A/N: so here we go. There will be 6 different POVs in this story (I know, right?) and I will try to do only 1 per chapter, though I'm not really making any promises.

This is kind of the sister publication to La Maison #1 and I'm going to go all out and say you don't need to have read that one to read this, though it may ground you. However, if you've come here from #1 you need to be aware that this is tied to the final version of that story (available on Amazon), and there may be differences, which I will endeavor to remember to point out when they arise. However, if anything leaves you 😕 please comment (and please comment anyway - things you like, things you don't like, whatever - comments and votes are like life blood to a writer)

François

I sit in the center of the front row, as I always do for Conservatory performances. I adore orchestral music and find attending these soirees is an excellent way to catch up and coming stars before they arrive. I am equally as fond of the Philharmonic and the Opera House, but love the raw passion in these, often unpolished, geniuses. The beautiful old building is cold and draughty due to its sweeping painted ceilings and open layout, but it allows the sound to swirl and fill one's mind with passion and drama. The Conservatory specializes in music, dance and performance, and I attend these fundraising efforts several times per year. I often bring my friends, also lovers of the Arts, but frustratingly each one had been unavailable this evening so I'm on my own, although it does keep me safe from pointless chattering and the undoubted lusty comments over the performers.

They have just finished a resounding rendition of the first three movements of Beethoven's Fifth and I am floating on joy. My eyes are closed, feeling the echoes in my mind, when the quiet tones of Beethoven's Sonata No.14 begin. I keep my eyes closed. This is possibly my favorite piece and I can't believe my luck – I'm tempted to open my eyes to check the program, but I'm certain I'm not mistaken: it hadn't been advertised as a Beethoven soiree. Instead of breaking from the feeling I embrace the internal shudder of delight that runs through me and settle down to hear this.

Even more to my surprise and happiness, the second movement continues, offering a tempting clue that this virtuoso is likely performing all three movements. When the excitable notes of the third movement begin, then, my eyes snap open. The furious and technically demanding movement cannot be played by just anyone, and this pianist is expert – far more skilled than I've ever heard before at this training school. Frankly, better than most of the professional performances I've heard.

I can't help the audible gasp when I see who is behind the piano. A god of Greek proportions – golden hair and golden skin, high cheekbones and pouting pink lips, an ill-fitted suit unable to disguise the suggestion of strength and musculature. His eyes closed in passion as his long fingers travel the keys, coaxing the sounds of beauty from within.

It is that look of peaceful delight, the slight turn of the head as he feels the music, the tiny furrow of the brow that denotes complete concentration, that has me suddenly and encompassingly desirous of seeing those movements under me, being forced from the boy's exquisite body as he falls undone for me.

After the rest of the concert, which I barely hear – the Moonlight Sonata playing inside my mind on repeat – I travel with almost unseemly haste, thankful that, despite my body being huge and potentially cumbersome, years of contact sports and my time in uniform have left me capable of deftly evading elderly, tottering, slow-moving concert-goers as I make my way to the lobby, seeking out the soft blond hair and strong jawline of the piano player. I gratefully take a glass of red from a passing waiter, not because I want to drink the moisture-sucking liquid that dares to be called wine here, but because I need a distraction so my hands don't clench embarrassingly while I wait for the amazing young man to make an appearance.

I shouldn't have rushed. I have been standing at the edge of the crowd, trying not to make eye-contact with any of the boring acquaintances that my attendance here over the years has accrued, for almost forty minutes. I have realized the boy will not come, although there's still the faintest hope that, as the main soloist, he may be waiting for a grand entrance, when I hear two performers talking quietly.

"Where's Ellis?" a doe-eyed beauty asks.

"You know he doesn't come out for the party if he can get away with it," the other, a cocky looking blond, responds.

"Yes, but how's he getting away with it? He just had a huge solo and nailed it too. Why's Brubaker not forcing him to come out? You know he always does as he's told when Brubaker pushes it."

I can't help the slight growl from my throat at those words. I just know they are talking about my boy; so, Ellis is his name. Yes, that seems right – it suits him. But I'm not happy at the idea that some nonentity, like Brubaker, is making my boy do his bidding. That's my job.

I go to find Brubaker, who is the Director of the Conservatory; a large, domineering man who doesn't have a hope against my far more focused, and regularly practiced, domination.

"Mr. Brubaker," I greet coolly when I've drawn him away from the small crowd of wealthy-looking patrons he's chatting up.

