A Winter Symphony: A Christmas Novella Page 9

  “Of course,” his lover said. “It isn’t as if we’re running out of time to be together.”

  Kingsley stood up and held the gray t-shirt against his chest, as if afraid to let it go. Søren stood, too, stood close.

  “Another secret,” Kingsley said. “I want you to kiss me.”

  “That’s not a secret.”

  “It’s—”

  Before Kingsley could get another word out, Søren had fallen onto his mouth. Their lips met, their mouths opened, their tongues touched. Kingsley breathed deep. The logs on the fireplace crackled and delicious smoke wafted through the room. The taste of Søren—like snow melting on his tongue—and the scent of the fire, and the rough grip of strong, cool fingers on the back of Kingsley’s neck, and the wind outside rushing over the windows…all of it came together and turned the kiss into a winter symphony, and all that was missing was the mistletoe above them, but it could wait. If not this Christmas, then the Christmas after, or after that.

  Søren pulled back from the kiss. “I shouldn't have said, ‘Don’t do this to me again.’ What I should have said was—”

  He gripped Kingsley by the back of the neck, hard enough to leave bruises and bring tears to Kingsley’s eyes. He tilted Kingsley’s head back, forcing his chin up.

  “What I should have said,” Søren repeated, “was ‘You will not leave me again.’ Will you?”

  “No,” Kingsley breathed, growing hard.

  Søren smiled. “Good.”

  Then Kingsley was free. He caught his breath, met Søren’s eyes, gave a small laugh. “That’s all you had to say.”

  Søren returned to the piano bench and sat, long legs out and crossed at the ankle. Kingsley lightly kicked the bottom of his bare foot.

  “You know, Nora will kill you when she finds out you’re keeping this a secret from her,” Kingsley said.

  “Turnabout is fair play. She’s keeping something from us, too, if you hadn’t noticed.”

  Yes, he’d noticed.

  “So you aren't trying to protect her?” Kingsley said. “You’re just getting your revenge?”

  Søren furrowed his brow. “You seem surprised by this.”

  “I love you.”

  “That,” Søren said, “is also not a secret.”

  With a last smile, he turned back to his piano.

  Kingsley asked, “Just out of curiosity, what other secrets are you keeping from me?”

  Søren said nothing, only began to play the piano again.

  Kingsley rolled his eyes and walked out into the winter night. Eventually he might learn a few more of Søren’s secrets, but not all of them. A little mystery was always good for a romance.

  On the way to his car, Kingsley caught himself smiling.

  He was happy.

  Very, very happy.

  Fifth Movement

  March Coda

  Coda:

  The concluding section of a dance.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “What’s this?” Nora asked as she was putting away their toys after a long, delicious session of pain play and sex. “Who gave you a Carnival mask?”

  Søren had just come back into the bedroom after taking a shower. He was naked but for a white towel wrapped around his trim waist. No man lost in the Sahara had ever longed to lap up water as much as she wanted to lick the water droplets off Søren’s strong, flat stomach.

  “Souvenir from New Orleans. Kingsley bought it for me but decided it was too bizarre, even for him.”

  She looked at the mask a long time, then held it out to him. “Try it on.”

  He raised his eyebrow, but took the mask from her and put it on, tying it with black ribbons around the back of his head. “What do you think?”

  Nora stared at the eerily faceless man standing before her and was suddenly very cognizant that she was on her knees.

  “I’ve had dreams like this.”

  * * *

  Later that night, Kingsley’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He took it out and saw he had a message from Søren.

  Two words.

  Thank you.

  He replied, For what?

  He wasn’t surprised by Søren’s response.

  It’s a secret.

  Fin.

  Bonus Short Story

  A Beautiful Thing

  While he was in Bethany, reclining at the table in the home of Simon the Leper, a woman came with an alabaster jar of very expensive perfume, made of pure nard. She broke the jar and poured the perfume on his head. Some of those present were saying indignantly to one another, “Why this waste of perfume? It could have been sold for more than a year’s wages and the money given to the poor.” And they rebuked her harshly.

