Chapter 47
The Piano Piece
Killian
Jenna’s music is hypnotizing. I can’t believe she wrote that. Once again, I’ve committed the crime of underestimating her—severely.
The first time I overheard this piece, coming home early, I halted in my tracks, wanting to hear more.
The second time, I lingered as well, for almost twenty minutes.
But hearing it now, without barriers, the sound flowing freely into the room and resonating with the emotion she imbues it with, is like nothing I’ve ever heard.
It’s a sweet melody. Beautiful in all its simplicity. But beneath it, a subtle web of intricate harmonies and rhythms unfurls, breathing life and longing and so much depth into what appears to be a straightforward piece of music at first sound.
There’s no mistaking that this is Jenna.
It presents her sweet, innocent nature to the untrained listener, but anyone who looks deeper will find a whole other world full of hurt, longing, and so much life that begs to be unleashed—like the wings of a butterfly that have been trapped in a cocoon for too long.
The music digs deep into my heart and resonates in my very soul.
I feel all those emotions, hidden and locked up, in myself.
The hurt and the urge to break free. I’ve never wanted to face it, but suddenly, hearing Jenna’s music, I can’t ignore it.
It’s right there, screaming at me. Memories and sensations.
Loss and betrayal. My betrayal. Over and over, just to protect myself.
Even as it all comes rushing with startling clarity, I don’t want to confront it.
I know I should, but I instinctively try to shut it down and lock the door on it all.
But as the music twirls around my broken heart, weaving into the old crevices, it’s impossible.
A slow trembling sets in. It’s just quivers beneath my skin, not palpable on the outside, but I feel it like nails through my nerves.
My throat constricts, and my eyes suddenly sting.
When Jenna stops, I want to demand that she leave, or mock her music and punish her for affecting me so goddamn deeply. But I can’t. Another urge is stronger. The need to meld with her and claim just a tiny part of that aching beauty.
So I go against all my learned instincts and lean my head on her shoulder, whispering, “Do it again.”
“Killian, I-I—”
Folding my hands around hers, I gently lift them to the keys. “Again,” I whisper, not daring to speak louder, afraid she’ll hear my voice crack.
She draws a shuddery breath. Hopefully, she’s so focused on her own rattled nerves that she doesn’t notice how I’m about to unravel.
She starts playing again, beginning with a soft intro. A simple yet complex figure. When the melody begins, I press a kiss to her neck. It breaks up the flow, and when I wrap an arm around her—not to restrain, but to embrace—she stops altogether.
“Go on.” I reach my right hand out and pick up the melody from where she left off, an octave higher.
She hesitates when I keep playing, but merges into the music, letting me play the melody alongside her.
We finish the first part together, and when she begins a new variation of the melody, I add a layer of my own in the high notes. I don’t think about it; it all just comes naturally.
I feel the uncertainty in Jenna’s tightening muscles at first, but when I press myself closer to her and rest my head on her shoulder, she softens, and so does her playing.
If anything, her music is even more vibrant this time as she reacts to the additions I’m improvising, never overshadowing her original music, but enhancing and embellishing it.
Our breaths sync and our bodies meld together.
But not just our bodies. It’s like we’re speaking a different language—one that’s not made of words or spoken sounds, but notes and musical connection.
I’ve never felt this close to anyone before.
It scares me to the core, but I’m like a hamster on a wheel, unable to stop myself now that the wheel is spinning.
And I’m greedy. I want more. So when we finish the piece, I take what I want.
Slipping my hands under Jenna’s ass, I start lifting her off the phallus. She easily goes along, following my lead perfectly—only, in the music, she was the one who led the way.
“I want you on my cock instead,” I whisper against her neck.
A breathy moan escapes her—a sound so full of longing and desire that it’s like a shot of adrenaline in my already hard cock.
It only takes a minute to free her from the bench. Once she’s off, hovering on bent knees, I wrap one arm around her waist, lift off the bench myself, and hold her in the precarious position while I kick the phallus-bench away and pull the regular one beneath me.
Gripping her waist with both hands, I sink onto the bench while keeping her suspended.
Then I spit on my cock, adjust it between her pretty ass cheeks, and slowly guide her onto it.
She’s softer than she’s ever been when I’ve used her back here, easily taking it all in, open and eager to feel me claiming her.
I’m barely halfway in when she starts moaning and panting as if she’ll come any second.
“Not until we’ve played the piece again,” I warn, the rawness in my throat gone as I deliver the sharp command.
This, dominating and controlling, is where I feel most at ease.
But when she sinks in place on my lap, my cock buried deep inside her, and I command her to play again, that sharp control that has kept me steady for years wavers.
There’s no way to hold it intact in the face of her honest music.
Yet I keep going, rocking my hips against her, stroking her clit with one hand while I join her music with the other.
“Shit,” I growl when she squeezes her muscles around me. “Fuuck.”
She starts shaking, her playing suffering from the onslaught of pleasure that cascades from her in sweet moans and wets my fingers when I shove two digits deep inside her pussy.
But she keeps playing, and I do the same.
It’s no longer the perfect dance from before, but the union is impeccable.
It’s not her and me, one against the other or trying to reach each other.
It’s us. Deeply connected, physically, psychologically, and on this otherworldly level of unspoken emotion, expressed through our staggered music.
“Come for me,” I growl when her movements become eager, trying to fuck me in return.
My voice rises with the repeat of my demand.
“Come for me!” I release the piano and band an arm around her waist, snatching her neck with my other hand.
The music stops, and a wild cacophony of moans, cries, and growls fills the space around us in a whole new sort of music, primal and wild.
She jerks and spasms as I put in all my strength to fuck her in the awkward position. My legs strain from the effort, but I ram into her, making her scream with the full force of her orgasm. It sends me over with a feral growl that reverberates against the walls.
“Fuck, Jenna. You’re mine. Always were. Always will be. Mine.” Going still on the bench, I shake her so hard she yelps. “Do you hear me?”
“Yes, Killian,” she gasps. “I’m yours. Always.”
I pull her head back at an awkward angle and shove my tongue into her mouth, tasting her and claiming her in every fucking way possible. I stab two fingers into her pussy again, soaking up her whimpers. Breaking off the kiss, I shove one finger into her mouth. “Lick.”
Without hesitation, she starts licking and sucking like I’ve offered her a goddamn lollipop. I want to give her the second finger as well, but I’m selfish and take it into my own mouth. Her juices taste so goddamn good; I can’t get enough of her.
I want to taste her pussy and make her come again, but first, I want to soak in this connection, just a little while longer.
Banding both arms around her, I hold her close, still seated inside her ass.
I lean my head on her shoulder, and that’s when the emotions come rushing—the same ones as when she played.
They come in a gust so strong that it knocks the wind out of me.
Tears prickle behind my eyes—for the first fucking time since I was eight—and the feeling of her melting into me brings me so damn close to some dangerous edge that it scares the shit out of me.
It’s like standing on a crumbling ridge, the rock shuddering just as it’s about to cave in.
My lungs constrict, a tear slips from my eyes, and a shudder rises from my toes and trembles through my whole goddamn body.
Making my counterattack, I dart off the bench, set Jenna on her own two feet, and shove a finger toward the door. “We’re done here.”
“What?” Her lips are quivering when she turns and looks up at me.
“Are you deaf? I said we’re done here. Go downstairs. Now.”
The hurt in her eyes when she backs up cuts through my heart, tearing open old wounds and hurting me right back.
But I know that if I let her stay, she’ll tear it all right apart.
So I hold firm and accept the sharp cut, knowing it’s better than having my heart crushed into bits and pieces that I’ll never be able to mend when she leaves me for good.