow. “And what if I don’t?”

“What if you … what?”

Lark giggles. The ribbon unravels to fall across her lap, but she doesn’t prop open the lid and just stares at me, eyes glittering. “What if I don’t like it?”

Christ Jesus. What if she doesn’t? What if she pulls it from the box and she loathes it? Feckin’ hell, I’ll want to find a hole to crawl inside to die.

“If you don’t, I can just—”

“What if I hate it? Or what if I love it?” Lark says, her voice quiet as she pulls the leather gift from the box.

Lark sets the box on the floor and holds up the leather harness between us. I say nothing as I watch her eyes trail over the details of the black leather and the small gold buckles. My mouth goes dry when she presses it against her chest and looks down to judge the size. Her expression is unreadable as she examines the small details on the straps that are meant to crisscross her chest and frame her breasts. It’s a row of tiny, evenly spaced gold stars. There’s just the faint outline of metallic shimmer on the embossed angles and points, each line carefully laid down with gold foil.

Her lips part as she runs a finger over one of the strips of black leather that will rest beneath her breasts. If she puts it on. If she doesn’t think it’s too much. Maybe it’s too far. Too soon.

“What were you thinking about when you made these?” she asks, pointing to the stars.

Lark still doesn’t look up and her question hangs in the air around us, suspended.

I take a step forward around the coffee table. Another. One more. Then I let my hand drift free of my pocket and I point to a star near her thumb. “I was thinking about the time you told me not to Keanumatize you into forgiveness when I made that one.”

Lark puffs a quiet breath of doubt. I can nearly hear her eyes roll. “Liar.”

“No, really. I remembered it and laughed. It’s why the edge of that star isn’t as uniform as the others.”

Lark’s eyes flick to mine before returning to the strap in her hand. She brings it closer to her face and tilts it in the light to examine the details. When she glances at me again with suspicion and doubt, I pick another one. “I was thinking about the time you sang ‘I Can’t Give You Anything But Love.’ Your voice, it …” I shake my head. “I had to take a minute. My mother loved that song. I’d forgotten how she would sing in our house in Sligo. Hadn’t thought of her in so long.”

Lark is quiet. She runs a thumb over the star I just touched, as though she can divine my thoughts from it.

I clear my throat, point to another. “This one, your face at Sloane and Rowan’s wedding. Didn’t know why you seemed so different when you asked me to dance.”

“Different …?”

“Cold but strong. Not that I knew you, but it felt like you were sharp around the edges that night in a way I hadn’t seen. Didn’t seem to make sense at the time. Now I know why.”

I could leave it at that. Maybe walk away, let her make sense of my words however she wants to without any help from me. And Lark watches me like she expects that’s what I’ll do.

But maybe I see a little bit of wary hope in her eyes that I’ll try. And it terrifies me.

When I first realized I needed to earn her forgiveness, I never thought about how it would change me in the process. I knew I’d have to prove to Lark that I was sorry for judging her. That I’d made mistakes. That I felt horrible for being callous, for making her feel unsafe in my presence or afraid or disrespected. But how do you show someone in a way that’s more than just a handful of empty words? Because I know now that it’s not only about creating a safe place for her, or crushing anyone who threatens her happiness, or looking after her health when I know she can’t. It’s not just a gift I can buy or an action I can take. It’s not relentlessly wearing her down until she just gets in the damn car. I’m starting to realize I need to give something of me. I need to be a little vulnerable. Put myself in a different kind of danger than what I’m used to.

Like now.

It’s the hope in Lark’s eyes that keeps me rooted to the floor, even though every instinct tells me to run.

I let my hand fall back to my side, and that’s the most I’ll let myself pull away. “At the time, I thought it was just because you didn’t like me, but that was only part of it. Now I see it was determination to go through with your plan to help someone you loved, even if it meant giving up your own happiness and tying yourself to me. That’s very brave, Lark. We were in that position in the first place because of me. And knowing you had to muster up that level of courage to save me and my brother even though it was my fault …” I shake my head. Drop my gaze from hers. “I’m ashamed about it all, that I treated you the way I did. But that moment on the dance floor is the worst, just knowing now what must have been going through your head. I think about it every damn day. And every day it just gets worse, because it becomes clearer how wrong I was.”

