Page 42 of The Protege

Tell me, Isabeau. Show me everything you’re feeling.

But I know it’s not fair to ask her to confide in me when I can’t do the same for her.

When we’re through check-in and security and heading for our gate Isabeau pulls me aside, moistening her lips as she looks up at me. “Laszlo. It’s very special to me, that song. I can only ever play it with you.”

I want to reach out and touch her, but I’m conscious of everyone around us. “It is the same for me, sweetheart. Always has been.”

She looks at me for a long time, words hovering just behind her lips. What does she want so badly to tell me? But I don’t find out because she turns and hurries away.

That afternoon we arrive in Kuala Lumpur and not long after we’ve checked in there’s a knock on my hotel room door. I open it and see Isabeau wearing a tank top with a plunging neckline and a bra that seems to be pushing her breasts up. Her red hair is in a long plait hanging over one shoulder and there’s a faint pink bloom in her cheeks. She looks like a juicy peach and I want to sink my teeth into her.

“Sir,” she says, as softly as a bow barely touching cello strings. She’s biting her lip and smiling. “I feel nervous again.”

Chapter Sixteen



We haven’t even got a performance tonight. It’s a rest day. I wonder if I should elaborate on my supposed nervousness but Laszlo merely takes me by the hand, leads me to the couch and waits for me to get over his knee.

I catch his hazel eyes when he looks up and a blaze of desire shoots through me. I don’t feel nervous in the least. The last time he spanked me I touched myself thinking about him, my hand inside my damp underwear the moment I got back into my own room, back against the door, fingers working my clit furiously. I came in under a minute. I didn’t even have time to scrape together a coherent fantasy. Just hands—chest—strong—heat—Laszlo.

I slide down over him, wondering if Laszlo thinks that way about me. If he can, now I’m older. He pushes the skirt I’m wearing up to my waist and both his hands squeeze my behind. I feel something akin to a groan deep in his chest against my thigh. He takes a moment to unbutton the sleeves of his shirt and roll them back, and I wait, my body humming with anticipation. I crave how much this will wind me up sexually even as it calms me down emotionally. I watch him out of the corner of my eye as he pushes his cuffs past his elbows, and the anticipation is making me wet. He’s got beautiful forearms, lean and strong and veiny. I used to watch them openly at youth orchestra rehearsals, wondering why I found them so fascinating. Admiring their strength, the dusting of dark hairs, the way the muscles in his arms move.

“Longer this time, I think,” he murmurs, and the first strike of his hand catches me by surprise and I squeal. He works me over thoroughly until I’m a sweaty, panting mess, my behind and the backs of my thighs on fire. He goes on and on, and the pain recedes behind a wave of heat and arousal that makes me melt across his lap. I don’t care if people can hear as long as he doesn’t stop. My shirt rides up and I’m almost bare to him as I squirm in his lap.

He smooths the flat of his hand down over my flesh and I know he’s finished. When he helps me up I’m smiling woozily. He pulls me tight against his chest and I burrow into him, his shirt cool against my hot cheek.

“That feel good, sweet girl?” he asks, and I mumble my assent. Taking me by the shoulders he sits me up and looks sternly into my eyes. “What do you say?”

I feel another surge of wetness between my legs. That dark glimmer is back and I lick my lips. “Yes, thank you, sir.”

“That’s better,” he says, sleek satisfaction in his voice as he pulls me against him. Mine, I think, burrowing my face against his chest, drunk on this surfeit of the man I’ve always wanted. His hand slips beneath my shirt, caressing my back. When he hums to himself his lips are against the top of my head and I want to cry from happiness.

“Good girl,” he murmurs softly.

The next afternoon I’m back. And the next. I can’t help myself.

Laszlo doesn’t question why, or exclaim over how nervous I’m pretending to be. He just lets me in and gives me what I’m asking for. Thoroughly. Harder by increments each time, making me cry out against the sofa cushions and squeezing tears from my eyes. The harder he gets the more I want, and more again. Then he strokes me and murmurs loving words and holds me in his arms. I’ve never known anything like it. The longer and harder he spanks me the more he fusses over me afterward. Stern, fierce Laszlo being soft and buttery with me, his cool fingers smoothing the hot tears from my face and telling me I did so well, what a good girl I am. I can’t get enough and I want to feel even more vulnerable as I’m prone across his lap.