43. The Pianist #3
“I—” Blinking away the tears, trying to think around the feel of his cock pressed as far into me as he can go. “I did something.”
“Yes?”
“Something bad.”
He withdraws, leaving me empty, save for the head of his cock, before he slowly pushes in again. I think I’ll come right then. All my muscles spasm, on the precipice, waiting for permission to break.
“Good,” he whispers. Every little hair on my body on end at his praise. “How does that feel?”
He pulls out again, his movements slow, the drag of skin against skin so overwhelming. How can it be this good every time? How does he know exactly what I need?
“Good,” I gasp. “So good.”
“A lesson in honesty,” he says, punching forward, pulling my hips to his at the same moment, each thrust jarring. “I want only your truth, Mallary.”
Every time he says my name, it’s like he owns another piece of my mind.
Mallary, Mallary, Mallary.
“Don’t lie to me,” he says. “Never lie to me.”
I nod, but my thoughts are already flying away, pressure building in my center as he fucks me. Unspent energy coils in my limbs. I reach down, finding my clit, already so sensitive—
“No.”
I pull away like I was caught doing something I shouldn’t.
“You can come when you’re honest.”
“But—”
“The whole truth.”
His hips slam against mine, deeper and deeper.
“Baz.”
“This is entirely up to you,” he says through his clenched teeth. “You can come if you give me everything.”
“I have.”
“Liar.”
I have no more fight left in me, falling boneless against the tomb wall, surrendering to the brutal pounding of his cock.
My cries ricochet in the stone room, half agony, half ecstasy.
My breaths shudder through me, choking on the lump in my throat, and I only realize I’m sobbing his name, drool on my lips, as he groans his release.
He comes inside of me with one last strong thrust. And I want so badly to follow, to milk his cock with my own climax, but I can’t.
He pulls out, and I fall to my knees.
“Clean me off,” he says.
I take him into my mouth. Run my tongue along the head, taste the salty combination of his cum and my arousal on the warm skin. Wetness seeps down my thighs. My clit is so sensitive, as I kneel, I consider reaching down again. Would he notice?
His palm comes to my cheek, thumb wiping away the tears. “Stop moving.”
I obey.
His cock is still mostly rigid, only maybe half of it in my mouth.
Above me, he stares down his nose. Fingers trailing through my hair, across my cheekbone, smearing my tears, wiping them away. “Such a horrendous liar.”
I can’t reply. I resist the urge to take him deeper, wanting to obey, to remain still as a statue.
“We made a deal, you and I,” he says, tucking loose strands of my hair behind my ears. “I have your evenings, and I will leave you alone during the day. I’m honoring my side of the bargain. It’s time for you to honor yours.”
Yes, yes, I am trying, I want to.
“You’ll play our song. At the New Year’s gathering. There will be hundreds of people. And all of them will hear our song.” His cock twitches against my tongue, the muscles in his abdomen tightening. Like the thought turns him on even more.
I blink my acceptance, and I think he understands, because his fingers return to my hair.
“They don’t know it yet, but Bran Rivers of the Philharmonic is going to be there.
I’ll make sure an invite makes its way to him.
” He lists a few other names, some I recognize, some I don’t, and as he does, staring down at me with hooded eyes, his hips begin to move again, slowly.
He groans, the sound stoking a fire in my belly.
I lave at his cock, my eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of fullness.
As I work him, his fingers loosen, his breath still coming in pants.
I grip the back of his thighs, forcing him deeper.
His breath shudders as the head of his cock slips into my throat.
I gag around him, but he doesn’t care, thrusting forward, fucking my mouth.
All the while his cum leaks down my thigh in a pool on the floor of his tomb.
He hisses sharply through his teeth before he tugs on my hair, forcing me to stand. We’re eye to eye.
“How does it feel to fuck a ghost?”
My mind is spinning too much to answer. I’m still overflowing with need, my fingers drifting closer to my center.
He spots it, before growling and shoving me down onto the bench. The air rushes out of me as I fall onto my back. He wrenches my leggings off and throws them across the room, looming over me with one arm bracing himself, the other digging into my jaw, forcing my lips to part.
And still all I want is for him to kiss me. He was so gentle with me the other night, and now he is so demanding. The duality is heady, not knowing what side of him I will get.
“I will give you what you need, Mal, I will give you what I promised you.” When his cock slides back into me it feels like we were never meant to be apart. I sigh my relief, my pussy a mess of his cum, and he’s bottomed out in a second, pressed in as far as he can go.
“What do you need?” he whispers. “Tell me.”
If there are any other answers, the only one I can even think of is that I need him to fuck me.
“Please.” It’s all I can manage, my legs winding around his hips, and he indulges me.
I can’t help grinding my hips, chasing the electricity in my thighs, my core, as my clit rubs against him too, and when I come, I don’t muffle the cry that escapes me, my ecstasy echoing throughout his tomb.
My nails dig into his shoulders, my ankles tightening around him, but he doesn’t stop.
His movements are less frenzied than before, his cock sliding in and out in an unhurried rhythm until my orgasm fades away.
The white mask peers down at me. He’s propped up on his elbows. His fingers soft on my skin as they trace under my eyes. He doesn’t leave me.
It’s only in moments like this, after chasing our pleasure, after the frantic beat of my heart has slowed, that I can finally breathe.
I stare up at him through my lashes. “You stole my phone.”
“That’s what you’re thinking about?” Mirth sparkles in his dark eyes. “I didn’t steal it, I’d give it back if you asked. Besides, you don’t need it.”
“What if my mother calls me?”
He gives me a silent look.
When I begin to shiver, he withdraws, retrieving my leggings and helping me dress. My legs are too shaky, so I hold onto his steady frame, and when we’re both mostly presentable, the urge to tear off the mask and kiss him is too strong.
Maybe he can read my thoughts, and that’s why he grips my wrists.
“I couldn’t find you,” I say.
“I was… busy. I’m sorry.” He studies me for a second. “It’s daytime, Mallary.”
Those three words send an ice shard straight through my sternum.
He’s only doing what I asked—and here I am, freaking out, pushing the boundary I set, being over-dramatic. I can’t expect him to shadow my every move. I can’t expect this much from him. Especially when I’ve asked him not to.
At some point in the last few weeks, he’s superseded my need to spend every moment on music. There’s a space carved out in my heart, safe and hidden under the cage of my ribs, and in it, for the past decade, music has resided. Nothing was more important. Nothing.
And now… I’m not so sure that’s true anymore. I’m not sure these two things can coexist within me—my days of music and my nights with him.
Eventually, something has to give.