Lark stares up at me, giving nothing away. It feels like a challenge. A little shove, to see if I’ll retreat. But I’m not going anywhere.

“I want to make this marriage into one you can be proud of, no matter what it looks like or how long it’s meant to last. I don’t want it to be something you regret.”

A heavy tension fills the space between us. The air feels thick with the weight of all the thoughts I’ve let loose into the world. Then Lark’s lips form a smile and the knot in my chest uncoils.

“What about this one?” she whispers as she points to the next star in the row without breaking her gaze from mine.

I run my hand over the back of my neck and give her the faint echo of a rakish grin. “Nah, you don’t want to know what I was thinking about for the rest of them.”

“I don’t?”

“Can’t imagine so, no.” I hold up both hands when she gives me a teasing, skeptical grin. “This piece is pretty close to a corset, so feathers were obviously involved.”

Lark laughs and I think I see her cheeks blush in the dim light. “It’s beautiful, Lachlan. I’m going to wear it tonight.”

“You don’t have to,” I say, trying not to let my chest swell with pride.

“I know I don’t. But I want to. And I got you something too. Wait here.”

Her legs unfold from beneath her and she rises from the couch. She pads to her bedroom, the door closing behind her with a quiet click. I wait in silence, hands shoved in my pockets, my thumb pressed against my wedding ring as I try to remember all the shit that used to come so naturally for me when I wanted a woman. Give her a lopsided smile. Maybe tease her a little bit, but only enough to make her laugh. Be confident, but not cocky—I’m not sure I ever mastered that one. Definitely don’t be an asshat.

But when Lark walks out of the bedroom a few minutes later, all those thoughts of how I’m supposed to act suddenly evaporate.

“You, um … look … uh …”

Fan-feckin’-tastic. Now I have neither confidence nor cockiness. I’ve somehow regressed into some teenage version of myself, and even that guy had more game than me.

And Lark revels in it. Of course.

“That’s probably the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” she says with a shimmering laugh. With a small box clutched in her hand, she gestures down to the gauzy layer of the sheer black dress that flows over the bralette and opaque skirt beneath it. The harness fits tight across her upper body over the layers of fabric, looping over her shoulders and crisscrossing her torso to hug the contours of her breasts. “Imagine if I didn’t have the bottom layer on and it was just the tulle.”

My heart roars in my ears.

“The compliments would be rolling in,” she continues. “Just one long ‘uhhhhhhh.’ That’s some real Irish charm.”

“Duchess,” I growl, and she beams at me like she’s walked right into my brain to shine a light into every hidden corner, even the one where I keep my need for her stored in darkness. Especially that corner. No matter how much shit I pile up around it, she finds that feral desire and feeds it.

I swallow and try my best to stack the blocks of my crumbling walls back into place. “You look great. Really great.”

Lark smirks. “‘Great.’”

“Yep.”

“Cool. Thanks. You also look fine. Just fine.”

I snort.

Lark bites down on her grin. “I must admit, I was expecting maybe stunning, or beautiful. Or, God forbid, feckin’ sexy.”

Chrissakes. Lark is all those things and more. She’s everything. She’s fierce and unique and surprising and so goddamn gorgeous it sometimes feels like my heart is trapped in a vise when I just look at her. There isn’t a single word I can think of that captures what Lark has become to me. And when I try to open my mouth to say any of them, they dissolve on my tongue. So the only thing I can do is tell her the truth. At least, maybe a little bit of it.

I step closer to where she stands next to the couch, her hand resting on Bentley’s enormous head as she strokes his ear. When I stop, I’m just within her reach, but I don’t touch her despite how badly I want to feel the softness of her skin beneath my fingertips.

“You’re always stunning, Lark. Always beautiful. Always feckin’ sexy.” My voice is a husky rasp that coaxes a fleeting blush into her cheeks. “But I don’t want you to feel as though I’m trying to compliment my way into forgiveness. I know it won’t fix us.”

Lark’s smile fades. “What do you think will?”

