Dark Notes

by Pam Godwin

  My heart bangs so loudly it could drown out an orchestra. “Wh—what is that for?”

  He unwinds the straps, squatting as he attaches them to the bed frame. “If you had moved your hand a second sooner, the belt would’ve sliced your fingers. Maybe even broken them. We’re going to do this without endangering your piano career.”

  Says the man who punches walls.

  I lift up on elbows and point at his damaged knuckles. “When is your next symphony performance?”

  “Two weeks.” He stretches his swollen hand then pats the edge of the bed. “Arms here.”

  “You’re going to tie me down?”

  “I’m going to protect you.” He opens the first leather cuff. “This or your safe word. Make a decision.”

  I imagine myself in those restraints, trapped and unable to escape as he belts my ass, kisses it better, and makes me the center of his universe. He’s not forcing me. He’s empowering me with a choice, an offer to take me somewhere exciting when no one else has ever bothered to care.

  I rest my cheek against the mattress and extend my arms above my head.

  “Your trust is intoxicating.” His hands are suddenly on my face, angling my head as his mouth crashes against mine.

  I melt beneath the demand of his lips. This kiss is harder than its predecessors, hungrier and more lethal, his tongue looping with mine and his strong jaw scratching my skin in a delicious burn.

  He breaks the kiss and returns to the cuffs, connecting them to the straps and locking them around my wrists. His fingers move expertly over the buckles and latches.

  How many times has he done this? With how many women?

  With my history, I’m in no position to be jealous, but it doesn’t stop the clawing ache in my gut.

  The touch of his hands pulls me from my thoughts. He’s here with me, trailing goosebumps across my arms as he secures them in the restraints.

  That done, he moves to stand behind me, hands on my hips and tugging my ass against his thighs. The straps strain with the movement, the manacles holding my arms above my head.

  But I don’t feel trapped or held down. I feel anchored. To him.

  The folded belt swings in my periphery right before a new sting inflames the underside of my ass. He teases the welt with feathery touches, and his lips join in, kissing and soothing the lingering pain. Then he swings again.

  Thwack, massage, kiss. I don’t know how many times he repeats those steps. At some point, I slip into a blissful trance, lost in some floaty place where there’s only him and me and the harmony of our breaths.

  This is what it’s supposed to feel like when two people come together, willingly, wantonly. What would sex be like with him? I can’t even fathom it. The emotional connection alone might explode my brain.

  He covers my heated backside in caresses and kisses, kindling such a big feeling inside me. The swollen throb between my legs rallies and flares, energizing my nerve-endings and expanding into parts of my body I didn’t know existed. Something’s coming, something wonderful, but before the sensation reaches a breaking point, he steps back to swing again.

  Over and over, he brings me closer to the edge, burning me hotter with need, and teasing me one stroke at a time.

  When the hot lashes and affectionate touches stop completely, I moan into the quilt. “You’re done?”

  His groaning laughter follows him around the bed where he bends to release the cuffs. I’m too limp and weightless to move. But my pussy pulsates with emptiness, clenching and soaked beyond embarrassment.

  I don’t care. I need…need… “Please.”

  Climbing onto the bed, he rolls me to my back and straddles my hips. His erection is right there, trying to stab a hole through his pants. But he doesn’t free it or look at it.

  He weighs enough to crush me, but his quads contract at my sides, bearing his bulk. His gaze lowers to my button-up, and he grips the collar, ripping it open. My nicest blouse. But the look on his face makes me forget why I care.

  His lips separate with the force of his breaths, and his eyes drift over me like a vast ocean, heavy and deep, drowning me in wonder.

  Men have sat on me like this before, but only during a struggle when my arms are swinging and my hips are bucking. No one has ever straddled me in such a vulnerable position without thrusting and taking. With his pants still on.