  “Leave her alone,” said Jesus. “Why are you bothering her? She has done a beautiful thing to me.”

  Mark 14:3-6

  Three months before The Siren…

  * * *

  Nora drove to the music store at the other end of town and ignored her ringing phone the entire way. Maybe if she didn’t answer it, Kingsley would forget about why he was calling her. December 12th meant Christmas was all of thirteen days away. She had shit to do that didn’t involve beating up the mayor’s younger brother.

  She pulled into Theremin’s as her phone bleated at her once more. With a growl, she pulled it out of her coat pocket.

  “King, new rule. No kink at Christmas.” She got out of her car and slammed the door behind her.

  “Forty thousand dollars,” was his answer.

  Nora paused a moment to pick her jaw up off the sidewalk. “Okay, maybe kink at Christmas. What’s the job?”

  “One week in Las Vegas. All expenses paid.”

  Nora leaned back against her car hood and crossed her booted legs at the ankle. She held her coat tight around her neck. The temperature had dropped ten degrees since morning. By nightfall, it would snow. She could smell it on the air.

  “Couple?” she asked.

  “Only him.”

  “Fetishes?”

  “Feet. Pain. Blood.”

  Nora sighed. She’d have to have her entire collection of needles professionally sterilized. Again. “Sounds pretty basic. What’s the catch?”

  For forty thousand dollars, there had to be a catch.

  “No catch,” he said. “Not really.”

  “King, don’t bullshit a bullshitter. What’s the catch?”

  “His name is Victor Moretti.”

  “Motherfucker.”

  “Is that oui or non?” Kingsley asked, his throaty laugh sending the temperature back up ten degrees.

  “It’s hell no. Moretti? He’s mob. You know I don’t play with the mob.”

  “Victor is only one of the Moretti sons,” Kingsley said. “He’s never been convicted of any crime.”

  “You’ve never been convicted of any crime either. That’s not saying much.”

  “He’s not in the family business. If he was, he wouldn’t have moved across the country to get away from it.”

  “To Vegas, where mobsters go to retire. King, he’s the son of a fucking crime boss. Those people are the reason my dad was buried closed-casket, remember? You know my number one rule,” Nora said as she headed toward the entrance of the Theremin’s. “‘Any job except the mob.’ Tell him no, but be nice about it.”

  Nora hung up on Kingsley as she entered the store. She’d ordered a new guitar case for Wesley, and it had come in finally. She wanted to get it early since he’d be leaving her right after finals on the fifteenth to spend Christmas in Kentucky with his parents. So far, she didn’t really have any plans for Christmas. Maybe she’d fly off to Jamaica for a week and spend it on the beach. Maybe she’d go to Paris and find a handsome stranger to seduce. She used to spend her Christmases at Kingsley’s. After saying Christmas Morning Mass, Søren would have lunch with his sister Claire in Manhattan and then spend the rest of the day hiding out with her and Kingsley at the townhouse. They’d exchange presents and eat and drink too much. But then
she’d left Søren, and Christmas hadn’t been the same since then. She’d almost asked Wesley to stay with her, but knew that sweet boy would do it just so she wouldn’t be alone. She couldn’t ask him to miss Christmas with his parents. The crazy kid actually liked his family. What a concept.

  Jews. That was the answer. She needed more Jewish people in her life. There. Now she had her New Year’s resolution: Make more Jewish friends. Then she’d have people to party with while the rest of the world did the Christmas thing. Perfect plan. Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, and maybe some atheists. She’d get right on that.

  The owner went into the back to get the guitar case. While Nora waited, she wandered. In a side room, she stopped short when she laid eyes on the most beautiful grand piano she’d ever seen. Solid black finish with gleaming golden guts on the inside.

  Of course the inside of a piano wasn’t called the guts, though. What was it called? Søren would know.