"Monsieur Girard, c'est un plaisir de vous voir," Brubaker smarms.

"Oui, je suppose que ça l'est," I state with the smallest smile.

I've been instrumental in increasing donations at multiple fundraising events in the past, largely because of my myriad of wealthy Dom friends and the other members of the club, and as a result Brubaker always looks upon me as something of a god. I find it a little painful, to be honest; he does insist in speaking French with a painfully heavy American accent, and he's really not my type as far as 'adoring eyes' go, but it may be useful now.

"Le pianiste soliste, Monsieur Brubaker, ou est-ill? Je voudrais le feliciter."

"Desole, Monsieur. Il est dans son dressing." Brubaker apologizes as he points up the stairs, to the corridor that contains the musician's dressing rooms. I simply nod and calmly walk up the stairs, Brubaker staring after me, as if debating whether to stop me. He clearly sees sense, as I make it to the top of the stairs without molestation. I've always found an overweening confidence to be highly useful in terms of getting places you're not meant to be, and it sees me well again, now.

The doors are labelled with the various sections of the orchestra, until I get to the end; a slightly faded and peeling red door, with 'Piano Soloist' written on cream card stuck to it. I knock, once, sharply.

The door swings open after a moment.

"Mr. Brubaker, I told you, I don't feel up to coming down," I can hear the slightest shade of a soft Southern drawl in the accent.

I have a moment to examine him – not quite as young as I'd first thought, which I have to admit to finding something of a relief, perhaps around twenty-one, skin even more angelic and glowing than I'd been able to tell in the dim hall and now, as his large eyes flick upward in shock at realizing this is no Mr Brubaker, I can see they are a stunning shade of azure.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Sir," my stomach tightens at the way the word sounds falling from his full lips, "I thought you were someone else."

"No, just me," I make sure my voice is as deep and smooth as possible, wondering whether it will speak to the boy's internal desires. I am rewarded with those deep ocean eyes widening even further, and the smallest mewl coming from the boy's throat.

"Let me take you for a late dinner," I try to insist, clumsily; that sweet little sound sending my mind into tailspin, though I don't know why: I'm used to sweet boys making desperate noises.

"No, no thank you, Sir. I'm tired after the performance. I need to rest so I can practice tomorrow."

"You must let me," I'm frantic that he's slipping through my fingers, but the boy's eyes narrow in anger.

"You can't force me, Sir. I have more important things to do."

"Yes, me," I'm being ridiculous now in my unaccustomed distraction, trying to laugh with confidence, aware it probably sounds anything but, though still expecting Ellis to give in, as everyone gives in, especially as he is showing some extremely positive submissive signs.

But instead, his eyes flame, his hand rubbing hard at his elbow, as if it is causing him pain, "No, Sir. You have no power to tell me what to do. Please leave, and don't bother me again."

The door is slammed in my face, and I'm left standing, bemused, worried, and incredibly turned on.

* * * * *

"You're distracted," Chase pouts, poking my leather-clad leg.

"What? Sorry Chase. Just thinking." There's no point getting strict with him about inappropriate behavior toward me, which I usually would, Dom or no Dom, close friend or not, as Chase seems to have a complete unawareness around authority figures. He isn't defiant, he simply doesn't seem to realize when he's being reprimanded, and yelling at him would just make me look out of control and unprofessional, something I am not.

"You are, though; distracted," Gray, my best friend, leans in, "and by the fact that you've barely glanced at all those hot little subs trying to get your attention, I suspect it's about a boy." Sometimes the fact that my friend is a psychiatrist, with emotion-based color synesthesia, is really, really annoying, because it's hard to hide things from him, and impossible to lie to him.

"There might be. But I'm not willing to talk about it." I'm lucky that Gray always respects a person's right to keep their secrets, and he never pushes it as long as you're honest with him.

The fact is, I'm ashamed of myself. I haven't been able to get Ellis out of my mind since I met him last week, and my memories are an uncomfortable mix between deeply arousing and equally deeply embarrassing when I remember how I attempted to throw myself at him. I haven't even touched a sub since then, which is something I'm going to have to redress unless I want the gossips working overtime, as I know just what those publicly perfectly behaved boys are like once they get behind the door of the subs' locker room.

Liam, Gray's sub and boyfriend, comes bouncing into the VIP area, straddling Gray's long legs and kissing his Dom passionately.

"Can we go play, Daddy?" he purrs, and Gray rolls his eyes at the endearment.

"Not right now, baby. I'm talking to Master François."

