Chapter 62
The New Plan
Jenna
Ian and I have just sat down to eat when Killian comes rushing down the stairs in the evening, a determined look in his eyes, hair disheveled as if he’s been raking his hand through it repeatedly.
His voice is steadier than I’ve heard in a while when he approaches us with quick steps and announces, “We’re not doing the competition.”
I drop the spoon into the pasta pot. “What do you mean?”
Stopping at the end of the table, he presses a palm into the surface and leans in to tuck my hair behind my ear. “You’re not ready.”
My face falls. “I want to play.”
His expression takes on a stern edge. “You’re not ready.”
A twinge of hurt tightens my chest. “What are you saying? That I’m not good enough?”
“Killian, you’ve been working toward this for seven months,” Ian says. “You’re both as ready as can be. You just need to do some polishing together. We just talked about this.”
“I don’t mean it like that.” He slips a hand behind my hair, resting it at the back of my neck, possessive and so damn tender it nearly draws tears to my eyes.
“She’s still recovering. From w-what I d-did to her.
” He firms his grip, and his voice becomes steady again. “I’m not taking any risks with her.”
“Killian, I can do this,” I insist.
He tightens his grip, leaning so close that all I can focus on is his demanding blue eyes. “I’m done making everything about Dad’s and my need to win. I’m not risking your well-being for a shitty trophy.”
His hand on my nape—that unwavering authority—makes it hard to breathe, let alone speak up to him.
“This is not just about you,” I say, too softly.
Swallowing hard, I steel myself and muster more resistance.
“I’ve been working my ass off for months.
I’ve been waiting five years to do a competition.
Five years. You can’t take this away from me. ”
He looks off to the side, jaw ticking. “Okay,” he finally relents. “We’ll do the competition, but not ‘Die Moldau.’ I know you wanted to play the melody, and there’s not enough time for you to learn the primo part.” He rounds me and takes a seat at my side. “We’ll play your piece instead.”
I whip my head toward him. “What? No!”
“What piece?” Ian asks, but his question fades in the surge of my incredulity.
“What do you mean?” I press. “You said I wasn’t ready. I’m most certainly not ready for this.”
Killian flashes me a wide, self-satisfied smile. “Always underestimating yourself. Just like I did. But I’m done underestimating you.”
“Killian,” I insist, “I can’t do it.”
“Of course you can.” Eyes darkening, he trails his tongue across his lower lip. “You did it with that wooden phallus stuck in your ass, me watching. Doing it on a stage will be no feat.”
My cheeks heat at the memory. My whole damn body heats.
Killian hasn’t touched me sexually since that night when we were alone, only kissing and caressing me, not even insinuating anything sexual.
I haven’t been able to think sexual thoughts about him either, too afraid of where my mind would take me.
But it’s not that night I’m thinking about right now.
I can’t even bring my mind there. All I can think about is that bench—the wooden phallus rooting me to the spot, Killian’s body all around me, playing my piece. Together.
“What piece?” Ian repeats, and when I can’t take my attention off Killian’s suggestive smirk, Ian rounds the table and grabs my chin. “What piece?” he demands, fixing me with a sharp stare.
“Oh God,” I whisper, my mind suddenly swimming, my body softening into the seat, opening up to their dominance. “It’s just…” I lick my suddenly dry lips. “This piece that I wrote.”
“She wrote a piece?” Ian asks Killian.
“She did. It’s a winner. Beautiful and well-composed. I’ll add these Liszt-like figures to make it a duet and we’ll take home the trophy.”
Ian fixes me with his stare again. “Why didn’t I know you wrote a piece?”
“Um, I’m sorry. I—” I can barely find the words anymore, my brain already shutting off, sinking into a daze. “I was embarrassed, I guess.”
Ian considers for a moment, then tells Killian, “I think this calls for a punishment.”
My breath catches. It’s not just Killian who has held back. Ian has been careful with me too, like he was all those months ago after I panicked on the piano bench. Unlike that time, I’ve needed it lately. But suddenly, the need for more flares alive with a vengeance.
“I agree,” Killian says. “We should punish her.”
“What?” I gasp. But Ian is not looking at me anymore. Neither of them watches me as they start discussing my punishment.
“Do you think she’s ready for the cane?” Ian asks.
“Nah. Too harsh.”
“You’re right. No pain.”
“How about the bench?”
“Orgasm denial?”
“Or forced orgasms.”
“Is it still upstairs?”
“Sure is.”
