Page 125 of Dark Notes

I spread my fingers through the spaces between his. My hands are smaller, bonier, and darker-skinned, but they mold around his exquisitely, like our hands are meant to be joined this way, for holding each other, for creating music together.

Fumbling along, I become frustrated by my inability to catch on. I can recreate classical pieces without sheet music, only the ones I’ve played a gazillion times. How does he just pluck mysterious notes out of the air without visual guidance? It’s insane. And brilliant.

“Listen.” He brushes his mouth across my nape. “Feel it.”

I close my eyes and focus on the beats, the glide of his fingers, and the sway and flex of his tensile muscles around me. His breaths on my neck and the twitches in his legs make it easier to predict his movements and rhythms. I don’t just feel the music. I feel him as the vocals lead us through each measure, painting passionate imagery about fear being the heart of love.

I don’t know how many times he replays the song. I’m lost in his arms and the meaning of the lyrics. Our love is risky, adventurous, and real. Is it founded in fear? Maybe, but it’s a respectful fear, because our love is almighty and powerful.

The taut skin on his chest rubs against my bare back, the friction erotically pleasurable, his body a conductor of sensual heat and sound. I roll my hips against his, liberated by my nudity, rocking to the music and fucking the notes.

He groans, a seductive rumble, and one of his hands slides out from beneath mine. I carry the tune, missing keys but keeping up as he trails his fingers across my thigh, along my ribs, and around my nipple.

I sigh as his cock swells beneath my ass.

His other hand slips from the keyboard to join the first, and my pulse speeds up. His fingers rove hungrily around my breasts, up and down my legs, over my arms, always returning to my chest. When his lips fall to my throat, my hands falter, ruining the melody, but I don’t care. He’s strumming a better song, our song, set to the tempo of our breaths and beating hearts.

Besides, his erection is all kinds of distracting, pinned beneath me and pumping with blood. I want to take him out of his pants and slide down that hard length as I continue to play.

I spread my legs, hooking them over his, my hands bungling two measures of the song. “Emeric.”

His tongue traces the shell of my ear, his fingers dipping between my thighs, probing, rolling my clit, and sinking into my pussy. “So wet for me.”

Gasping, I give up on the keyboard and grip his thighs where they flex between mine. The diabolical thrusts of his fingers arch my back, make me whimper, and propel me into a boiling crescendo of lust.

I tug at his pajama bottoms. “Take these off. I need you.”

The recording on the phone ends, the sudden silence amplifying the chorus of our heavy breaths.

He pinches my clit with a wicked amount of pressure, shooting painful pleasure through my core. Working both hands between my legs, he slaps and strokes, flicks and dips inside. Whether it’s ruthless or gentle, giving or taking, every touch is a declaration of utter commitment.

With an arm around my waist, he lifts my hips and shoves his pants to the floor, kicking them away. I shiver as he lowers me onto his cock and pushes inside. He’s hard and persistent, thick and aggressive, his fingers digging against my hips and controlling the up and down glide of my body with powerful confidence.

I clutch his strong forearms and hang on, my head dropping back to his shoulder and my inner muscles spasming around every thrust. The deep slide of hot steel stretches my pussy and fills me up. My body sings for him with each pulsing beat between my legs, pulling him in, clamping down, and holding him there. He belongs in me, with me.

“So fucking tight.” He kicks his hips. “Leaking all over me.” He grunts, his fingers tightening against my hips. “Love your hot little cunt.”

I love his dirty fucking mouth.

He grinds against me in tight circles, his timbre low and rough. “Play the song.”

Now? Without the recording? Even if I had total concentration, I would struggle. But while he’s fucking me? No way.

I turn my neck to look at him. His hand plunges into my hair, wrenching my head forward and angling it to the side. The graze of his teeth on my shoulder makes me shudder. The fucking bite that follows rips a scream from my throat.

The stinging burn seeps into my muscles, charging and rolling like liquid electricity. Holy shit, that’s going to leave a mark.

I stab my fingernails against his rock-hard forearms. “You’re an animal.”