  He takes in the white satin of my mom’s bra, the material too small to fully cover my chest. With a groan, he tugs the cups beneath my breasts, exposing them. “If you knew how many times I’ve imagined these the past couple months, what they would feel like, taste like, how they would look trussed up in rope…”

  “I’ve imagined you, too.” I lift my hand to reach for the hard length straining his slacks.

  He catches my wrist and lunges forward, his chest on mine and his voice guttural. “If you touch me, it’s all over. I’m barely hanging on.”

  Part of me wants to see what he looks like when he lets go. But I’d rather give in to my curiosity about where he’s taking this and let him lead.

  With a shaky hand, he traces the outer edge of my breast. His other hand tangles in my hair as he leans in and tastes my lips.

  I love the cinnamon flavor of his tongue. It’s so unique to him, just one of the thousand things that separates him from all the others. When I’m with him, the bruises inside me tuck themselves away. Or maybe they fade. I can’t feel them or the fear they ignite. Why? Because he’s viciously protective? Because he’s achingly tender even when he’s punishing me?

  He’s a deep well of discovery, and I hope he gives me the time and permission to learn everything about him.

  He slides off my hips to lie against my side, facing me. The hand in my hair clenches tighter, and his lips stay with mine, each bite and roll of his tongue delivering an electric shudder up my spine.

  His free hand travels down my throat, trails a path between my breasts, over my stomach, and dives between my legs. I gasp against his mouth, my fingers grasping at his shoulder.

  The placement of his thumb stuns me, and my clit throbs against the diabolical pressure he rubs against it. He sinks one then two fingers inside me, and I writhe against his hand, my skin hot and exposed beneath his gaze.

  I must look ridiculous with my skirt bunched around my waist, and my too-small bra shoved beneath my boobs. But he doesn’t seem to care.

  He steals glances at my bared breasts, even as his mouth feasts on my lips. I despise my chest, but I love how he stares at me like he appreciates what he sees, like he’s never wanted another woman the way he wants me. My body pleases him. I please him.

  The length of his frame trembles against mine, all sharp edges and contracting muscles. I don’t know when he slipped off his shoes, but his socked feet brush against my toes. The shirt and slacks he’s still wearing doesn’t diminish the heat seeping from him. His intensity smothers me, and his gravely noises shiver my skin. He’s a starving, growly man in need, and I want to feed him.

  His hand grips my hair, holding my lips against his as our tongues lap and twine together, hot and wet, ravenous and unguarded. His erection grinds against my thigh in maddening circles, and a combustion of sensations lick across my skin, hardening my nipples into painful points.

  He tears his mouth away to devour my breasts with a hot tongue. Sucking and laving, he pulls a bud deeper into his mouth as his fingers and thumb continue their wicked assault.

  I’m going to explode. I feel it simmering deep in my core, rising faster, hotter, robbing my air. When his lips return to mine, he swallows my moans. His kiss, his scent, the feel of his strength surrounding me… My muscles shake with the overwhelming pleasure of it all.

  A tremor skips down his arm, spurring his fingers faster and his hips harder.

  “Come, Ivory,” he pants against my lips. “Come all over my hand.”

  My mouth slackens, my chin tilting upward as I reach for it. I fall into his smoldering gaze and feel the expanding pressure, right t
here, like a brewing storm inside me, collecting and strengthening. But I don’t know how to make it happen. “I—I’m trying. I don’t know…”

  “Get out of your head.” He rotates his thumb and trails his tongue across my pliable lips. “Let it all go.”

  My earlier confessions had been shockingly freeing. It should’ve relaxed me enough to do this with him. And I am relaxed, but also nervous about what’s happening and what it all means.

  He shakes with the urgency of his arousal, rubbing himself wildly against my thigh as he fingers me into insanity. With each circle of his thumb and pump of his hand, my release hovers on the ledge, galvanized with determination yet teetering with uncertainty.

  “Stop thinking, dammit, and feel me.” He drives his cock against my leg, his breath catching in his throat. “Feel how much I want you. How much I want you with me. I’m not finishing without you.”

