David watches her from the stage wing, the spotlight shining on her like the sun he believes her to be. Her fingers move across the keys forcefully but delicately, a river with an unstoppable current. When she finishes and receives a standing ovation, he knows there isn’t a single person in the audience more proud of her than he is—not her parents, not her friends, and not that piece of shit boyfriend of hers either. The bouquet of her favorite flowers, laid across the boy’s lap, does not fool him. Mikaela bows before the audience with the same grace that her fingers displayed, but he knows her well enough to recognize the jittery excitement rippling beneath her elegance. She just completed her senior year showcase, and she nailed it. 

She walks off the stage slowly; her head held high until she is hidden behind the curtains of the wing. Then her soft smile transforms into one that beams brightly as she runs over to him, leaping into his arms. Familiar guilt laces with bliss, the feel of her warm against him. He does his best to ignore it and squeezes her tight, lifting her off the ground as he hugs her. She giggles, a sound of pure delight. 

“I did it,” she says breathlessly, pulling away. He lets go of her, but his hands linger on her waist. “I did it, Dave.”

“You did,” he says, his proud smile mirroring hers. “I’m so proud of you,” he nearly coos, cupping her cheek. 

“I was so nervous; I thought I was going to throw up on stage. Juilliard is here tonight.”

He chuckles. “They’ve already accepted you. The down payment has been sent.”

“But what if I bombed, and they took away my offer?”

He only shakes his head as he takes her in, wishing there was a stray hair he could sweep back and tuck behind her ear like he sometimes does. But she is the image of perfection tonight, her hair pulled back into a perfect bun at the nape of her neck, framing her angelic face. She is also the image of temptation that keeps him up at night, bruised with self-loathing as he aches for her—two years of this madness, and he can’t let it go. Of course, she’s been in his life for four years now, but it wasn’t until two years ago that her beauty snuck up on him that he left their sessions with a thundering pulse.

He still remembers the day he met Mikaela. She was a fourteen-year-old girl then, as opposed to the nineteen-year-old she is now, sitting on the couch across from him—a stubborn child protégé who had just lost her piano teacher of a decade when the woman was forced into early retirement due to terminal illness. Mikaela was furious and grief-stricken—not useless feelings for an artist, but only if she had someone who could teach her to mold and sharpen them. He showed up at her house for weeks, only for her to sit at the piano bench and refuse to play. She seemed to be protesting the universe, a worthwhile but wasteful endeavor. Finally, one day, he sat beside her and began to play in front of her. Out of the corner of his eye, he observed how her gaze tracked his fingers, unable to hide her yearning and curiosity. First, they played together. Then, she played for him. 

She became his greatest constant, his only student, given that they spent half of every day practicing, save Sundays. Four years together, two of David sliding closer to a guaranteed spot in Hell. He stopped trying to deny his growing feelings for her, his desire to consume her, nearly a year ago. It doesn’t matter that she turned 19 months ago, that she’s technically legal. She would be disgusted if she knew what he thought of her, and her current age means nothing—he’s still exactly twice her age, he’s still old enough to be her father, and he’s still known her for too long for it to be anything resembling okay. He can do nothing about his feelings except for refusing to act upon them. In fact, after this summer, he’ll finally be free of her. She starts at Juilliard in the fall, and he will no longer be needed. It might kill him, even though he’s sure it will also save him. 

Now, he treasures this moment they share backstage, waiting for the rest of the performances to finish. She will be consumed by the rest of the people in her life soon enough, but this bubble of time belongs to him. 

“Liam is doing great,” she whispers, siping her water bottle. She’s perched on a wooden box that he assumes was a stage prop for something next to the metal folding chair he’s sitting in. 

“I know,” he agrees; before putting the other half of the sandwich, he brought her back into her hands. She never eats before performances and is always starving afterward, but she’s distracted tonight. “Eat.”

She rolls her eyes, although not without affection. “Okay, Dad.”

His gut stirs with guilt, his cock twitching. “Don’t call me that.”

She says nothing, only biting into the sandwich, but he thinks her cheeks flush as if the less savory meaning of what she said only dawned on her. In some ways, Mikaela is wise beyond her years—one has to be to deal with the pressures of being a professional pianist. But sometimes, it dawns on him just how innocent she still is. 

They chat easily throughout the rest of the performances, and he makes sure she finishes her sandwich and bottle of water. He knows he’s lost her to the world again when she leaves him to bow on stage for the group applause. 

He sits there in his chair longer than he should. Her parents will want to speak with him and thank him as they shower their daughter with praise. He doesn’t want to face them, though. If they knew the thoughts of their daughter that haunt him, he wouldn’t be allowed within five feet of her. Even so, he stands, walking out onto the stage. The pianists have entered the audience and are broken into small clusters throughout the vast auditorium. He spots Mikaela quickly, smiling as she holds Liam’s flowers. His jaw clenches as he watches the boy kiss her, but he keeps moving forward.

