22. The Pianist #2
Ms. Byrne stands there, fist in the air as if she were about to knock again. “Oh. Is everything alright in there?” She tries to peer around my shoulder.
I’m hyper-aware of Bastien standing just to my side. “Everything’s fine. Just knocked some things off my bedside table in my sleep. That’s all.”
I don’t know why I am covering for him.
She’s unconvinced. “Hmm. There was a lot of noise. I worried something happened to you.”
“I’m fine,” I say again, smiling what I hope is a convincing smile. “I’ll try to be quieter. Sorry, Ms. Byrne.”
“That’s alright.” She yawns. “Let’s all go back to sleep, then.”
“Good night, Ms. Byrne.”
And then she’s retreating back down the hall.
My face is in flames, but I don’t even have a chance to shut the door, because his hand reaches up next to my head and does it for me, the door falling into the latch with a click.
“Did you think I was done with you?” he whispers low. He pulls my hips flush against him, his naked arousal against my ass. He’s still steely hard. He kicks my feet apart, presses on my back so my face is against the door.
My legs are still shaking and my heart has only just started to calm. “We can’t really—”
“And why not?” he asks, pulling my panties down just as far as my spread legs will allow, and bent over, I’m entirely open to him.
He grabs his cock, rubbing it against me. When I moan, I cover my mouth with a hand, unable to keep from making noise.
If Ms. Byrne comes back, I’m done for.
He doesn’t care. He rubs his cock against me, against all of me, from my clit to my ass and back. “I said I wasn’t done with you. You gave yourself to me, Mallary, remember that.”
He slides forward, both of us still coated in our arousal, his cock gliding against my clit.
My knees nearly buckle. I am so tired, all my muscles aching, but I’m already addicted, every cell in my body needing him more than I need oxygen.
“Do you want me to be done?” he asks, teasing my pussy.
With a pathetic whimper, I shake my head.
“Words, Mallary.”
“I don’t want you to stop,” I whisper. Tears gather at my eyes, catching in my lashes.
I expect him to thrust into me brutally, but he sheaths himself slowly. So slowly it’s maddening, his grip strong on my hips.
He’s hardly halfway, spearing through my flesh so agonizingly slowly. “I feel like you were made for me,” he groans under his breath. “You’re so fucking perfect.”
Emotions threaten to rush forward, a cacophony of misery and fear and desire all swirling in my chest, a single tear tracking down my cheek.
And in a second, he’s fully seated and it does feel so fucking perfect I can’t breathe.
“Every night, Mallary. You have me every night.” He thrusts again, fucking into the cum he left behind.
This is different than anything I ever had with Jason, because when I look back over my shoulder, Bastien’s masked face is thrown back, the column of his throat exposed as he moves within me, a slow, claiming fucking that draws my thighs tight.
Like he’s savoring every second. Like he’s memorizing the feeling of my body and his, together.
And here I am pressed against the bedroom door, nails digging into the wood to keep me upright, a stream of tears flowing out of me.
“Do you understand, Mallary?” he says, suddenly entering me again with a sharp thrust. “Do you understand how fucking obsessed I am with you? Do you understand that you’ll never be rid of me? You’re never gonna leave, you can’t leave, you can’t leave me.”
One of his hands snakes its way along my front, dragging me back to him by the throat. The possessive ways he moves me, the assuredness, even when this is only the second time he’s done this—
He’s pressing my back to his front, and then lifting the mask just enough—I get a glimpse of dark stubble at his jaw this time—and his tongue darts out, licking up the side of my face. Licking up my tears.
His hips grind against me, his cock even deeper at this angle.
“I can’t—”
I brace my hands on the door, arching against him, wanting more.
His hand finds my clit and begins circling, the pressure suddenly so immense I’m losing my breath, seizing around him.
“That’s it,” he says. “Let me make you feel good.”
I’m shattering, barely able to hold myself up, keening cries stalling in my throat.
“Soon, Mallary. And you won’t have to stay quiet.”
Without thinking, I reach up and tangle my hand in his hair. Feel the curls winding through my fingers. Grip onto him and tug, my back arched so perfectly each thrust has me panting.
He growls as I pull his hair, and then—
“Fuck.”
He’s coming in me again, his thighs shaking against mine. His exhale rumbles in his chest. I feel the vibrations against my back. Feel the beating of his heart against my spine.
And then he’s ripping himself away from me, leaving me suddenly empty and cold.
I nearly fall against the door. My legs are useless.
His cum leaks down my thigh. Struggling to catch my breath, I turn to lay my back against the cool wood.
Watch him fist himself, staring at me shaking against the wall, as he tugs on his cock, which has only softened slightly. So human, not ghost at all.
“You’re insatiable,” I say, unable to look away as he jerks himself.
“You’ve done something to me. Ever since you came here, you’ve been a fucking plague on my mind. I can’t stop.”
“You should leave me alone,” I whisper.
He exhales a dry laugh. “You keep saying that. But I won’t.”
I knew this is how it would be. As soon as I let him in, he would refuse to leave. And one of us is going to regret it.
He tucks himself away before stepping closer. “I don’t think that’s really what you want.”
“Show me your face.”
“Making demands, are we?”
“Show me.”
“No.”
Only a few days ago he taunted me about running. “Why do you wear it?” What are you hiding from?
“This is me,” is all he says. “The entire house is scared of me—scared of the rumor of me. But you. You.” And then he’s stepping into my space again. “Haven’t you thought about why they are so scared of me?”
I pretend like my heart doesn’t drop. I pretend that his words don’t affect me. “Do you want me to be afraid?”
His dark eyes—the only part of him I can really see—flick back and forth between mine, the faint suggestion of black eyebrows and long lashes appearing through the holes of the mask.
And then his palms come to my shoulders, roughly shoving me back, and I don’t even have time to shriek before I’m falling onto the bed.
“Yes.”
From the foot of the bed, fists at his sides, he stares down at me. “You should be afraid.”
I clutch the sheets in white-knuckled fists. “Why?”
“Why?” His laughter is dark.
He doesn’t need to go on: I am an idiot for letting him in. I should be scared because he is haunting this house, and he’s set his sights on me.
He shakes his head, the movement almost imperceptible, like he can’t believe me. “Close your eyes.”
My heart thuds in my chest, fingers nearly tearing through the sheets as I obey his command. Something hot falls from my lashes. Crying again, I’m always crying.
A few moments pass—I expect his touch, his voice, something. There’s the soft sound of his feet against the carpet.
And when I open my eyes, he’s vanished.