"Can we go home, play there? Dancing with the others has made me horny and I want to go all night." He's bouncing on Gray's crotch.

"Liam," Gray gets stern, "you're over-excited, and unless you want a punishment," Liam's eyes light up, "a punishment that will involve no orgasm for you, you will kneel by my side and calm down." Liam quickly scrambles down, dropping into the waiting position, with his head bowed and his hands behind his back, as Gray turns to me. "Frankie, just know I'm here if you need to talk to me."

"I know, mon ami, but I think you have your hands full right now," I chuckle, with a glance at Liam.

In the end I take one of the non-contracted subs to my playroom, just to keep my hand in. Diego is a cute guy, whose wide-eyed innocence belies how rough he likes things, so I strap him to the horse and keep my whipping technique up to date on his ass and thighs, before fucking him just as hard as he likes. Though I give him appropriate aftercare, I can't shake a feeling that I just did the wrong thing.

* * * * *

I did something stupid. After that night at the club, unable to shake thoughts of Ellis, I decided that François Girard is not a man who gives up. So, here I am, slightly abashed, which is a most unaccustomed feeling, chasing a boy, hunting him down, not like the wild predator I am, but more like an addict seeking a fix. Engendering casual meetings by spending hours walking the streets around the Conservatory waiting to 'accidentally' bump into the blue-eyed boy. And every one of those meetings has led me to want more. Encountering him in the bodega across the main entrance, walking in the park and stopping him to discuss music, going to the main office to make a donation and then wandering the corridors trying to find his classroom. I'm a mess, but I haven't finished yet.

"Oh, Ellis," I say now, smoothly; at least I haven't lost that, "how nice to see you here." This time, I'm in the coffee shop close to the Conservatory, where I've worked out Ellis and his friends visit regularly. Ellis has walked in with three other young men, who all giggle in my direction, and I'm positive they are fully aware this is no casual meeting. Ellis looks delicious, edible, as he always does, dressed simply in long cargo shorts that show off his muscular calves and a deep-wine Henley. He looks preppy and cute ... and pissed.

He grabs my arm, the first physical contact we've had, and I feel the jolt of electricity run through me. I have to get this boy.

When Ellis has drawn me away from the line of customers he turns to me, anger making his slight drawl more pronounced.

"I don't know what your game is, but you have to stop this. I figure you see me as a challenge and you're planning on just harassing me until I give up and let you fuck me, but I don't play that game and I want you to leave me alone." I feel a different jolt – fear this time. I can see how serious the boy's intentions are – he isn't simply playing hard to get, he means every word. But that knowledge consolidates this for me; I know this is already about more than simply getting Ellis into my bed. I don't know how much more, yet, but I can't just walk away from this situation.

"Ellis, I do play games, but I keep them for my playroom," and I'm gratified by the deep flush that rises over Ellis's golden skin, "this isn't a game. Let me take you for dinner, just once." Ellis is already shaking his head before I've even finished my sentence.

"You don't want me. You just want the idea of me. I can't be what you're looking for." That terrifies me, partly because what happens if he's right? What happens if I'm only chasing him because he's apparently immune to my charms? But I have to know.

"Okay, you won't come for dinner, just one thing then, and if you still want me gone, I'll be gone."

Ellis looks confused by the words, but I'm pulling out every stop now, in a last ditch attempt to find the truth, and I take his face between my large hands and pressed my lips to Ellis' mouth, gently at first, carefully brushing the plump flesh to request entry, which is granted with a gratifying gasp. I taste that sweet space, exploring it deeply until I feel light-headed from lack of oxygen.

"I could do that forever," I growl when we finally separate, "and you're wrong. You are definitely what I'm looking for." And he is. That kiss certainly answered a question.

But I have to allow him his own mind, so I just take a business card from my wallet; expensive card stock, almost blank, just the name of the club and my name and number on it in swirling thick black font. I'm not sure whether I hope Ellis would look it up online, or whether I hope he won't. I am forced to leave that to fate.

"You want me to leave you alone, I will. I want you to call me. I hope you will, but I will leave it up to you."

And I walk away, a pain in my chest at the fear Ellis won't call.

* * * * *

A/N: So, not translating the French - google translate will do as good a job as me (plus, isn't it fun to use context clues to work out what's being said?)

And, you may have spotted Gray has Synesthesia - not mentioned in the Wattpad version of La Maison #1 but is in the final version, and it's not because I just got a major crush on calling the first one Colors - oh no, I'm never that frivolous.