Stuck in Ian’s grip, I try to look back and forth between them. I try to say something—to protest—but I’m too overcome by the sudden whirl of their power. It’s all around me, figuratively and literally. It shuts down my brain, and it’s only when Ian releases me that I manage a few words.
“What are you—” I squeal, but my words are cut off when they each grab one of my arms and lift me off the chair. “Oh God,” I gasp as they steer me through the living room like a prisoner. “Oh God, oh God, oh God.”
“There’s no God here,” Killian admonishes.
“Killian,” I gasp instead, my feet shuffling, struggling to keep up with their long strides. I almost trip several times when they steer me up the stairs, but their grips are firm, refusing to let me fall, refusing to let me stall.
When they finally push me inside the music room, releasing me, I feel like I’ve been spinning on a wild carousel for several minutes. I just stand here, baffled, while Ian moves things around and Killian goes to grab various items that he lays on the piano, out of my sight.
“What are you doing?” I ask in a breathy voice when Ian bends me over his thigh and flips up my dress.
Killian comes up behind me, cuts my panties, and spreads my ass cheeks. It all happens so fast I can barely process. Next, cold lube is dripping onto my narrow opening and Killian is pushing two latex-covered fingers inside.
Pleasure sparks, hot and livid, a need so strong it knocks the air from my lungs. Small, choked sounds stutter in my throat as Killian works his fingers in and out, twisting and turning, setting fire to all those nerve-endings that haven’t been touched for weeks.
“Please,” I finally manage.
“Please what?” Ian demands, wrapping a hand around the back of my neck, pinning me further.
“Please… more. I need to come.”
Killian tuts. “Already like a cat in heat.” He slips his other hand between my legs, touching my pussy.
“Is she wet?” Ian asks.
Killian pushes two fingers inside that opening as well, setting off bolts of electricity as his fingers work against each other through the sensitive wall. He pulls out, and I try to turn my head to see the digits he’s holding up. I only catch a glimpse, but Ian’s tone tells me everything.
“What are we to do with you, Jenna? He’s already pulling strings from your cunt.”
“No,” I gasp, humiliation washing over me, hot and overwhelming—going straight to my core.
Killian pulls out of my ass as well, and then I’m on my feet, being steered by the arms again—straight toward the horrible bench.
This time, my instincts only remember the first time I was on it, and I dig my heels in.
But it’s no use. Within seconds, I’m in front of it, knees bent, struggling fruitlessly against their firm grips.
The slick sound of more lube reminds me of Killian crudely preparing the dildo—making me do it on my own.
“Let me go,” I protest, jerking against their hands, my breathing coming faster and shallower. “Let me go!”
Ian reacts immediately when my voice goes shrill. Still holding me in place so very close to the phallus, he grabs my jaw and trails his gaze over my face. Expression firm, he fixates on me. “Jenna, we’ve got you. Not just me. Killian as well.”
Killian presses his free hand to my chest—a comforting reminder that he’s here, and not just to use me. “I’m here,” he confirms softly.
“Do you trust me?” Ian asks, and I notice how he says ‘me,’ not ‘us.’
I nod in his grip. Because I do. I trust this man with my whole damn heart.
“Good. I know this is hard—it dredges up memories. But give Killian a chance to prove that you can trust him as well. He’s not going to leave you, and we’re not going to push you over the edge. Can you be a good girl and trust that?”
When I move to turn my head, Ian releases my jaw to let me face Killian.
“I’m here,” he promises, voice firm and even, eyes demanding and steady. “No matter what happens, I’m here. I’m not leaving your side for a second.”
I swallow hard, not quite able to decide if I dare to believe him.
After everything, trusting Ian is no longer enough.
I need some kind of reassurance from Killian as well.
More than just words. So I ask him the same thing I asked Ian when they forced me onto the bench the first time—the one thing Killian denied me for six months.
“Can I have a hug?” Vulnerability washes over me the moment I say it. Tears burn behind my eyes, and a knot forms in my throat as I presume the worst.
But Killian doesn’t even hesitate. Grabbing me under the arms, he pulls me up to him and brings me into a hug so tight it’s hard to breathe.
“From now on, there’s only one answer to that question. I’m never going to deny you a hug again, kitten. Never.”
“Kitten?” I whisper, snuggling into him.
“Remember that time when I’d found that bird in the school yard—the one we nursed back to health?”
I nod against him, my heart swelling at the memory—at him mentioning it.
“Remember how I petted you and called you a kitten while we waited for Mrs. Evans?”
“Yeah,” I say, already feeling choked up. That was a special moment, one I never forgot even after all the bad things he did.