22. The Pianist
The Pianist
I’ve angered him.
I never should have pushed him away like I did. I never should have made him leave, I shouldn’t have made him promise to leave me alone.
It’s dark, it has been for a few hours, and even though I played all afternoon, calling to him with his song—our song—he hasn’t revealed himself.
I didn’t bother any of the staff for the rest of the day.
I made sure to dip in and out of the kitchens early, so I wouldn’t get caught in any conversations.
Folded my laundry, tidied my room and bathroom.
Kept glancing at my phone, as if I were expecting a call, but of course I wasn’t, no one ever has a reason to call me.
I reach for the chain around my throat.
It’s not there. This morning I probably forgot to put it on.
Two minutes of searching around my room, something icy sliding into my veins, and it becomes clear it’s missing. It’s gone.
My throat threatens to close up.
No, it’s fine. I didn’t need it anyway.
It was probably a bad idea to hold onto that necklace so long. At least that’s what I tell myself.
I don’t need it.
I don’t need the memories tied to it.
It’s better to just forget. Move forward.
I take a breath like I do at the piano. Ready myself for bed.
The air in the room changes, like the oppressive weight before a storm.
His eyes on me, boring into my spine.
I swallow, tongue a bit dry, and set down my hairbrush. In the mirror, I am alone. No ghosts peeking over my shoulder.
But I turn around, and in the doorway to the closet is his figure. This time, there’s enough light to see every inch of his imposing stature.
My breath hitches in my throat.
His mask is plain, pale white, covering the entirety of his face, only his dark eyes peering out at me.
Dark eyes that can see everything. An unruly mess of black curls on his head.
His hands—bare—at his sides, flexing and unflexing, and a sudden warmth pools within me.
My body responding to his nearness, remembering the brief pleasure from last night.
His chest rises and falls with each breath. He’s studying me, waiting for me to scream, I know it.
That’s all it would take to end this.
“Bastien?” I say his name, my voice loud in the silence, even though it’s hardly more than a whisper.
His fingers go still at that.
I stand on shaky knees, hyperaware of that fact that I am again in only my night clothes—an old t-shirt and my panties.
How did he get into my room?
He isn’t a ghost. I felt him last night. He can’t just travel through walls.
I take a step toward him. He doesn’t move, other than his heavy breathing, the sound muffled against the mask. I burn with the urge to rip it off his face, to see the man underneath.
I’ve kissed those lips. I've felt his skin. And yet I don't know what he looks like.
His dark eyes are smoldering, and he’s tense, shoulders rigid, feet poised to move.
And I can see how aroused he is.
A jolt of desire runs through me, knowing what he’s capable of, knowing in some sick twisted way that he desires to overpower me, to take what he wants from me, and I’m almost powerless against him.
Almost.
I don’t step any closer. Curious about him as much as I think he is about me, I watch him right back, for his reactions, for the way he’s breathing so heavily like he’s holding back from lunging at me.
I reach for the hem of my t-shirt and lift it over my head. Bare myself to him.
An apology for kicking him out last time.
An invitation to do it again.
And then he’s stalking toward me, suddenly gripping my jaw and walking us all the way back so I’m hitting the vanity, bare back pressed against the cool mirror, bottles going flying. Fear arcs through me at how harshly he moves, stepping between my legs.
“Are you trying to provoke me?” he says. “Calling for me all day?”
My heart is racing. Fingers clutching at the vanity’s tabletop. “I was just—”
His other hand roughly grabs my breast. The timid man from last night has been replaced by one wholly demanding. “Do you think that’s smart? Offering yourself to me like this? When I am so eager to take from you?”
His fingers trail down to the band of my underwear, then further, between my legs, fingers moving the fabric over to find my desire for him leaking out of me. My thighs widen on their own.
The hand gripping my jaw forces my head back against the mirror. He’s going to leave bruises, his fingers digging into my flesh, but I can’t be bothered to care, because his other hand is rubbing at my center and stealing my breath.
He shoves a finger into me. “I’ve never—” He groans, his hips pressing into his hand, forcing his finger deeper into me. “I need to own you. I need to touch you. Everywhere. Until I know everything. I want to make you feel so good it hurts.”
His finger moves in and out of me and there’s no resistance. Electricity is already sparking through my hips. I bite my lip at the feel of his erection against my thigh, only a layer of fabric separating us.
“Does this feel good?” he asks.
I nod.
