Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 67966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
Dammit.
By giving Thorn his number, Lucas had left the ball in his court. Now, it was his turn to take a shot, but he hadn’t played this game in a long time.
He could teach others all day how to love, how to heal, yet when it came to himself…
Belladonna Mansion
Casey’s Condo
Virginia Beach Oceanfront
Casey could feel the moment Dr. Galan Briggs stepped inside the mansion. The awareness wasn’t gentle. It was borderline overwhelming.
It wasn’t by sight or sound, but something more—a sense that had been imprinted on him the night they’d met. Like a magnet finding its other half, he knew Galan had crossed the threshold.
He was so nervous he was almost sick, but he talked himself down as he checked his appearance one last time in the mirror.
He’d been preparing all day—well, preparing was too small a word—he’d rehearsed it like a performance he couldn’t afford to fuck up.
He’d taken three milk baths, chosen a soap and lotion he hoped reflected his gentle refinement rather than desperation, pressed his shirt three times, and checked the mirror so often it felt like punishment.
If Galan walked away tonight, Casey knew he’d crumble.
Thorn had given him the notes from his interview he’d had with Galan, but he had told Casey that he was still considering the contract and to give him some time to think it over.
In Casey’s mind, that had translated into getting dressed in his best clothes and stalking Galan at the BDSM club he sometimes visited on the weekends.
He’d only wanted to show the gorgeous Sir, who was waiting none too patiently for him.
Casey checked his condo one last time from top to bottom, yet his restless hands still returned to the carefully arranged spread of gourmet cheeses, crackers, and a platter of ripe fruit on the coffee table.
Every detail was chosen because they were Galan’s favorites.
He’d studied that interview tape like scripture, memorizing every detail, from Galan’s favorite food and drink to his stress triggers.
He wanted to create a night for Galan that felt like a sanctuary, and he’d built it with his bare hands.
Most of the lights in his condo were turned off except for the dim recessed lighting over his mahogany baby grand piano. Everywhere else was lit with candles.
The flames flickered low and soft, painting the room in gold.
Galan had mentioned in Thorn’s interview that he got a lot of headaches from work stress. Well, Casey knew how to care for that.
He sat on the piano bench and lifted the lid.
He took special note that his Sir was a big classical music lover and had taken a few classes on the subject while studying for his medical degree.
Casey gazed out at the serenity of the dark ocean, letting it seep into his mind and out through his fingers. It’d been years since he’d played the complex notes of one of Mendelssohn’s emotional ballads, but as he closed his eyes and began to stroke the keys, it all came back to him.
Composing was a talent Casey had possessed since grade school. He’d joined the orchestra in fifth grade and music had been a part of his life ever since.
But this wasn’t just a ballad—it was a prayer disguised as music.
When Galan heard him playing it, Casey hoped he would hear the plea beneath it…choose me, Sir.
The shadows bent and swayed to the song, shrouding the space in peace and intimacy. He wanted Galan to walk in and feel it immediately—that this was not just a mansion, it was the safe haven for his heart…it was him.
Galan
Galan gravitated toward the melancholy chords of Songs Without Words, Mendelssohn’s most romantic ballad.
He followed the sound farther down the hallway—each keystroke striking a tender place inside him.
The music wasn’t simply being played. Each note carried the weight of suffering, the pianist dragging out the harmonies as if reluctant to let them go, grounding them with a bass so heavy it pulsed with longing.
It was the sound of a soul confessing through melody.
Is that coming from Casey’s room?
Galan stood in front of the door at the end of the hall, his hand shaking as he let out a slow breath.
Just stay calm.
Every part of him wanted to bolt as his hand trembled on Casey’s door. Yet something in the chords being played tugged harder than his fear.
The music paused long enough for him to hear the gentle voice on the other side of the door. “Please come in, Sir.”
He hadn’t even knocked.
The moment Galan stepped across the threshold, the sea claimed his gaze first—an infinite sweep of black and silver beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Then he saw him, Casey, shoulders bowed over the polished piano, his lithe frame bent in quiet surrender to the song.
Galan had walked in with muted expectations in hopes of avoiding disappointment, but now he stood frozen in wonder. Not much stirred him anymore—but this sight left him breathless.