Heat pools and throbs between my thighs with every word.
Touching the crown to my inverted mouth, he fists his length and smears salty pre-come across my lips. “Tap your right hand against the piano if you want this to stop. Tell me you understand.”
“I—” My * clenches, empty and needy. Such a foreign feeling to experience. “I’ll tap if I need to.”
He wraps a hand beneath my dangling head, his fingers serving as a buffer between my skull and the wood casing. With his eyes half-mast and steadily watching mine, he grips his erection, rubs the shaft across my cheeks, and thumps the tip against my lips.
I open my mouth, instinctively, eagerly. Do it already.
His gaze flicks down the length of my body as he presses himself against my tongue. His exhale shudders out, and he thrusts.
He doesn’t ease in. He ruthlessly and repeatedly plows. Over and over, he stabs his cock past my lips, fucking my mouth as if he were plunging between my legs.
His thighs flex against my forehead as he clamps his fingers against my scalp, tangling in my hair, and holding my head immovable. I can only lie there, hands and legs tied down, throat relaxed, and jaw stretched for his pleasure.
Bending over my chest, he squeezes my breast with his free hand, pinching the nipple and tormenting it with his hot mouth.
I surrender in drugged wonderment as his length drives deeper against my throat, his hips grinding and rolling with his urgency. This is what he would look like if he was filling my *. The strain of his muscles, flex of his ass, and ram of his cock compose a seductive dance of intensity. He gives as much as he takes, his hunger spreading over my skin, garbling my moans around his pounding length, overtaking me.
Holding my head against his thrusts, he slides the other hand over my stomach and hooks two fingers inside me, sparking a needy clench through my inner muscles.
“Not gonna last long.” His sharp breaths husk the air. “We’re doing this together.”
He shifts his touch to my tender clit and applies a solid, rolling pressure. My hips reach for it, grinding and rocking against his fingers. Right there, right there.
A spasm of tingling heat explodes beneath his diabolical caress.
He jerks against my tongue, his forehead falling against my chest as he strokes us into a moaning, trembling orgasmic duet.
I greedily swallow his release, panting beneath the wave of my own. His cock twitches against my lips, and my inner thighs quiver through the remnant aftershocks of orgasm number seven.
He tucks himself away and frees the shackles, lifting and moving me, limb by melted limb. I hang like a rag doll in his arms as he carries me to the piano bench and arranges my legs in a straddling position around his waist.
I slump against him, chest to chest, skin on skin, and hug his broad shoulders. “That was the worst torture ever.”
Chuckling, he kisses my cheek and reaches behind me, fingers on the keyboard. With a deep breath, he envelops us in a gentle song, tranquilizing my hammering heart with Pink Floyd’s “Comfortably Numb.”
I curl up against him, soaking in the flex and sway of his body as he plays. The tempo of his breaths synchronizes with the melody, pacing my own. His skin, so soft and warm, smells woodsy and masculine and safe. I bury my nose against his neck and fill my lungs.
With my arms and legs hooked around him, I cling to the pillar of his torso. This brutal man is my home. His hell is my heaven.
I’m his Ivory, and he’s my darkest note.
No matter what happens, I will never resent this. I’ll never regret him.
He closes the song on a low, deep key and slides his strong hands across my back, massaging my spine.
Hugging me tighter against his chest, he lowers his lips to my shoulder, his tone quiet, gentle. “I didn’t know she was pregnant until after…”
After Shreveport. After her betrayal.
I kiss his neck and run my fingers through his hair as bitterness flares inside me.
“She’s seven months along.” He breathes in, out. “The baby could be mine. Or not.”
I lift my head and find his stark eyes. “Do you think…?”
He blinks, his expression conflicted. “I don’t know. There was never an indication of cheating, and I’m pretty fucking observant.”
Hard to argue that. “Then why do you question it?”
He tucks my hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering on my jaw. “I never thought she would betray me the way she did. If she can do that…”
“She could cheat.”
He lowers his hand to stroke my hip, his eyes following the movement. “When I took over Shreveport, I worked long hours. Day and night. I was rarely home.”
She could’ve been doing anything during that time. With anyone. Maybe he wasn’t so observant back then?
I swallow around the ache in my throat. “Why was she at the clinic today?”
His gaze lifts to mine. “I’ve been ignoring her messages. Only way she knows how to find me is through my dad.”