“Mr. Donahue,” Mr. Brown exclaims. Her parents are beaming, just as Mikaela still is. “What an incredible performance.”

He smiles, allowing himself to look over at Mikaela briefly. He finds she’s already staring at him, that smile seemingly glued on her face tonight. “I take no credit,” he tells them, eyes still on Mikaela. “She makes my job too easy with such talent.”

Liam chuckles beside Mikaela. “Don’t give her too big a head.”

David knows he’s only teasing, but it rubs him the wrong way. “She should have a big head,” he answers. “With talent like hers, she deserves all the recognition in the world.”

Mikaela’s smile barely falters, and she shifts nervously on her feet. Her mother only smiles, squeezing Mikaela’s arm. “That she does,” she agrees with him. “That she does.”

The fourth time that Mikaela’s fingers fumble, she slams down on the keys hard enough that the loud boom echoes through the entire house. He’s glad that her parents aren’t home, but he supposes that she wouldn’t be acting this way if they were. David is the only person she seems to let herself make mistakes in front of. She straightens her shoulders, with the posture of a ruler, and sets her fingers upon the keys once more. He watches her jaw quiver. 

“Mikaela,” he murmurs, fingers grazing hers.

She bats his hand away. “I’m fine.”

He calmly removes her hands from the keys and lowers the fallboard before sitting on the bench beside her, facing the opposite direction. “Talk to me.”

“It’s nothing.” She swipes a stray tear. 

“It’s nothing. Talk to me.”

She looks away. “It’s embarrassing. I can’t.” Still, he doesn’t miss how she glances his way as if seeking permission. 

“You know you can tell me anything…it’s obviously eating at you. I haven’t seen you play this recklessly since you got second place in that competition two years ago.”

She scoffs. “Thanks for the reminder.”

David chuckles, guiding her face in his direction by her chin. “Talk to me.”

“I can’t, Dave,” she repeats. At least she looks him in the eye this time. “It’s…” He again loses her gaze as it flickers towards the covered keys. Her cheeks flush, and he doesn’t know if it’s frustration or something else. “It’s about sex,” she says quietly. 

In retrospect, David thinks he reacted remarkably well. Sure, he grips the bench until his knuckles are white; she can probably hear how thickly he swallows as he tries to find his voice. But he doesn’t jump up from the bench or even turn away from her, so at least there’s that.

“Well…” He trails off. What is the right answer here? No—he knows what the right answer is. He’s supposed to gently tell her that she’s right, that this is an inappropriate topic, and guide her towards a friend or a relative to talk to. He opens his mouth, meaning to say just that. “You can talk to me about sex if you want to—if you’re comfortable with it. I’ll always be here for you, Mikaela. Whatever you need.”

She furrows her brow like she needs a moment to dissect and translate his words. A beat later, she turns to look at him again. “You don’t feel weird?”

“Only if you do.”

She seems to relax visibly. Taking a deep breath, she twists on the bench to face him, sitting cross-legged. “Liam wants to have sex.”

He thought he would see red, but he sees white instead. That’s how hot his anger is. It’s ridiculous—for many reasons—but mostly because he had assumed Liam and Mikaela already had sex. They’ve been dating for two years now. That was the reality he lived in, so he isn’t sure why hearing that Liam wants to have sex is sparking such rage in him. 

He grips the bench again, hoping she doesn’t notice. “Is he pressuring you, sweetheart?”

The word is a slip of the tongue. It isn’t the first time he’s said it, but he feels panicked every time he does, despite Mikaela never reacting to it one way or another. 

“No, no…nothing like that. I want to too, but I told him I wanted to wait until after the showcase to avoid being distracted. We’re supposed to make a night of it next month—he got a hotel room, and…well, you get it.”

He nods slowly, not trusting his voice. 

“And…I’m so stressed about it. It’s not that I don’t want to have sex. It’s just that…I want to be prepared. I want to be good at it.”

He can’t help but smile, affection blooming in his chest. Of course, she does. His girl wants to be good at everything—no, the best. He wishes she saw herself as he does; she is perfect no matter her accomplishments or talents. 

“Good at it,” he repeats. 

She bites down on her bottom lip. He’s never wanted to taste her more. “Don’t tease.”

“I’m not, I’m—” He pauses, carefully considering his words. “You can’t be good at sex, Mikaela. It isn’t…it’s an experience with another person; it’s about⁠—”

She rolls her eyes. “That’s only what people say.”

His jaw tenses. She isn’t wrong, exactly. Sure, people can be more experienced at sex, but it is about connection too. Unlike Liam, it’s best to have both…he could give her both. He banishes the thought. 

