I needed her close. I needed to feel her heart through my chest so I could monitor her terror levels.

“Remember, do what I say, and I won’t hurt you.” Lassoing my arm around her, I gathered her close, hoisting her from my knee to my thigh. She weighed absolutely nothing, and she gasped as her hip pressed against my cock which was still granite from playing.

I nuzzled her throat. “I’m hard because I play. But now that you’re on my lap, I’m thinking of stroking something entirely different to my cello.”

Fuck, just hinting at stroking something of hers made every drop of blood swell in my trousers.

She stiffened, froze, then turned lifeless on my lap.

That wasn’t allowed.

Resting my bow against my knee, I reached around her nape and gathered her hair to one side, pushing it over her shoulder. She flinched as my fingers grazed her neck. Seemed she still had pressure points hotwired to whatever that cunt had done to her.

Ignoring her tension, I soothed, “I’m not going to touch you. How many times do I need to tell you that?”

Her spine locked even harder, forcing me to admit my contradiction.

“I know I’m holding you close, but you have my word, I won’t touch you anywhere else than where I currently am.”

Her nostrils flared, doing her best to suck in a breath.

“Soon you will tell me in explicit detail what scares you so much about melodies—you’ll tell me if I’m right about it playing while you were hurt—but for now, we’re going to make you the creator, not just the listener.”

Her breathing quickened as my bicep bunched to drag the cello between my legs. I wasn’t comfortable with her on top of me, and the angle was wrong to play smoothly, but somehow, I knew Pimlico needed to do this if she had any hope of reclaiming yet another part of her.

Holding the tattered bow, I murmured, “Give me your hand.” I opened my left palm in invitation, waiting like I would with a scared bird to take a crumb from me.

Sucking in a deep inhale, Pim obeyed as slowly as if the world had stopped moving and one day had stretched to three.

I didn’t rush her. I forced myself to be patient. Whatever progress we’d made together from the storm and pickpocketing session had been dulled thanks to my cello.

But when her touch finally connected against mine, she shuddered.

I shuddered.

Fuck, it was like her positive met my negative and created a current, flowing unhindered between us.

Her hand in mine was almost too much. My body clenched to claim more. It took every ounce of willpower to grit my teeth and keep my touch gentle.

Once I’d gathered tattered self-discipline, I fought the urge to inhale her. “Good. Let me control you.” I guided her hand to the fingerboard.

She struggled a little as I wrapped her palm tight on the veneer and her fingers pressed against the strings.

“Feel it? It’s not alive. It’s nothing but a lacquered shell and string.”

She shifted on my knee, bumping against my cock.

I locked down my muscles as the anticipation of having her so close while playing almost tipped me over. “It’s not alive until you do this.” I reached further around her, guiding her fingers to the right chord. Once she was in position, I softly dragged the half-ruined bow over the strings.

Sound leapt, echoing in the age-old cello—pouring rich and raw around us.

Goosebumps leapt over my skin.

I hadn’t had goosebumps from playing in years.

Pim jolted.

Wrenching her hand from mine, she clenched it with the other as if the cello had stung her. Perhaps, it had. Memories stung. Recollections whipped. She had to get past her mind to enjoy such simple pleasures.

Not saying a word, I grabbed her hand and replaced it once again on the fingerboard. She went stiff but didn’t try to pull away. She leaned tight against my chest, as if to get as far from the cello as possible. I fought my instinct to kiss her throat and played a B.

My eyes snapped closed as the robust, meaty note quavered. There was no better sound than this. No better magic than this.

She wriggled, but I didn’t let go this time. “Stop it. Whatever hold these notes had…let it go. Be that girl in the storm. Remember who you are and who you want to be.” I played an A then a D and a G sharp, introducing her ears to a range of highs and lows, savoury and sour notes, sweet and salty. And once we’d done a chord chart, I gathered her closer. “Let me guide you. Don’t fight it.”

And then, I began to play.

Some notes slipped as our fingers entwined together. Some ended short with my ruined bow. But for the next four minutes and fifty-three seconds, Pim allowed me to drench her in pain-swimming music. She let me drag her back to the depths to pick up the pieces that’d sank so far inside her she would never have had enough oxygen to dive down and salvage them on her own.

The barriers between us melted away and just like in the storm, I felt her inside me. I heard her plight. I saw her history. And I understood her on a level I hadn’t let anyone enter for decades.

Her spine remained locked against my chest, never softening or submitting, but her fingers warmed beneath mine, accepting not cursing the song we created.

Sexual intensity peaked mid-way when the tune soared high then swooped epically low—a rich combination speaking of abuse and melancholy. The hair on the back of my arms stood up and I couldn’t stop my face turning into Pim and my lips caressing her throat.

She winced but her neck arched for me to nuzzle then dropped to prevent an open-mouthed kiss.