“Time.”

“How much time?”

“That’s not up to me.” Before I truly realize what I’m doing, my hand is out of my pocket. Lark doesn’t break her gaze away from mine when I let my knuckles graze her bare arm, a slow sweep that goes from her shoulder, past her elbow, all the way to the edge of her hand, where it’s wrapped tight around the box. “It’s up to you. But I don’t want you to ever think I’m pushing you into it because of the way I feel.”

Lark swallows, her pulse a steady hum in her neck. “And how do you feel?”

“You don’t know?” I let my hand fall away from hers. She shakes her head. “Probably not the same as you. Let’s just leave it at that.”

“You sure about that?” Lark holds my gaze for a long moment before she drops her attention to the box in her hand. When she extends it in my direction, there’s very little I can tease from her expression. Her voice comes out quiet and a bit breathless when she says, “This is for you. But you can’t open it until I’m on stage, not until I give you a signal.”

“What kind of signal?”

Lark rolls her eyes and grins. “The bat signal. Duh.”

“Christ Jesus.”

“But the budget version. I’ll use a cheap flashlight with a half-dead battery.”

“You’re almost as big of a pain in the arse as Fionn, you know.”

“Oh stop. You love him and his teasing.”

I bite down on my tongue and taste blood.

When Lark rattles the box, I finally take it from her hands. There’s a small envelope fixed to the glittery black ribbon that secures the lid. The moment my fingers begin to tug the card free, she lays a hand over mine to stop me, just like I hoped she would. “I said no. Not until the gig.” She might appear annoyed, but I notice it takes her a moment longer than necessary to pull her hand away from mine.

“All right, I promise,” I say as I slide the box into my jacket pocket and raise my hands in surrender. “Whatever my duchess wants.”

Lark turns away to gather her coat, bag, guitar, and cello, but I pick up the instruments before she can sling the cases over her shoulders.

And then we’re off, leaving Bentley on the couch, where he faces the door to guard this space, one that feels more like ours with every day that passes.

When we pull up to the venue, there’s already a line out the door despite the shitty weather. People in the queue burrow into their coats and bounce on their heels to keep warm. A sense of pride floods my chest when I steal a glance at Lark. She looks out at the crowd with no evidence of worry or stage fright.

“You sure you don’t want me to drop you off while I find a place to park?” I ask as I slow the old Charger to a crawl, earning some appreciative glances as we roll down the street.

“No, you might have trouble getting in. I’ll take you in the back.”

My mind immediately empties of rational thoughts and refills with vivid images. “Take me in the back …”

“Yeah,” Lark says, giving me a confused, sidelong glance before I resolve to keep my eyes glued to the road. “The back entrance.”

I swallow.

“You know …? The back door …?”

I nod and shift in my seat.

“Are you okay? Do you have a thing about back doors?” Her hand shifts in my periphery and I snatch my arm away, narrowly avoiding her attempt at a reassuring squeeze. If she touches me, I’m damn well sure I’ll feckin’ combust. “Are they like, triggering for you or something?”

“No, Christ,” I hiss. I’m squinting. Why am I bloody squinting? I can see the road perfectly fine. I shake my head, trying to reset my senses. My clarity lasts just long enough to zip into a spot along the curb right after another vehicle pulls away.

“You could have parked it in the back,” Lark says, her tone quiet and innocent as I cut the engine and drape us in stark silence.

I drag a hand down my face but it does fuck-all to wipe my blush away. Lark opens her door with a creak of old steel. Since I don’t trust any words to reliably roll off my tongue, my only response is to shake my head.

A long, loud, dramatic sigh leaves Lark’s lips. “Lachlan Kane is an ass man. Good to know.”

With a snicker, all Lark’s innocence is swept away. She shuts the door behind her.

Fucksakes.

My forehead thunks down on the cold, unforgiving steering wheel. I’d melt into the footwell if I could, maybe ooze out onto the road or better yet, into some other dimension. But Lark, of course, has other plans, and whips my door open. “Let’s go, Batman. The back door awaits,” she declares as she skips away to wait on the sidewalk.

