19. The Pianist #2
There’s an image in my head, my mind filling the gaps, trying to conjure his face in my head.
My brain cannot fathom that this man is licking me and I don’t even know what he looks like.
His hands wander my body, less gentle, running down my sides to my hips, before he’s pushing up the slip around my waist. Tongue trailing between my breasts, licking at my skin eagerly, trying to find each spot that has me squirming, gasping for air.
He takes his time finding each rib under my skin, moving lower, and even lower.
He rips off my panties, face hovering over my bottom half. “What about this?” he whispers, a finger skimming the inside of my thigh. Wandering higher. “Can I do this?”
I know he’s going to find me slick.
He’s going to touch me and find just how deranged I am. Perhaps as unhinged as him.
Because no one normal would allow this.
“Please—” The argument dies in my throat.
And he moves so maddeningly slowly that I want to buck my hips for the chance that he might brush against me. His long fingers are slightly calloused, spreading me open so he can see.
When he brushes over my clit, this time I really do whimper, overwhelmed by my need and terrified by it at the same time.
His touch is soft, before he’s moving it lower, finding my entrance, and pausing. My arousal is all over his finger already, and he pulls away—and I swear to god that’s him sucking it off his finger—before he’s sliding it inside me, all the way, no warning.
I stifle my cry the best I can.
“You’re so wet,” he says, fascinated.
“Yes,” I whisper back.
He’s not slow, gliding his finger in and out, before he adds another, and when I clench against him, he groans under his breath.
He rips himself away roughly and in my haze of lust, I hear him moving, the sound of fabric rustling, and I don’t have time to think before his shadowy figure is looming over me and the blunt head of his cock is between my legs.
I can’t see him, but I feel him, feel the soft, steely weight of him, pressing against my entrance, and my hands come up to his solid chest, twisting in the fabric of his shirt.
Most definitely alive.
My breath is in my throat. “Wait—”
“I can’t wait,” he almost growls under his breath. His knees spread my thighs further apart. “I’ve waited long enough.”
And then he’s pressing into me, giving me no time to adjust to his size, before he’s bottomed out, his hips against mine, and I’m shaking with the overwhelm of being stretched to my limit, forced into with barely any preparation.
I cry out through clenched teeth. The burn is deliciously all-consuming, my thighs shaking around him.
I should push him away. I should scream at the top of my lungs. My fisted hands only drag him closer.
“Bas—”
He roughly covers my mouth, his other hand gripping my hip with punishing strength, pinning me to the bed as he drags his cock out.
“Don’t—” He’s breathless. “Doesn’t that feel good?”
I squirm, panting, wishing for some relief, before he’s thrusting in again, moaning into my neck. He sounds almost pained, perhaps just as overwhelmed by the feeling as I am.
He moves with an eagerness, groans like the pleasure is a shock. “Fucking christ, Mallary.”
And it’s—it’s—unhinged that I’m not fighting him, that sparks of pleasure are already shooting from my spine, from letting a man I don’t know, a man who’s stalked me throughout this house, inside of me.
He stills, his cock pressed as deep as he can go, his breath hot against my throat. My release is waiting, held at the precipice, about to tip over, whether I like it or not.
I shouldn’t be doing this.
I shouldn’t have entertained his curiosity tonight, because now he’s deep inside me and I know there’s no going back because it’s like something clicking into place, it’s too good.
He moves again and I climax at his third harsh thrust, clenching against him, grinding my hips almost involuntarily, like my body’s been taken over by a spirit and I’m only a helpless spectator to my pleasure.
Possessed.
My nails bite into his chest as I come.
He wrings my release out of me with a few more thrusts, and then he’s jerking against me, spilling inside of me, each thrust shoving his cum deeper, and he doesn’t stop, slow and languid, as though he could keep going.
He came in me.
The lustful haze almost immediately fades, clarity drawing all that panic back, and I’m pushing against him. “Wait, I—”
But he’s strong—stronger than I realized—and he doesn’t budge. His cock is still hard inside me, and he’s panting, each breath warm against my lips. Every movement sends jolts of pleasure through my sore center.
“Mallary.” He says my name, stern.
“Bastien.” I sneer.
He stares straight at me, whispering, “Breathe.”
Then I laugh, tears brimming my lashes. I shove against him again. “Get off.”
“No.” I’m caged under him, and his cock is still hard between my slick thighs, with no sign of softening. He demands, “Why are you crying.”
“Because.” My throat constricts.
“Because?”
Because I shouldn’t have wanted this.
Because to become entangled with someone—even a ghost—means I am forgetting why I am here.
Because I don’t understand what is happening in this house and a part of me is scared.
It’s all threatening to spill out. I summon as much venom as I can muster. “That was painfully boring.”
“Boring.”
“Are you deaf?” I push him one last time, and he relents, slipping out of me in one slow motion. Cool air hits my slick center.
I’m empty, too empty, too alone again.
I pull the blanket up to my shoulders.
He sits back on his heels. In the dark, I can hardly see him, his body, the details blurred and shadowed. His skin is pale enough to reveal the vague shape of his face, but I can’t see details. His hands are in fists at his sides, like he’s straining against the need to touch me. To grab me.
To do it again.
And I don’t think I’d stop him if he did.
“Those little sounds coming out of your mouth would suggest otherwise.”
“Maybe if it had lasted longer than a minute.”
“We can go again if you want,” he says, leaning closer again. “I have no issue fucking you until the sun comes up.”
“Get out.” I hiss the words through my teeth.
The tears blur my vision even more, and my lungs feel tight, and suddenly I’m struggling to breathe again, my chest always too fucking tight.
My body is alive and electric for the first time in years and I’m so fucking scared.
I haven’t felt this way since—
“You need to breathe.” Bastien, after righting himself and putting the mask back on, looms closer until the white plaster face is all I can see in the midnight dark. “Mallary.”
He’s so close, I can smell the clean scent of his clothing, the decidedly male scent of whatever shampoo he’s used—he’s alive and well, not a ghost, he’s alive.
And I just fucked him.
And I’m seconds away from pushing him onto his back and riding him again and again and again until I’ve had my fill.
Already the buzz is humming in my veins, something clicking into place in my mind, and I know my own patterns, I know what I’m going to do, I know I’ll sink my claws in so deep he’ll never be able to free himself of me.
The little devil on my shoulder is laughing with glee, chanting yes, yes, yes.
I promised him my nights, and I can tell myself all I want that I didn’t know what that meant, but of course a small part of me did. I was too naive to hope otherwise.
“I’m fine.” I push him again, but there’s no strength behind it. “Get out.”
A pause. “Alright.”
I don’t wait to see him leave. I fix my night gown, pull the covers up over my head, squeeze my eyes shut and wish it all away.
Then, softly, from across the room, his gentle voice: “Goodnight, Mallary.”