The Housemistress by Keira Michelle Telford Page A

on the piano stool and begins to play, despite the risk of being caught. She starts off with a funeral dirge, but soon tires of it and moves into something much more upbeat: a song she wrote herself, in fact.
    She’s well into the middle of it before she senses movement in the periphery of her vision. She stops playing mid-keystroke and looks up, prepared to spout a hurried apology to the cleaner and make a swift exit, but it’s not the cleaner standing at the edge of the stage next to her backpack, it’s Carriveau.
    “Continue,” Carriveau prompts her. “ S’il te plaît .”
    She looks softer now than she did in the classroom, and Rylie obliges, playing the song out to its completion.
    After the last note fades, “How did you know where to find me?”
    “I didn’t.” Carriveau steps forward. “I heard music and came to admonish whichever unruly pupil had snuck in here to mess about.”
    “Am I in trouble?” Rylie keeps her eyes on the keys, tiptoeing her fingers over them.
    “ Non, ma chérie .” Carriveau walks around the piano. “Did you compose that yourself?”
    Rylie nods, self-conscious.
    “Why aren’t you enrolled in music classes?”
    “My parents think it’s a waste of time.” Rylie lowers the fallboard, covering the ivories.
    “But you’re so talented.” Carriveau budges her over with a wiggle of her hips and sits on the stool beside her, facing away from the piano. “Haven’t they heard you play?”
    “They have, and they don’t care.” Still in a somber mood, Rylie drops her hands from the fallboard to her lap, her gaze lowering with them. “But thank you.”
    “I mean it.” Carriveau reaches for one of her hands, weaving their fingers together. “I wish we had a piano in the house. You could serenade me.”
    Rylie tries to smile, but it doesn’t stick. “So you’re not angry with me anymore?”
    “Angry with you?”
    “You barely looked at me in class.”
    “How could I?” Carriveau winces, pained by the need to suppress her true feelings. “I can’t even say your name without blushing.”
    “I disobeyed you this morning.” Rylie remains downcast. “You think I’m impetuous, and impatient, and—”
    “I think you’re beautiful.” Carriveau hooks Rylie’s chin and turns her head. “You’re intelligent, passionate, and exuberant—too exuberant. You disobeyed me, but believe me, the only anger I feel is toward myself.”
    “What for? I kissed you , not the other way around. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
    Carriveau laughs. “Oh, my darling, I’ve done plenty wrong.” She glances down at Rylie’s lap, the hem of her skirt riding up several inches above her knees.
    Running the tip of one manicured nail from Rylie’s knee upward, she crumples the skirt, exposing the teen’s smooth, flawless skin and the scratch marks still visible from last night’s encounter in the laundry room.
    “See?” She strokes her fingers over the faint pink lines, the skirt pulled so high it almost reveals Rylie’s knickers. “I’ve been misbehaving dreadfully.”
    In response, Rylie parts her legs. It’s only a few inches, but the invitation couldn’t possibly be any more explicit—and Carriveau accepts it. She pushes Rylie’s legs open wider and bends to kiss the grazed skin of her upper inner thigh. Her face buried there, she murmurs with pleasure when she inhales the sweet, musky scent of Rylie’s sex.
    “What are you doing to me, Rylie?” she mumbles, taking a pinch of Rylie’s flesh between her teeth, nipping gently. “ Tu me rends folle !” She tenders one more kiss, then raises her head. “You make me crazy!”
    Rylie lifts up her skirt, baring the damp gusset of her knickers, coaxing Carriveau to return her lips to work, but Carriveau closes her eyes and shies away from temptation.
    “You’re making this very difficult for me. Do you realize that? I know well what you’re feeling.” She tugs on the hem of Rylie’s skirt, covering her up. “But