  An invisible wall crashes down inside me, and an outpour of quivering, overwhelming heat spills from my spine, detonates through my womb, and shatters every neuron in my body. The shock of it steals my breath, my back bowing against the force of so many new and frenzied sensations.

  “Ah God, there you go. So beautiful,” he rasps. “So fucking mine.” His fingers, hips, and breathy groans work in tandem, shoving me deeper into tingling bliss and shredding his voice. “Fuck, I’m gonna—”

  He comes with a strangled shout, his body jerking as he rolls halfway on top of me and captures my mouth in a breathless kiss. His weight slouches against me, and the rocking of his hips ebbs into a lazy roll. His hand slips from between my legs, his chest heaving hard against mine. But his movements are slow, reverently gentle as he cups my jaw and kisses me into a languid, dreamy cosmos.

  I died somewhere between my release and his. And now I know how it feels to be alive.

  I can’t seem to move the muscles in my face to kiss him back. My skin is hot and slippery with perspiration, but who cares? Every inch of me is luxuriously numb, listless, and happy.

  He holds my gaze, his eyes wide and mesmerizing as he chokes a jagged sound against my lips. “Now I know why you’re illegal.”

  I lift Ivory’s beautifully exhausted limbs, molding my hands around her flexuous curves and touching more than required to slip the shirt off her arms. “Still with me, sleepy girl?”

  Her hooded brown eyes make a sluggish climb over my mouth before meeting my gaze. “Mm.”

  My smile is so deep I feel it in my lungs like a nourishing breath. There’s no limit to what I would do to put that look on her face every night. But what are her limits? What is she willing to gamble? Her education? Her future?

  If she’s caught in my house, I’m the one at risk. I’m the adult, taking advantage of a student, a victim. While I might end up fighting a legal battle, she would be safe from all blame.

  When I pull my head together, I’ll figure out a plan. But right now, her safety far outweighs the consequences I might endure.

  I remove the rest of her clothes. When I toss the final scrap to the floor, I’m left with a view so fucking tantalizing I couldn’t have dreamed it—and hell knows I tried for weeks.

  Sprawled in my bed, her nude hourglass figure beckons every masculine nerve, organ, and connective tissue in my body. From her wet mouth and the slackness in her muscles to her abundant chest and flushed clit, she draws me in and holds me in mindless fascination.

  She hasn’t said a word since she came on my fingers. She seems to be in shock. Or soaring in bliss. Definitely in awe, given the widening of her eyes as she slides a hand between her legs and feels the swollen flesh of her pussy.

  Christ almighty, she’s innocence wrapped in sin.

  The innocent part rattles me the most. Not only have I crossed the line as her teacher, there’s a ten-year age difference between us. Add to that her abusive past and the ruthless dominating way I fuck, and we’re navigating a land mine. If I move too fast or make the wrong step, the consequences will be devastating.

  I run my fingers over hers, brushing the dark curls on her cunt. “Don’t shave this.”

  She glances at our hands and returns to my face. “Why not?”

  “I don’t want to feel like I’m—” Touching a little girl. “You’re young, Ivory. I don’t need any more reminders.”

  “I’ve been with a lot of guys older than you.” Her cheeks bloom with heat, and she pulls her hand away. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  The impulse to demand she never mention other men burns in my throat, but I bite it back. “If you need to talk about it, about them, I want to be the person you turn to.” I kiss her lips and trail my finger over her pussy. “Okay?”

  “Okay.” She grips my wrist and squeezes. “Thank you.”

  I slip off the bed and swat her thigh. “Up.”

  Ten minutes later, steam drenches the bathroom, fogging my reflection in the mirror as well as the shower door behind me. The splash of water against tiles broadcasts her movements as the woodsy scent of my shampoo infuses my inhales. There’s something deeply satisfying about her using my things, smelling like me, and making herself at home in my space.