  “Nice, isn’t it?” The store owner had returned with the guitar case. “Imperial Bösendorfer. Fully refurbished. One owner. The wife of a Presbyterian minister.”

  “Presbyterian?” she repeated. “Damn Calvinists.”

  “Excuse me?” he said, clearly not understanding her.

  “Never mind.” Søren was the only man she knew who, when asked what his pet peeves were, would answer Calvinism. “It’s amazing. How much is it?”

  “It’s actually very reasonable. It’s on consignment and the family can’t wait to get rid of it. Forty-five. Delivery and tuning included.”

  Nora’s knees buckled at the figure. “Forty-five thousand?”

  “I know,” the owner said, shaking his head. “It’s a steal. A new one would run you eighty.”

  “Little out of my price range, I’m afraid.” She had enough money for the piano, but just barely. She also had a mortgage, a roommate to feed, and the dream of giving up work with Kingsley to write full-time. If she dropped forty-five thousand dollars on a piano, she and Wes would be eating ramen noodles for the next year. Either that or she’d better get a big fucking book deal real fucking fast.

  “You should play it at least. A piano wants to be played.”

  Nora reached out and touched the keys without depressing them.

  “No, I don’t play. I have a...” She paused, searching for the right word. “A friend. He plays beautifully. Learned it from his mother and then mostly self-taught. One of those prodigy types.”

  “Professional?”

  “Actually, he’s a Jesuit priest. He plays with the symphony sometimes if they need him. He has a Steinway, but, well, it’s kind of broken.”

  “Such a shame.”

  “Just the sustain pedal. Long story. Do you play?” Nora asked. She was dying to hear the sound of the Bösendorfer. Some of her happiest memories involved Søren and pianos.

  “Not much anymore. But I have my own personal pianist I keep around here. Isaiah?” He called out the name, and a boy of about twelve came running from the other room.

  “I’m here!” Isaiah announced, his voice so loud the keys of the piano vibrated.

  “Isaiah takes lessons here,” the owner explained. “His family’s apartment’s not big enough for a piano. I let him come practice here whenever he likes.”

  “Nice to meet you.” Nora held out her hand and Isaiah only stared at it. “Don’t be scared. I know strange white ladies are terrifying, but I won’t bite you. Probably not, anyway.”

  The boy grinned broadly and held out his hand. She shook it with vigor.

  “Good handshake,” she said. “Strong hands make for a better pianist. Will you play something for me?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said with gusto as he threw himself down onto the piano bench. He cracked his neck and knuckles and wiggled his fingers over the keys. “Any requests?”

  “Play a Christmas song,” Nora suggested. “Any one you like.”

  “I like ’em all. But I just learned this one.”

  He inhaled and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the blustery boy had transformed into a professional musician. He brought his fingers down onto the keys. The familiar haunting strains of “O Holy Night” filled the store.

  The piece brought back a thousand memories. How she loved this song...how much it moved her every time she heard it...how she couldn’t hear it without wanting to fall onto her knees and adore the God who had created men and music.

  How old had she been? Twenty-four? Twenty-five? One night in early December, she’d gone to the rectory at midnight and found Søren at the piano playing this very piece…

  * * *

  He knew she was coming to him that night, and he knew the song was her favorite. As he played, she came to him and sat on the floor next to the piano bench, resting her head by his thigh. As the last notes rang out and died, he had laid a hand gently on the side of her head. Without a word he bade her to stand. He didn’t need words to give her orders. She could read his face, his eyes, his body language like a book. He snapped his fingers, and she reached under her skirt to pull off her panties. Søren lowered the fallboard to cover the keys as she straddled his lap and leaned back against the piano. They kissed, tongues and lips mingling, for what felt like an hour. She ran her fingers through his blond hair. He slid his hands up and down her thighs.

  “Please, Sir,” she whispered against his neck.

  “Please what?”