When I grab the instruments, slinging their straps over my shoulders before I join her, I’m pretty sure my skin is melting from the raging blush that heats my flesh.Property belongs to Nôvel(D)r/ama.Org.

“What? Nothing to be ashamed about, liking a bit of butt stuff,” Lark chimes as we walk toward Amigos Cantina, dipping down an alley to our left toward a metal stage door. “Anal is great. I like anal. This one time, I was on the road touring, and—”

Before I even realized what I’m doing, I’ve grabbed Lark’s waist and caged her against the brick wall of the building. A spike of fear hits my veins that I could have hurt her, but it’s washed away by the look she gives me as I loom over her. Even with the blur at this distance, I can still see it. Flushed skin. Blown pupils. A pulse that pounds in her neck.

Desire.

I lean in slowly, every heartbeat driving me closer until I can feel the heat of her unsteady exhalations against my cooling skin. “I am not ashamed, duchess.”

Lark holds my gaze and issues a dare when she whispers, “Are you sure?”

Consuming the little space that remains between us, I press my hips forward and thread one hand into her hair. Lark’s breath hitches when she feels my hard length against her stomach, my need for her painful, my cock begging to sink into her tight heat. “I cannot bear to hear about the way some other guy fucked my wife. Or the way she might have fucked him. Please. Not right now.”

Her lips part. Her brow furrows. Her grip on my arm tightens.

I lean closer still, touch my lips to her ear. With one long, slow thrust of my hips, I grind my erection against her. Lark presses into me in return. A whimper escapes her control. “It is agonizing, Lark. It is fucking torture to imagine. To know it’s not me. Don’t you understand …?”

When I pull away, I let my lips graze her cheek. Not a kiss, but a caress. A promise. That I’ll let her go. I’ll back away.

Except she doesn’t let me.

Lark moves with me, both hands gripped tight to my arms. She doesn’t let the space between us widen. There’s a plea in her eyes. Don’t back away.

“Lachlan,” is all she says, her eyes fixed to my mouth.

I should pry myself free. Maybe I’ve gone too far. I just can’t seem to make myself do it, even though I’m determined to earn Lark’s forgiveness before we start down another path. I gave her my word. But when she inches closer and my hand caresses her face, a touch she leans into, I’m afraid it’s a promise I’m about to break.

Lark rises on her tiptoes. Her scent envelopes me. Every breath she takes mixes with mine, becomes part of me.

I’m about to beg. For what I don’t know. For anything she’ll give me. For her to back away. I’m not sure what will come out of my mouth when I open it. “Lark, I—”

The door next to us swings open and crashes against the brick. Two men engrossed in an animated conversation stride into the alley. A third man remains in the doorway, his eyes shifting between me and Lark. A faint grin spreads across his lips, but there’s confusion in his eyes he can’t quite hide. A bit of jealousy too, I think.

“Hey, Lark. Right on time,” the guy says. His head tilts as he regards us. We still haven’t moved, and I realize how this must appear, Lark with her wide eyes and her mask of innocence so perfectly crafted, me with my leather jacket and Lark’s blond waves twisted in my tattooed hand. I probably look about ready to fuck her right here against this wall. I would do it too, if she asked me. Lift this dress and slide into her with a single thrust, and then—

“You okay?” the guy asks, and with an unsteady breath, I release my grip on Lark and take a step away. A crease notches between her brows and a flash of pain seems to flare in her eyes when she lets my arms go, but only because I leave her no choice.

“Yes,” she says, and clears her throat when that confirmation comes out breathless. “I’m great.”

“You sure?”

“Of course. Xander, this is my husband, Lachlan.” An electric charge bursts through my heart at the word husband. “Lachlan, this is Xander. He plays bass guitar and sings backup for KEX.”

I swallow my spiteful feckin’ glee and manage to trap it in a smirk that might come off as welcoming to someone who doesn’t know me. But Lark knows better. I can feel her warning glare drill into my temple as I extend a hand.

“KEX. Cool.” That’s it. That’s all I can manage. Anything more and I won’t be able to contain myself.

“Husband? That’s a wild turn of events, Lark,” Xander says as he releases my hand and pins his attention to her. “When did that happen?”