“Besides,” she continues. “I’m not…well, I’m not worried about pleasing Liam.” He feels like he might vomit. “But, in truth, I’ve heard the first time isn’t a good experience for women sometimes, and…well, I want to enjoy myself.” She says the last part rushed like she’s ashamed of those words—his amusement returns.

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting pleasure.”

“Right, I know, so—” She huffs as if frustrated she has to say any of this aloud. “So I’ve been practicing, and it isn’t going well. That’s why I’m upset.”

“Practicing,” he echoes. 

“Yes.” She looks away momentarily, but then her dark eyes return to him startlingly. “I want to have an orgasm. I want to know how, and what it feels like, and know myself, and…you know? I want to figure out that part of myself before I’m with Liam, so I know what I like and want, and…well, it isn’t going well,” she rambles. “It’s going terribly. Because I’m stuck in my head, and I don’t know how to…to get there. I even bought a vibrator, but it feels strange, and I—” She looks up at him, eyes wide, before shaking her head. “I shouldn’t be telling you this. I’m sorry.”

David thinks his brain might have short-circuited, the words spilling from her like a drug to him—a dangerous one. The kind that lowers your inhibition that makes you lose control. 

“Dave?” she questions. She sounds nervous, which snaps him out of it. He doesn’t want to make her feel worse.

“It’s okay,” he quickly responds. “You can tell me whatever you want. You never need to apologize for it.”

“Thank you,” she murmurs. 

They stare at one another for a beat too long. It is long enough that for the first time since his horrendous thoughts about her began, he thinks she might have had a thought or two herself. It seems impossible…and yet. 

“I can help you,” he hears himself saying. 

“Help me?”

“I’m your teacher; I…I can teach you that too.” He doesn’t let her respond before he shakes his head at himself. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that; I don’t know⁠—”

“No,” she cuts him off, grabbing his arm. “Please. I want you to.”

Blood rushes to his head, his heart thundering in his ears. “We can’t.”

“We can,” she insists.

“What about Liam?”

She looks ashamed, and he wonders if that’s the first time she has considered him since he made his offer. “It…it doesn’t count. Like you said, you’re just—you’re just teaching me. I want you too. I…Dave, I trust you more than anyone in my life. Please.”

She stares at him, awaiting his response, like she knows exactly what her pout does to him. “Please,” she repeats.

“It isn’t right.”

“It isn’t wrong,” she counters. 

“Mikaela…”

“I’m so comfortable with you. I don’t worry about what you think of me like I do with everyone else—even Liam. I’ll be so much more comfortable if it’s you.”

He wonders what exactly it is. An orgasm? Something more? Everything?

He feels his surrender in his bones, collapsing inwards as he folds into himself before he says anything aloud. He leans forward, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead. “If you’re sure,” he whispers. “If you’re absolutely sure, then I’ll help you.”

“Thank you,” she sighs, relieved. She wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him in for a hug, clinging to him. He holds her to him for a few seconds before he forces himself to pull away. 

Checking his watch, he notes that it’s 1:30 p.m. They barely made it an hour into her lesson. “When do your parents get home?” They’re rarely home by 5 p.m. when he usually leaves. 

“Six, at the earliest.”

“Let’s…we need to continue your lessons. We’ll do at least another hour⁠—”

Mikaela barks a laugh, raising her brow at him. “Are you kidding me?”

“What?”

“You think I’m going to be able to focus on the piano, knowing what comes later?”

He gives her a pointed look. “We are not abandoning your lessons. Besides…you’ve always responded to positive reinforcement,” he dares to say. “Consider these new lessons as motivation for your piano lessons.”

“We can start doing it that way tomorrow. Please,” she begs. “Today, can we start on the…the other lessons?”

“You’re spoiled; you know that?”

She smiles—a little shyly, a little wickedly. “Is that a yes?”

He reaches out, allowing himself to let his touch linger for the first time. His palm lays heavy on her bare thigh, running up her smooth skin to the hem of her jean shorts. He fiddles with the material before looking up at her. Her breath catches. 

“Well?” she whispers. 

He sighs. “Show me your room.”

“You’re sure your parents won’t be home earlier than six?” His heart hasn’t stopped hammering against his ribcage. He can’t believe he’s doing this. He shouldn’t be doing this. 

Mikaela holds up her phone a few steps ahead of him on the stairs. “I have their phone locations,” she explains, her back still to him. “They work 30 minutes away. I’ll if they’ve left.”

David nods, even though she can’t see it. He follows her down the upstairs hallway and into the open doorway of her bedroom. He’s distracted the moment they walk in—he’s never been up here in his four years of knowing her. He shouldn’t be up here now. The room is bright, a corner bedroom with four windows on two walls. Everything is pastel shades; pale pink, soft orange, warm gold, and ivory. Everything is neat and pristine. He would expect nothing less. 

“What are you smiling at?” Mikaela asks. 