  She growled in playful frustration. He hadn’t hurt her yet. They’d done nothing but kiss. As long as he didn’t hurt her, he could kiss her and tease her and taunt her and touch her forever without needing to fuck her. It wasn’t until he inflicted pain on her that he grew aroused enough that he had to have her. But she...she had to have him, and right now.

  “Please...I need you inside me, Sir.”

  “Keep begging. It’s under consideration.”

  He kissed her earlobe, her neck. He opened her blouse and kissed the swell of her breasts. And so she begged him as instructed. Please, Sir...please... I’ll do anything, submit to anything, give you anything, accept anything... Use me, abuse me, bruise me, she begged him in a poem of desperation.

  When his teeth bit into the soft flesh of her shoulder, she knew it would happen. She gasped in pain as his previously gentle fingers dug into her hips hard enough she flinched.

  The flinch did it. Seconds later, the piano bench sat toppled on the floor. Nora—then still “Eleanor”—lay on her stomach on the floor halfway under the piano. She braced herself with slow deep breaths and wasn’t shocked when Søren pulled her shirt off and pushed her skirt to her waist. He landed the first brutal blow on the back of her thighs. She didn’t look at what instrument of torture Søren wielded on her. Cane or crop or switch from a tree, it didn’t matter. They all hurt like fuck.

  Good. The greater the pain now, the greater the pleasure after.

  After a dozen or more brutal blows to the back of her body, Søren dropped a crop onto the floor. It hit the hardwood with a softer sort of thud instead of a rattle of rattan. She braced herself for more pain. He might flog her next or whip her. She closed her eyes and let go of herself and any fears. No reason to be afraid. Søren loved her. He’d hurt her, but he would never harm her. He took more pleasure from inflicting pain than she took from an orgasm. She gave up her body to him, gave it up like a gift. And like a present, wrapped and given, he tore her open.

  Søren straddled her thighs and gripped the back of her neck. Scalding candle wax landed on the center of her spine. Another drop hit a few inches higher. With Søren on top of her and holding her down, she couldn’t flinch. She reached out for something, anything to grasp, and wrapped her fingers around the sustain pedal. She focused on the metal in her hand, its coolness and smoothness. The burning wax coated her spine and sent pain shooting through her entire body. It ended, finally it ended, and Søren pushed her onto her back. Her inflamed skin slapped the hardwood and she cried out in agony.

  The agony was short-lived as Søren kissed her again, ki
ssed her mouth, her neck, and spent as much time kissing her breasts as he had brutalizing her back. The moans that came from her were borne of pleasure, the deepest pleasure, the sort of pleasure that came only after suffering pain. The pain threw the pleasure into such sharp relief that sex without pain seemed illogical to her. Why even bother with someone so muted? So dampened?

  So boring.

  When Søren pushed her thighs wide open and brought his head between her legs, she felt anything but bored. His fingers dug deep into her and ground against her most sensitive spots while his tongue and lips against her clitoris brought her to the edge of orgasm and left her hanging there with knots of need coiling in her stomach and her hand still gripping the sustain pedal to steady herself.

  Søren rose up and covered her with his body. He entered her hard and fast, and she came after the first few thrusts. After her climax, she relaxed and simply let him have her. She loved the pressure of him inside her, filling her up, moving within her, and the ragged but controlled tenor of his breathing.

  After he came inside her, he slowly pulled out and dragged her into his arms. She panted against his chest as he stroked her hair and kissed her forehead.

  “Did you enjoy that?” he asked as she lay across his lap.

  “So fucking much. Only...”

  “What?”

  She eyed the piano and saw the sustain pedal hanging at a somewhat off-angle. “I think I broke your piano.”

  * * *

  The song ended, and the final notes of “O Holy Night” played by young Isaiah shivered up Nora’s spine.

  “Thank you,” she said to the boy. “You’re very talented. I hope you never quit playing.”

  He shrugged. “Don’t know. I’m on the basketball team at school. My dad, he wants me to quit piano and only play basketball. He thinks my sister should take the piano lessons. She doesn’t like it, though. Just me.”