“October.”

“Huh. Didn’t hear about it at all.”

Lark shrugs and tugs me toward the door as Xander turns to lead us into the dark corridor. “Guess I was too busy making promotional posts for KEX to splash it all over social media,” Lark says.

I nearly fail to repress a snort as Xander gives her a questioning look over his shoulder. Lark just smiles innocently in reply, and I can tell he’s flummoxed. He strides a little farther ahead down the hallway and Lark squeezes my arm.

“What is it with you and KEX anyway?” Lark hisses.

I lean in and whisper, “Irish slang. Means underwear.”

She puffs out a little laugh as Xander pushes open a black door and heads into the shared dressing room. Lark stops at the threshold and I relinquish the instruments for her to set them aside. “Well, that’s ironic, seeing how I usually prefer to not wear any.”

She winks. I feckin’ die.

“Go on,” she says, amusement a flare behind her eyes. “Anyone gives you trouble, just say you’re married to the chick who likes to go commando and digs ass play. Bye.”

She wiggles her fingers as she waves and shuts the door in my face.

I’m still standing in the hallway like a feckin’ dumbass when the door opens again. She pokes her head into the hallway. “Oh, and don’t you dare open that present until I give you the bat signal or I swear to God, I will make your balls into snow globes. Okay, bye.”

With a sardonically blown kiss, Lark shuts the door.

And I still haven’t moved an inch.

I mutter a string of hushed swears as I drag a hand through my hair. “Christ Jesus. I need a feckin’ whiskey.”

“Ooh, get me a Diet Coke, please,” Lark chimes from the other side of the door, and with a demonic little cackle, I know she’s finally leaving me to my suffering this time.

I weave through the labyrinthine passageways and exit next to the stage where the opening act is setting up. If they give me suspicious looks, I don’t notice. My thoughts are only on the bar ahead and the images of pantyless Lark.

I send a Diet Coke back to the dressing room for Lark and down my first drink as the opening act starts up, managing to somehow pace myself as they play out their set. When they finish an hour later, a couple of guys transition instruments to and from the stage for KEX, and I feel a brief flood of adrenaline in my veins when I spot Lark’s cello. Finishing my drink doesn’t dull the sensation. Nor does it help make the wait more bearable, a wait that feels decades long.

I’m nursing another whiskey at the bar when cheers finally erupt. Then shouts and whistles. Arms raise, hands clapping in the air. I pocket my glasses so I can see her clearer in the distance and watch as Lark leads the way on stage. The band files in behind her. She places a water bottle on a chair toward the left but stands before a microphone positioned near the front of the stage. Her guitar strap is slung over her shoulder and she grins and waves at the audience as the other musicians take their places. Her eyes roam the audience.

Until she finds me.

She beams. Her smile is so bright and warm that when she turns away to tune her instruments with the band, I feel a chill in the air. When they’re done, she finds me again, and I give her a salute with my raised glass and grin right back at her.

“Welcome, everyone,” Xander says. A round of cheers and hollers erupts around us but my connection with Lark remains unbroken. “That’s Kevin on drums, Eric on guitar, I’m Xander, and we are KEX.” Lark tries to hide a laugh behind her mic, but I can see it in her eyes. “And we have a special guest with us tonight. Please give a warm welcome to Lark Montague.”

The cheers and whistles and claps are deafening. If there was any doubt who the audience is truly here for, it’s erased by the outpouring of love for Lark.

The band starts and Lark fits their vibe effortlessly. She’s supportive but not overshadowing, her voice a perfect balance to her counterparts’. They play out the first set, and Lark spends time during the short break to speak with the opening act and fans who approach. Though part of me wants to push through the throng of people and bask in the warmth she radiates, I stay at my table instead, convincing myself I’m content to watch Lark in her element.

I take a sip of my whiskey and watch as she lights up that stage. But I fail to pull myself back from the woman in the spotlight. I’m caught in the current of Lark and her music. I take it all in: the way she pours herself into every note with her eyes closed. The way her fingers slide across the fretboard. The way her lips press so close to the mic it looks like a kiss. Her voice is buoyant above the band, cheers, and audience, who sings along.

