The tick of your watch. The harmony of your breaths. The tempo of your heart. The notes I feel whenever you’re near. “‘I Will Follow You Into The Dark.’”
He stops behind me and places his phone on the bench beside my hip. “Death Cab for Cutie?”
I nod.
“Interesting choice.” He moves my hair aside and traces his knuckles along the line of my neck. “Play it.”
“I don’t have the music sheet.”
“You don’t need it.” His lips touch the path of his finger, his breath stroking my ear. “You have the world’s greatest teacher.”
I shiver. “So cocky.”
He gives my neck a warning bite and steps back. “Raise your arms.”
I do, recalling his words the night I sucked his cock in Le Moyne’s theater.
I want you naked, sitting at my piano and rolling your hips like you’re fucking the notes.
He pulls the t-shirt over my head and drops it, leaving me completely bare beneath his gaze. With his hands on my waist, he lifts me, takes my seat, and positions me on his lap, facing the keyboard.
This is different. I’m up a little higher, but as his arms come around me and his hands guide mine to the keys, I relax my weight on his powerful thighs. Knees together between his, I tremble in anticipation.
He cues up the song on his phone and sets it on the bench. In the next breath, the inspiring arrangement of music and lyrics trickle from the speaker. His hands move beneath mine and guide me through the simple complexity of chords.
I spread my fingers through the spaces between his. My hands are smaller, bonier, and darker-skinned, but they mold around his exquisitely, like our hands are meant to be joined this way, for holding each other, for creating music together.
Fumbling along, I become frustrated by my inability to catch on. I can recreate classical pieces without sheet music, only the ones I’ve played a gazillion times. How does he just pluck mysterious notes out of the air without visual guidance? It’s insane. And brilliant.
“Listen.” He brushes his mouth across my nape. “Feel it.”
I close my eyes and focus on the beats, the glide of his fingers, and the sway and flex of his tensile muscles around me. His breaths on my neck and the twitches in his legs make it easier to predict his movements and rhythms. I don’t just feel the music. I feel him as the vocals lead us through each measure, painting passionate imagery about fear being the heart of love.
I don’t know how many times he replays the song. I’m lost in his arms and the meaning of the lyrics. Our love is risky, adventurous, and real. Is it founded in fear? Maybe, but it’s a respectful fear, because our love is almighty and powerful.
The taut skin on his chest rubs against my bare back, the friction erotically pleasurable, his body a conductor of sensual heat and sound. I roll my hips against his, liberated by my nudity, rocking to the music and fucking the notes.
He groans, a seductive rumble, and one of his hands slides out from beneath mine. I carry the tune, missing keys but keeping up as he trails his fingers across my thigh, along my ribs, and around my nipple.
I sigh as his cock swells beneath my ass.
His other hand slips from the keyboard to join the first, and my pulse speeds up. His fingers rove hungrily around my breasts, up and down my legs, over my arms, always returning to my chest. When his lips fall to my throat, my hands falter, ruining the melody, but I don’t care. He’s strumming a better song, our song, set to the tempo of our breaths and beating hearts.
Besides, his erection is all kinds of distracting, pinned beneath me and pumping with blood. I want to take him out of his pants and slide down that hard length as I continue to play.
I spread my legs, hooking them over his, my hands bungling two measures of the song. “Emeric.”
His tongue traces the shell of my ear, his fingers dipping between my thighs, probing, rolling my clit, and sinking into my *. “So wet for me.”
Gasping, I give up on the keyboard and grip his thighs where they flex between mine. The diabolical thrusts of his fingers arch my back, make me whimper, and propel me into a boiling crescendo of lust.
I tug at his pajama bottoms. “Take these off. I need you.”
The recording on the phone ends, the sudden silence amplifying the chorus of our heavy breaths.
He pinches my clit with a wicked amount of pressure, shooting painful pleasure through my core. Working both hands between my legs, he slaps and strokes, flicks and dips inside. Whether it’s ruthless or gentle, giving or taking, every touch is a declaration of utter commitment.