“I’m saying you can have me, we can have each other tonight.” She seals her fate by tipping up on her toes to lay a soft kiss on my lips.
That may be the last soft thing between us for a while because what burns in me isn’t soft or slow or gentle. I’m done questioning this. I’m not asking for permission or waiting another minute. Her singing my lyrics tonight, holding my words so close they became a part of her—I’m still hard from that. There’s only one way to satisfy this hunger.
I spin her around and bend her over the side of the piano, with frantic hands peeling her leggings and panties down over her hips. I can’t even wait for her to get them off, leaving them bundled around her ankles. I fumble with my zipper, want making my hands tremble.
“Hurry, Rhys.” Her voice shakes with need. “Please hurry.”
I drop my pants, align our bodies and plunge into her tightness as deeply as her body will take me. I slide my hand up her back, pushing her neck, her cheek into the piano. I’m as gentle as I can be while I grind into the curve of her ass.
“You don’t ever keep this from me again.” I thrust into her roughly, watching the blush wash over the downy skin of her neck and cheeks. “I can’t . . . I can’t be without you, Kai.”
“I know.” Her voice shakes.
I can’t speak, the force of the pleasure too intense. I want to savor being with her, inside of her again, but it’s been too long. I thought our first time together again would be long, leisurely love in my bed, or by my pool, naked with the cameras off. Instead we steal this rough fuck in the back of my studio. One hand grips her hip and the other presses into the fragile line of her spine. Dammit, I don’t want to hurt her, but I’m pounding into her, my hips out of control, shaking the piano, the superb acoustics of the studio echoing back my grunts and groans. But she takes it, wants more.
“Deeper, Rhys,” she pants, eyes closed, bottom lip captive between her teeth. “Baby, don’t hold back. I can take it.”
Then I can give it. I push impossibly deeper, harder until she’s up on her tiptoes. My hand shoves the knotted t-shirt up her back. She reaches behind her, hurriedly unhooking the bra, and my hand slips under her to squeeze one plump nipple.
She groans, slamming one palm to the piano, pulling it into a fist and banging until she’s matching the rhythm of my thrusts, mixing with our erratic breaths and the guttural sounds of our pleasure, an erotic symphony with just our bodies and our love as instruments.
“Damn, this is good, Pep.” I bend my knees, sinking into her more, painting her back with the sweat falling from my face and shoulders.
“Yes, don’t stop. I’m almost . . .” The words strangle in her throat.
“Touch yourself, baby.”
Her hand disappears between her legs, and the sight of her touching herself, the sound of her release wrenched from her lips, the clench of her body around me when she comes, sets me off so hard my body jerks rough and rapid until I’m coming, jetting into her body. And for the first time, it’s so intense it’s the same as my synesthesia, colors overtaking my mind, red wrapping around green, pink fusing with yellow, purple interspersing with blue. Vibrant hues coalescing into an aurora borealis that takes my breath, revealing to me the color of love.
SO MUCH FOR SLOW.
The pull between Rhyson and me at the studio was locomotive, and we rode it all night. My lofty intentions of taking things slow, of not letting sex cloud our issues, crashed and burned after what we shared while I was singing in the booth. I’ve never felt anything like that before. The words to his song burned my tongue, caressed my lips and slid down my throat, searching out my deepest places. I thought I could just say goodnight, but as soon as I walked into that piano room, the pull was too strong. Inescapable. I knew we wouldn’t be going our separate ways.
And now it’s morning. For the first time in two months, I’m waking up with Rhyson warm and solid behind me. He doesn’t feel like a mistake. Not with his arm a heavy, welcome claim draped over my stomach. Not with the comfort of each deeply drawn breath in his sleep rustling my hair.
I turn over slowly so I won’t wake him. On the road, Malcolm made sure I experienced so many things I never thought I would. Expensive suites. Champagne. Gorgeous clothes I’d never buy for myself. But this is the luxury no tour or check could ever provide. The luxury of waking up with Rhyson. Him on the pillow beside me, his broad chest, lean naked body inked with the music he loves. The long lashes softening his rugged, handsome profile. The dark hair, dusted with autumn, wild, spilling over his closed eyes. Waking up with Rhyson is absolutely decadent.
I don’t know how long I study him before he sleepily blinks back at me. A smile tugs the edges of his lips, his hands wandering under the sheets to pull me flush against him, my breasts pressed into his bare chest.
“G’morning,” he says, voice still husky with sleep. “It’s kind of creepy to wake up with you staring at me like that.”