I’m still spellbound when Xander speaks to the crowd between songs.

“Lark is going to give us a new original song,” he says.

Lark’s shoulders seem to relax. She’s fluid, shifting her weight from one foot to the next in a slow wave of motion as she says, “I wrote this song over the past few weeks. It took me a lot longer than usual. Of all the songs I’ve ever written, it was the hardest, but it’s also my favorite.”

A round of cheers and whistles rises from the audience, drinks held aloft in salute.

“I want to dedicate this to someone in the audience,” Lark says as her eyes find mine. She smiles, and things I thought I’d never feel, never let myself feel, rise from the darkness. “It’s called ‘Ruinous Love.’”

I’ve never wanted more with a woman than to satisfy cravings. Nothing deeper than superficial need. But when I look at Lark, a woman who is so brave, so fierce, so beautifully complex, the only thing I crave is her. I feel just like the man in the story she told me that day in her craft room, like I’m falling from a cliff with nothing but a rope around my waist, hoping to capture something elusive. It’s an insatiable need for the one thing I never wanted, an inescapable obsession for the one woman I thought I’d never have.

And then Lark starts singing.

I’ve been cold for a long, long time

Dreaming of flames in the night

I’ve been living a dark and delicate lie

Oh what a sweet, strange, dangerous surprise to find

All the lingering glances that feel like heat beneath my skin, the teasing jokes, the way she smiles when I give in and play along—I’d convinced myself they were just ephemeral moments. Products of familiarity.

It’s the first time I’ve really let myself believe that I might be wrong.

Your touch, hot coals

Your scent, like smoke

Your eyes burn holes, looking back

Sparks crack so loud

Light falls on your mouth

Your hands reach out, holding a match

As if to ask

“Baby, would you burn down the world for me?

Cause I’d burn it down for you.”

Ruinous love’s all I know how to do

I’m not scared of damnation, I’m just new to this desire

I do believe the best things come out of the fire

I do, I do, I do

I set the glass down. Everything in the room disappears. Lark’s song invades my senses, like it’s seeping through blood and bone.

Ashes out the window

Moonbeams catching dust

Lay me down, baby, don’t let me rest too much

The end of life as we know it is a beautiful view

Here I am, looking at you, you, you

It aches. Feckin’ burns in my veins. That’s my wife. And she’s singing to me. Holding my eyes the whole song. Reaching right into my chest and tearing back the layers until I’m sure she can see my soul.

I do believe the best things come out of the fire

I do, I do, I do

You’ve been forgiven, got my permission to carry on sinning

You’ve been forgiven, got my permission to carry on sinning …

I never wanted to be in love, afraid of the decimating power of its loss. So I buried it. Starved it. Tried my best to keep it out. But Lark has blasted through every defense, a supernova in my life. And now as she sings about pain and longing and the fire that I now know burns us both, I can’t fathom my world without her. The only thing more powerful than my fear of losing Lark is my consuming need to be with her.

The song ends. The crowd cheers. Lark is luminous. Her gaze traverses the audience as she nods in thanks, even blows the occasional kiss to people she recognizes. But she always returns to me. Always smiles most brightly at me.

Xander starts talking into the mic as Lark pulls the guitar strap over her head and sets the instrument aside. She settles on the chair and lifts her cello from its stand to center it between her legs, taking a moment to quietly tune the instrument while Xander introduces the next song. My eyes are fixed on every motion she makes. There’s no way I’d miss it when she looks at me. Her brows quirk. Leaning the bow against her legs, she hooks her thumbs together and crosses her hands to make a flapping motion with her fingers, a little bat in flight. I snort a laugh.

Open it, she mouths.

I pull the box from my pocket and open the small card. “Turn me on,” it says in Lark’s handwriting. When I meet her eyes briefly, she grins, and then I refocus on the box to tug the ribbon free and set it next to my drink. When I lift the lid, there’s a small, oval-shaped remote control inside, the center constructed of soft black silicone. There are only three buttons—a plus sign at the top, a minus sign at the bottom, and a power symbol in the center.

