Page 24 of A Taste Of Truth
Unfortunately, none of it done with enough insistence to actually get me there.
My head rears up, frustration annoying the fuck out of me. He stalls and looks at me over my body, a wry arch to his brow as if he’s amused. “Get on with it.”
“No.” The knife moves between my legs, filling me with both fear and adrenaline.
“You’re an asshole.”
His tongue moves lower and drags over me at the same time as the cool edge of the blade presses to my clit. A shiver descends so rapidly I can’t even process the thought. It makes me squirm, try moving maybe, which seems to cause another low chuckle.
“I’ve never had a woman on this piano,” he murmurs, licking again. He hasn’t? I would have thought he’d at least have had his wife and … Holy shit. My eyes widen at the feeling slicing me down there, and then I gasp at the sense of his hand pushing inside me. He smothers the pain with his mouth, sucks on whatever blood he just caused.
My body arches under the pressure of it, nerves sparking instantly. Every single one of them buzzes at the sensations assaulting me. I’m stretched to the point of painful, one of my legs pressed back to make more room. “Can you take a whole hand, Alice?” I don’t know. It’s never been tried before. Normal people don’t that sort of thing, and my groan doesn’t seem to be making me any wider. My head’s a mess of conflictions, body squirming and arching as if it’ll help.
“I think you can. Do you need to bite down on something?” What? The knife comes to my mouth, shoved in sideways until I’ve got it braced. “Let’s try again.”
I doubt it’s going in, but if anyone’s ever given me enough sensations to try it out, he is doing. It’s so overwhelming that the feel of his other hand biting into my skin barely hurts at all. Tugged, pulled, yanked and shunted. It doesn’t matter. I’m like a rag doll being manoeuvred, and all the time my thoughts stay firmly entrenched in his hand inside me.
Soft words flutter round the air from him, soothing against the pain I must be in. They weave and tease, low and murmured, as I feel myself inching further open for him. Kisses on my skin. The heat of his chest by my side. Nothing has ever felt like this. And then his thumb moves from my leg to my clit gently. Another soft thing, another thing that makes me arch and moan in need. So contradictory. So debilitating. I can barely breathe, let alone let my body find the orgasm it’s after.
“Beg for me, Alice.”
My head shakes, body quivering and shuddering in my prone position. I’m not begging. I’m not being like all the others that he has. I won’t. Can’t. He just needs to get on with it and then it’ll be done. I can feel it in me. I’m so close. Right there on the edge of all this frustration dissipating. Everything’s tense, fraught even. My shoulders seem bound to this piano, legs held in place by his weight alone. I just need a bit more, a bit more and then I’ll come and …
His hand suddenly pulls out, body moving with it. My eyes go to his as he does it, desperate to understand what the fuck he’s doing now. He’s off the piano and standing to the side of me before I’ve fully come out of whatever fog I’m in, a frown on his face. No movement. No words either.
Perfectly still again.
I roll to face him, squeezing my thighs in the hope that I can finish myself off somehow. I can’t. And him looking like the finest example of manhood I’ve ever seen isn’t helping. He rumbles something to himself and back steps a few paces until he can sit in a chair. I don’t know what the fuck that means or what the hell is going on. We were here, and I was about to come – possibly about to fuck - and now he’s sitting in a chair and watching me like a hawk without doing anything?
And he cut me and I let him?
What the hell is that about?
Keys and his phone get drawn out of his pocket and dumped on the small table beside him, the martini he was drinking earlier picked back up again as if nothing has happened.
Freak.
Chapter 10
Malachi
She’s frowning, glaring.
Pretty Alice.
My eyes drift over the slashes on her skin, part astounded at how beautiful she’s become to me. The colours of those tattoos shine under the light sheen of sweat covering her, all of them consuming the air against the low chandelier in the room. Sensuous reds. Opulent greens. Deliberate blues. She looks good on that black casing around my favourite thing, as if her body is part of the music produced. It is. Our music, our dark and obscure song that plays low and vague. I don’t know what that is yet. Or why it is. But it is becoming, evolving, finding a piece of me that’s either been lost or considered unacceptable enough to dismiss.
But she will beg for more of me.
The blade gets dropped from her lips, spat to the floor as if irrelevant. “Untie me if you’re going to act like an ass.” My brow arches, as she aggravates herself further and fidgets.
Acting? I’m not acting. This is me, the part of me she said she wants to help. There isn’t any part of me that makes fucking easy once I’m truly involved, nor is there a part of me that enjoys a dominant women in that process. I want yielding, softness, pliability and willingness from her - trust.
“I’m not begging for anything, Malachi. This is absurd.”
If I want her on her knees, I want her to choose that and recognise my need for it. All the running, all the games played, they’re just distractions. Interests. Hobbies maybe. But true fucking, something I can barely remember, is never about that.
“Do you know how beautiful you are?” I ask quietly. She stops shuffling herself sideways, body nearly upright, and frowns again. “Even now in your temper, you’re truly the most enticing woman I’ve ever seen.” The frown softens, an element of embarrassment floating over her face. “No one’s told you that, have they?” She blinks and slowly pulls fully upright, long legs dangling onto the piano stool. “It’s your strength that makes you that way, your authenticity and realism. You’re quite mesmeric to me, especially with your blood flowing out of you.”