“Please tell me,” he breathes, his thumb skates across my neck, seeking out the pulse on each side, skating across the artery.
“It feels good,” I say, breathy, and then he’s tightening his hand around my throat at the same time he adds another finger, and in seconds, I’m shattering against him, my vision turning to a black, spotty cloud.
“Boring,” he mocks, “even though I can make you come so quickly?”
I’m lightheaded as my pussy squeezes his fingers. He watches in dark fascination as my hips buck against his hand.
Then he lets go, allowing me to suck in a deep breath, as he reaches for his belt, and oh my god, he’s going to fuck me again.
Except this time it’s not dark and I can see everything, his mask and his eyes behind it and his cock and the dusting of hair on his stomach. My hips are at the perfect height on the edge of the vanity for him to press the head of his cock against my center.
My toes curl in anticipation.
“How does that feel?” he asks, leaning forward, bringing his face closer to mine. The movement pushes him into me—just an inch.
My ankles wrap around his hips. “So good.”
He slides in slow, letting out a shuddering breath as my core squeezes around him. “You’re so—fuck,” he grits out through his teeth.
Pressing in one more inch.
My legs wind around him, my teeth cutting into my lip. I need him to chase away the ache, need him to fuck away everything but this moment. I don’t want to think, don’t want to worry about the Beauchenes or my job here or my life in the city or anything else.
“Does my cock feel good?”
My muscles clench involuntarily, wiping every thought from my mind as I moan.
He presses the rest of the way in one thrust.
My back arches, nails digging into the table. “So fucking good.”
He holds himself there, like last time, all the way so our hips are flush with each other. My mouth hangs open, breaths coming in quick pants.
I grow impatient at the stillness, grinding my hips.
“You’ll never be rid of me if you don’t stop that.” He’s gripping the table, knuckles white. Dark eyes, a deep brown, I notice, half-lidded with his lust.
“I—Please move.”
“Like this?” He drags his cock out.
I almost whine. “Like that.”
“You make me an animal,” he says, masked face only an inch from mine. It would take nothing to reach up and rip it away. “I want to know I’ll be dripping out of you later. It’s our little secret, isn’t it?”
He groans again, and then his fingers are wrapping around my throat, pressing with the slightest pressure at the sides of my neck. He ruts into me, slamming me against the mirror, sending the vanity clamoring against the wall. Whatever was left on top goes scattering across the floor.
“You have such a pretty neck,” he says, squeezing his fingers harder. The spots dance in my vision again, except this time, he doesn’t let up.
Out of instinct, I grab his arm, remembering that I should be afraid, even if my body has forgotten. His hand is a collar around my throat, immovable. A deadly look in his eye as he grips my hip with the other hand, holding me in place. I’m at his mercy, clinging to him with my life in his hands.
Just as my vision begins to go dark, as my fingers grow weak, he lets go, and an orgasm so strong rips through me, my body undulating against his, melting around his cock.
He doesn’t slow down. “I love watching you come.” His thrusting becomes more erratic. “Watch.”
Languid and spent, I obey, my gaze falling to where my pussy greedily takes him in. He slams his hips against mine once more. I feel each pulse, still grinding against me, like he can’t stop, can’t get enough, and the pleasure of it is too good.
My head is light, my body already aching and buzzing.
He looks at me—really looks at me, his near-black eyes suddenly serious.
They flick down to my lips, and maybe he notices the blood, because then he leans down, lifts his mask just enough I can see his mouth, his full lips, and he sucks my bleeding lip between his.
His cock twitches again when he tastes my blood on his tongue.
“Mallary?” A knock on the door.
My heart drops.
Bastien pulls away, his cock still fully aroused, jutting from his jeans. It glistens with our cum. I have the sudden urge to get on my knees.
More knocking at the door. “Miss Doyle?” They try the handle.
But the chair is still wedged in place.
“You have to leave,” I hiss at him, jumping off the vanity and throwing back on my shirt.
We were entirely too loud. We probably woke up the whole house.
Fuck, Mrs. Beauchene is going to kick me out.
Bastien is entirely unfazed. “Do I?”
I scramble for the robe thrown across the foot of my bed. “Yes. They probably heard everything. They’re gonna—I’m going to be kicked out.”
His eyes darken. “You won’t be leaving.”
I swallow, tightening the robe around me, before unlocking the door and cracking it. I hope my disheveled appearance is that of someone pulled from sleep.