I tilt my head, my question met with a smirk as the song starts and Lark slides the bow across the strings.

Power on, she mouths.

Guided by her reassuring nod, I press the power button and Lark closes her eyes, just the same as she often does when she loses herself in a melody. Nothing is happening. It’s not like glitter confetti is raining from the ceiling, or pyrotechnics start shooting from the edge of the stage. I’m about to dismantle the battery casing when Lark catches my eye and shakes her head.

Turn it up.

I press the plus sign, over and over until Lark’s eyes go wide and she shakes her head. Her cheeks blush as she bites down on a grin.

Down down down.

Oh. My. Fucking. Christ.

I press the minus sign a few times until Lark’s head drops in relief, and then she keeps her gaze shuttered, swaying gently to the melody as she balances notes with sensations.

My blood froths in my veins. My heart is a riot in my ears. I look from the remote in my hand, to my wife on the stage, and back again.

“I am going to feckin’ die,” I mutter to myself.

I press the plus sign once. Twice. On the third try, Lark’s brow furrows and she shifts in her seat. My cock hardens as I watch her squirm, desire spiraling through my thoughts, pulling me down into near madness.

She’s given me control to a toy she must be wearing. And she wants me to watch her come on that feckin’ stage.

I turn it up by two. The crease deepens between her brows. She doesn’t miss a note, but maybe I want her to. A bounce of the bow across the strings. A stuttering melody.

My thumb stays pressed down on the minus button until she meets my eyes with a petulant sulk.

Lips curled, I give her a dark smirk in reply before I turn the vibration she’s feeling down one more notch. The glare I receive is incendiary, burning so brightly that I grip the edge of the table to keep myself from storming to the stage.

I press the plus sign four times and relief washes through Lark’s expression.

I leave her there, watching as she draws the bow across the strings, her weight shifting from one hip to the other. For a long moment, she seems to feel the balance between music and pleasure, as though she’s lost in a void beyond the reach of the world that surrounds her.

But she’s not so far from my control.

I press the plus sign two times. Lark’s eyes snap open and she finds me without delay. There’s a dare in the way she watches me. She wants to see if I’ll take her further, with all these people watching. Maybe they won’t notice the blush that creeps up her neck, or the way she bites her lips as her lashes flutter closed.

Or maybe they will.

I turn the remote up three more times.

Lark’s lips part. Even from this distance I feel attuned to every minor change in her body. The rise and fall of her chest. The tension in her forearm, the way she strains to stay with the music. I’m right there with her, like a note in her melody.

I press the plus sign three more times.

Lark’s eyes fly open and fuse to mine. The look she gives me is pleading.

Two more pushes of the plus sign and she can barely sit still.

One more and her head drops. The orgasm must be within reach, but I want her eyes on me. I need them.

When I deliver five hits to the minus button, the look Lark gives me is desperate. She’s about to toss that cello on the floor. I would give my right arm to see her stride off that stage and drop to her knees at my feet. I want her begging for my cock, to feel the fluttering desperation of her fingers as she fumbles with my belt to free my erection. It strains against my zipper in a painful demand as I picture her stripping me down. I’m desperate to sink into her, to feel how tightly her cunt can grip my cock as she takes me deep into her pussy. I need to see my cum dripping down her thighs so everyone here will know. She is my wife. Mine.

But for now, Lark’s unwavering attention will have to do.

One. Two. Three presses to the plus button. Lust floods Lark’s expression, but I know it’s not enough as she shifts her weight, searching for friction.

She doesn’t need to say a word to beg for release. It’s written all over her face.

I press the plus symbol more times than I bother to count.

Lark’s brow furrows and her mouth drops open on a moan no one can hear. But I can feel her break apart. The swell of music. The notes of longing. The way she watches me, pleading, desperate, taking everything and wanting more. She needs me. To touch her. To want her. To fuck her. This is not enough.

When I’m sure she’s come, I lower the strength of the vibration before I press the power button. The song ends, the audience clapping and cheering as Lark smiles for me, sweat misting her brow in the bright lights.

She sets the cello and bow on the stand.

And by the time she’s looked up, I’ve disappeared from view.