An all-new emotionally-charged M/M romance is coming next week from author Emma Scott, and I have a little sneak peek for you.
Silas had his glasses off and his blue eyes pierced mine with a familiar want, but there was something deeper behind them. The air between us felt different, charged with electricity—a low hum now, but that promised wild, sparking live wires.
“You want to go out?” Silas asked. “Grab dinner or…?”
“Stay in,” I said. “Maybe order a pizza.”
He nodded. “That’s what I was thinking too.”
The air thickened further. A heavy clang started in my chest, and my skin tingled with nerves.
At Silas’s place, he ordered a pizza from a local place.
“It’ll be forty-five minutes,” he said, setting down his cell on the kitchen counter.
“Cool,” I said and jammed my hands into the front of my jeans.
A silence fell. We were confronted with not just the next forty-five minutes, but the entire night that was waiting, its breath held.
Silas ran a hand through his hair, looking halfway between frustrated and ready to jump out of his skin. “Yeah, so, you want to watch TV or…?”
“Nah.” I jerked my chin at the piano. “I want you to play.”
“Have you played at all since you got it? That’s got to be a crime in some musical lawbook.”
“Sure it is,” he said with an eyeroll, but I thought he took the bench with no small amount of relief. Something to do with his hands, some outlet for the energy that was swirling between us like slow winds that gradually took up speed to become a tornado.
Silas began a classical piece that sounded like the one he’d played for Eddie the day before. I listened from the couch, mesmerized by this man, wrapped in a package of bronze skin and muscle, with blue eyes that were fathoms deep beneath their icy surface. As his fingers flew across the keys, I marveled at how he was so filled with talent and intelligence, spiced with a hot temper and impatience.
The pizza came early. Silas was still playing, not noticing that I practically threw money at the delivery guy to get rid of him and tossed the pizza on the counter.
When the piece came to its end, Silas scowled at my applause.
“Cut it out.”
“Nope, you’re going to take my compliments, Marsh. Because if you think I can sit here and not say anything after hearing that…”
He smirked. “I told you. It’s just something I can do. As if the wiring was already laid down for me. I don’t think about it.”
“I think it’s fucking amazing,” I said. “I can’t imagine playing like that. I’d sprain my fingers if they moved that fast.”
Silas thought for a second. “Come here.” He got up and turned the bench so that it was perpendicular to the piano. “Sit.”
I sat on the end of the bench in front of the keys. “All this time, I didn’t realize if I wanted to play like you, I only needed to turn the bench.”
“Yes,” Silas said dryly. “That’s the secret of the masters. Now shut up and let me try something.”
He sat behind me, straddling the bench like a horse. His legs went to either side of my thighs and his chest flush with my back. My body reacted; electricity between us hummed louder, and I felt him everywhere.
Silas reached around me and put his hands on the keys, his chin over my shoulder. “Put your hands on mine.”
I laid my hands on his, lightly.
“Harder than that, Maximilian, or you’re going to get bucked off.”
I gently pressed my fingertips between his knuckles. “Here?”
“We’ll see. I’ve never done this before.”
Silas inhaled; I felt his chest expand against me, hard and strong against my back. His chin was on my shoulder, the stubble of his cheek brushing mine. I turned slightly to see his eyes were closed. He exhaled and opened them, caught me watching him.
That shy look of his that always undid me came over his face again.
“Eyes on the keys, Kaufman,” he said, his voice low and throaty.
And then he began to play, his fingers—our fingers—moving slowly over the keys.
It took some false starts to keep my hands on his, but after a few moments, we fell into a rhythm. A harmony. His hands became extensions of myself. I felt him under me and around me, sensed the music and his intentions; his heartbeat against my back, a metronome I kept time to.
“What are we playing?” I asked.
“Moonlight Sonata,” he said. “Beethoven.” Without missing a note, he brushed his mouth against my ear. “You’re very good.”
I was completely out of smart-ass things to say, awestruck at the skill he possessed that had become a tangible thing, right there under my palms As if I were holding the brush while Picasso moved my hand over the canvas.
“It’s going to get faster,” he warned.
And holy hell, did it. Silas’s fingers danced over the keys, stunningly agile and precise, even with the weight of mine over them. I closed my eyes and could almost pretend the incredible music that filled the room was mine.
Because it was. Because Silas gave it to me. He shared the music in him with me, made me a part of it, and I never wanted anything so bad in my life as I wanted this moment and thousands more just like it. A lifetime of that communion…starting with this night.
I slid my fingers down, twining them with his, so that he ceased playing, and the apartment was suddenly quiet. The quiet before the storm. I wrapped myself in his arms, and leaned into him, melted against him.
“Max…” he whispered gruffly, then pressed his forehead to my back. I felt the heat of his breath on my skin, through my shirt.
I closed my eyes, relishing the feel of that electric hum, that moment right before the spark ignites.
Those few, delicious seconds between the striking of the match and when the flame bursts to life.