She kicks off her flip-flops and jumps backward onto her bed, head tilted curiously. He must be dreaming. This image of her, sprawled across her bed before him, cannot possibly be real. 

“Nothing.” 

It’s hard not to smile like an idiot before her, but he manages. She doesn’t try to hide her smile though—a little nervous and shy. She never tries to hide any part of herself from him, which he treasures. 

“Well?” she prompts.

He tuts at her, walking over to the side of her bed and looking down at her. “Spoiled and impatient, hm?”

He expects her to laugh, but she blushes instead. “I just…I know you’ll make me feel good.”

This is the moment. The moment that he knows there are less savory reasons for what’s about to happen beyond helping Mikaela or even the much less noble reason of his pleasure. This is the moment he admits to himself, and whatever God might be out there, that his true intention is to ruin all men for her beyond the simple giving and taking of pleasure. For the rest of her life, he wants this piece of himself to be so deeply embedded in her that she cannot rid herself of the memories, even when she wishes she could. He wants to haunt and possess her when he’s no longer with her. He wants to give her pleasure, wants to take pleasure, but more than anything, he wants to control her pleasure. He wants to control it even when she is beyond his touch. 

“I will.” He sits on the bed beside her before smoothing his hand over her blush linen duvet cover. He watches his hand, how it smoothes out the wrinkles, how it’s perfected under his touch. When he looks up at her, her own dark eyes are bearing into him. “There will be rules, though.”

She rolls her eyes at him, and he takes her chin in his hand, gently but firmly holding her steady so she’s forced to look him in the eye. “None of that,” he scolds. “If you’re going to be a brat, we’ll go back downstairs.”

An empty threat if there ever was one, but Mikaela nodded anyway, her expression grave. “I’m listening.”

He lets go of her, fighting the urge to run his hands over her legs again. This part requires a focus he cannot channel with his hands on any part of her. 

“The first and most important one is that you will always be honest with me. If you change your mind, you tell me. If something doesn’t feel good, you tell me.”

“And if something feels good?”

This girl will be the death of him, his sugar-coated catalyst into ruination. He knew that already though, didn’t he? He thinks part of him always knew that. 

“Then you tell me.” His voice is rough, sandpaper on a rock. “It’s good to practice communication during sex, either way.” He pauses, unable to mask his smirk. “Although, I’ll probably know—if it feels good.”

“Okay.” The word is a wisp of a sin. “I agree to the rule. Do I have to sign a contract or something?”

He chuckles, leaning closer. “What did I tell you about being a brat?”

His face is mere inches from her own, the upper half of his body hovering over her. 

“Wait!”

She rolls over to the opposite side of the bed before he can so much as react, opening the drawer to her nightstand. She pulls out a light pink vibrator, a slim bullet that is somehow just so her, like everything else in this room. 

She returns to him and hands him the vibrator. “Here.”

“Here what?” He’s sure he doesn’t hide his amusement well, but he takes the vibrator from her anyway. 

She shrugs. “Isn’t that the most efficient way to do this?”

He pulls back from her, placing the vibrator beside the nightstand. She frowns. 

“What do I tell you when you start a new piece?”

She sits up further, lying against her pillows. 

“To warm up to it before diving in,” she mock replies as if reciting a robot. “To take it for a drive, to sip it like a fine merlot.”

“Right.” His smile widens. “So let’s slow down.”

She gives him a pointed look. “How can we slow down further than this? Nothing has happened yet.”

He finally allows himself to touch her once more in response to her complaint. His hand moves to her bare leg, stroking it up and down from her ankle to her upper thigh. He intently watches her face, daring her to turn away from him, to call this whole thing off, but she doesn’t. In fact, despite her complaints about being unable to get there herself, goosebumps have already erupted across her smooth skin. He’s going to give her everything. He will play her like a piano, as flawlessly as he taught her to master each piece. 

“Dave?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“That feels good.”

He raises his brow, surprised she listened to his rules. “Good girl.”

She bites down on her bottom lip. “I love it when you tell me that during practice.” She whispers it, another sin confessed. 

He tilts his head at her. “Is that right?”

She nods. “It…it makes my heart beat faster.”

His hand pauses on her thigh, and he leans forward, pressing a lingering kiss to her temple. His lips graze across her cheek to her ear. “You’ll always be my good girl.”

He hears her breath catch but pulls away immediately, standing again. She looks at him wide-eyed, confused, but he only unbuttons the cuffs of his dress shirt. He feels her gaze like a wave of warmth, washing over his body as he rolls up his sleeves to reveal his forearms. He walks around the bed so that he’s in front of her and kneels before her on the bed. She spreads her legs instinctually, and he bites down on his chuckle, if only because he doesn’t want her to think he’s laughing at her. He’s never laughing at her. He’s laughing at the absurdity of the universe for granting him this moment in time.