Command Performance

Paul Bain steps into the room, eyes lingering on Cliff Parker. The handsome piano tuner works with precision, adjusting the keys of those fine instruments, his fingers dancing with deliberate care. Cliff demands perfection—from the pianos, from himself, and from anyone else in his orbit. He savors the slow modulation, the subtle shifts that make everything sing. But patience frays. Waiting for Paul's input drags on, and this roguish craftsman craves what he wants without delay. Irritation flickers when Bain finally appears. Cliff shoots him a sharp look. Yet that annoyance melts into something hotter as he drinks in the sexy blond: taut muscles straining against his shirt, deep blue eyes that pull like a tide. The pianos fade to nothing. Cliff wants Paul—now. No hesitation. They collide, bodies twisting together in a frenzy of raw, heated lust, hands gripping, breaths mingling in unbridled hunger.