Beautiful Torment Read Online Paige Laurens (Beautiful #1)

Categories Genre: Chick Lit, Drama, Erotic, New Adult Tags Authors: Series: Beautiful Series by Paige Laurens
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Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71967 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
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What can’t he do?

I shut my eyes, listening to the sound of the slow, brilliant music, imagining the way his hands move over the keys, just the way they do over me.

The last note vibrates in the air and when I open my eyes again, a single tear escapes out of nowhere. Neither of us says anything. I try a few times, but nothing comes out. There are no words for something so magnificent.

“So,” he whispers, still facing the piano, not turning around to see me.

“I- I-” I can’t find the words.

I watch the sides of his face as he forms a smile, as I try hard to get out something coherent.

“Did I actually render you speechless?”

I nod, even though he can’t see me, my face scrunching together, trying so desperately to structure some sort of a sentence.

“Oh, Luci,” he finally turns around. “Why are you crying?”

“That was… beautiful,” I wipe my eyes.

“Haven’t done that in years,” he chuckles.

“THAT was not playing in years?”

He shakes his head, smiling over my reaction.

The room is peaceful and calm as he gets up and closes the gap between us, pressing his lips lightly against mine. Our kiss grows urgent as each second passes, until we both pull away, needing air.

“You wreck me, you know that?” He regards me with same unmistakable awe I just had, before taking on an almost pained look.

It breaks me.

Until he speaks; then, I’m suddenly whole again.

“I have you… multiple times in a day,” he shakes his head, “… yet at night I find myself having to fuck my hand just thinking about you.”

I swallow hard. “I’d love to see that.”

“You have, Trouble,” he smirks, pulling me close again.

“Not in a while,” I laugh lightly.

“I’ll see what I can arrange,” he says, as his hands find their way under my shirt. “But not right now,” he grazes my stomach. “Right now, I need nothing more than to just be inside of you.”

I was hoping by now, with break coming up, he would ask me to meet him outside of these walls.

Somewhere.

Anywhere.

I’m disappointed come Friday when he hasn’t. How long can I keep up my rouse, pretending I’m okay with how things are?

“Are you seeing your sister in the show this weekend?”

“My parents are going tonight,” I help him line back up the buttons on his shirt after yet another one of our smoldering sessions. “So I’ll probably tag along.”

He starts helping with my clothing next, and I try not to meet his eye. “What about you?” I know if he says he’s going over the weekend I’ll come too.

How pitiful.

“We’ve seen it about fifty times already,” he laughs.

“Yeah,” I laugh too.

Ugh.

“Well, have a good break then,” I shrug and head for the door, but he grabs my arm, stopping me, roughly pressing my body against his.

“Wait, one more kiss,” he mummers, his mouth against mine.

“That’s what you said last time and look what happened,” I laugh, already sliding my hands back into his pants.

I make it through the overture, but ten minutes into the first act I can’t take it anymore. He was right; we’ve seen this play far too many times.

I excuse myself as I slide past Mom and Dad, their eyes so proud of Gracie that they don’t even notice. Funny thing is, she hasn’t even come on stage yet!

I wander aimlessly, convincing myself not to go down his hallway. All I want to do is sit outside his office door and replay my favorite moments of us over and over again. I know I can’t stoop that low, so I purposely go the opposite way, enjoying the half lit corridors, admiring the peace and quiet that is my MTHS.

That’s when I start to hear the faintest of sounds.

At first, I think it’s just the music coming from the auditorium, but it gets louder as I continue the opposite way. I follow the powerful notes, and like some weird Phantom Of The Opera moment, they turn hauntingly familiar.

My pace quickens as my heart thrashes in my chest. I’m practically running until I’m opening the door to the same rehearsal room we were in the other day.

He’s sitting at the piano like some hazy dream, dimly lit by a small lamp in the corner, wearing jet-black slacks with his pristinely ironed collared shirt rolled to his elbows, the veins in his thick, muscular arms exposed as he conquers each key.

I lightly shut the door behind me and his back stiffens.

“Hello, Trouble.”

“I thought you weren’t going to see the show?” I croak.

“I’m not,” he stops playing, his fingers frozen over the keys. “I have to talk to you.”

“About what?” His somber tone only increases my heart’s hasty beats. What if he tells me this is it? Because he can see how badly I want us to be more than he can give, thanks to the circumstance we’re in? Or what if he just doesn’t want more, regardless of the situation?


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