With an arm around my waist, he lifts my hips and shoves his pants to the floor, kicking them away. I shiver as he lowers me onto his cock and pushes inside. He’s hard and persistent, thick and aggressive, his fingers digging against my hips and controlling the up and down glide of my body with powerful confidence.
I clutch his strong forearms and hang on, my head dropping back to his shoulder and my inner muscles spasming around every thrust. The deep slide of hot steel stretches my * and fills me up. My body sings for him with each pulsing beat between my legs, pulling him in, clamping down, and holding him there. He belongs in me, with me.
“So fucking tight.” He kicks his hips. “Leaking all over me.” He grunts, his fingers tightening against my hips. “Love your hot little cunt.”
I love his dirty fucking mouth.
He grinds against me in tight circles, his timbre low and rough. “Play the song.”
Now? Without the recording? Even if I had total concentration, I would struggle. But while he’s fucking me? No way.
I turn my neck to look at him. His hand plunges into my hair, wrenching my head forward and angling it to the side. The graze of his teeth on my shoulder makes me shudder. The fucking bite that follows rips a scream from my throat.
The stinging burn seeps into my muscles, charging and rolling like liquid electricity. Holy shit, that’s going to leave a mark.
I stab my fingernails against his rock-hard forearms. “You’re an animal.”
He laughs, lifts me all the way off of his cock, and slams his hand against my ass. With a yelp, I fall forward and catch myself on the piano, fingers splayed over the keys.
The man knows exactly how to get what he wants.
He pulls me back down, shoving inside me with a force that brings tears to my eyes. It’s blissful, overpowering pain, the kind that stimulates the mind, arouses the body, and trembles the soul.
He heightens the sensation by rolling into tender thrusting, ensuring I feel every thick inch of him dragging along my sensitive walls.
“Play the song, Ivory.” He nips at my shoulder, his hand lifting to knead my breast.
With focused strokes, I launch into the parts I remember, mentally looping through chords and letting my fingers follow along.
He kisses my neck, tasting my skin, our bodies rocking and shuddering together as the music coaxes us into a languorous dance. He fucks me slowly, sensually. The motion of our hips wave in sync with my fingers on the keys as the sounds of our love-making hum a passionate rhythm.
We are the ultimate love song.
The tip of his tongue circles my earlobe. “Come.”
My body obeys instantly, and I moan through the vigorous ripple of pleasure, clenching around his length, my fingers depressing aimless keys.
“Ivory.” He groans, holding my hips against him as the hot pulse of his cock swells inside me, marking me, claiming me.
I twist my neck to watch him in the throes of his pleasure.
The air rushes from my lungs at the sight of his dilated pupils encircled by intensely beautiful swirls of blue fire. I used to hate his eyes, unable to imagine gentleness or safety in those crystalline depths. I was so very wrong. This is the only view I want, when I wake, when I go to sleep, and all the seconds in between.
I rise off of him and quickly spin to straddle his lap, sliding back onto his cock. The kiss that follows is a mutual seeking of lips, met in the space between us and prompted by a shared need to connect in every way.
He’s it for me. The zenith of my happiness. All roads, however perilous and winding, lead to this man, my teacher, the music of my soul.
I want to go to Leopold to learn from the best of the best, yet here I am, sitting on the cock of one of their most brilliant alumni. Whether it’s dumb luck or some kind of magical destiny that brought me here, I won’t squander it.
Leaning back, I frame his sculpted face with my hands. “Teach me how to play.”
“Miss Westbrook.” His lips form a firm line. “I am teaching—”
“No.” I kiss that hard mouth, because seriously, it’s too sexy to ignore. “Teach me the way you did tonight. Without classical music theory and technical books. I want to play…whatever I want to play.”
A very male smile breaches his lips, his cock jerking inside me. “Turn around. Hands on the keys.”
And so it goes. For the next few weeks, he teaches me how to play whatever rock or pop song that suits my mood while holding, touching, kissing, and fucking me.
Some songs are harder than others. All of them challenge me. I don’t use music sheets, but I don’t need them. Not with his fingers beneath mine, showing me, and his voice at my ear, instructing me.
Mastering modern music won’t help me get into Leopold, but man oh man, it exposes me to a whole world of composers outside of classrooms and textbooks. I discover a passion for blending classical masterpieces with top forty hits. There’s something about the originality and distinction in putting my own twist on the music. It strikes a glowing, breathing note inside me.