  While she showers, I wash my dick at the sink, both appalled and riveted by the fact that I jizzed in my briefs. I haven’t done that since high school. But it shouldn’t surprise me. I’ve been jacking off like a fucking fiend for weeks.

  It takes every ounce of restraint I have left to not join her in the shower. I want to fuck her thoroughly, completely, and in every way imaginable, but I have to prove to her I’m not like the others. Every step with her is a risk, and there are still so many unanswered questions.

  I clean my knuckles and lather them in antibiotic cream from the supplies beneath the sink. “Are you on birth control?”

  Her misty silhouette freezes behind the shower door. “No.”

  I turn to face her, straining to make out the shape of her body in the curl of steam. “Do you use condoms?”

  She presses a palm against the glass door, as if to steady herself. “When I can.”

  My fist clenches, but the next thing I punch should be my own stupid mouth. Could I be anymore heartless? Of course, she doesn’t always use condoms. If a man doesn’t stop at no, he’s certainly not pausing to wrap up.

  I manage to hold my temper in, but the rapid-fire of my pulse and the rage scorching up my spine propels me out of the bathroom.

  “I’ll set out something for you to wear,” I shout from the bedroom. “Meet me in the kitchen.”

  Tossing one of my t-shirts on the bed for her, I strip my clothes and drag on a pair of flannel pants.

  On my way out, I grab my phone and make a call to my dad’s clinic. As expected, it goes to voice mail. My bare feet pad down the carpeted stairs and into the kitchen as I tell the recorder who I am and what I require.

  I could’ve called my dad to schedule her appointment, but I don’t want to field his questions tonight. Not when I still don’t have all the answers.

  By the time she emerges in the kitchen doorway, I have two plates of heated linguine carbonara set out on the island.

  She hovers on the threshold, her deep brown eyes darting between the food and my bare chest. Her expression creases with every emotion in existence before softening with a smile. “You cooked?”

  “My catering service did.” I grab two glasses and a pitcher of sweet tea. “The oven warmed it up.”

  She approaches the island, tugging the mid-thigh shirt down her tanned legs. Her long wet hair soaks the white cotton against her chest, revealing taut nipples and delicate shoulders. I find it impossible to look away. It’s as if every fiber of my being is tied to hers, and every movement she makes moves me, pulling me closer, deeper.

  I never stood a chance.

  “Thank you.” She sits on the bar stool, tucking the hem of the shirt between her legs. “This smells incredible.”

  I settle on the stool beside her, twisting to face her, and stab a fork into the noodles.

 
; Her eyes return to my chest.

  I arch a brow. “What?”

  She holds a finger in front of me, tapping the air as her concentration travels from my shoulders to my waist.

  Is she counting?

  Fuck me, my pecs bounce. All she has to do is look at me and my body reacts.

  She drops her hand and turns to her dinner, mumbling, “Twelve indentations and ten muscly bumps.”

  I glance down, trying to make sense of her numbers. I spend two hours a day, seven days a week in my home gym, honing my physique into tiptop shape for the same reason every other guy works out. To get laid. But now I want to hit the weights just to watch her count my muscles again.

  She sucks a noodle off her fork, grinning. “You don’t look like a teacher.”

  “You don’t look like a student.”

  Her smile disintegrates.

  I wipe a hand down my face, wishing I could call back those words. How many times have her looks attracted the wrong kind of attention? She attracted me.

  She waves her fork up and down the length of my body. “You’d make more money modeling than teaching.”

  “Do I look like I need money?”

  “Good point.” She scans the kitchen, taking in the high-end appliances that never get used. She doesn’t ask about the source of my wealth, but I know she’s wondering.

  I swallow a buttery bite of pasta and twirl more noodles around my fork. “My family holds the patent on the wooden bracings in pianos.”

  “Wow. Really?”

  “Really. So money is not my incentive for working.”

  “Why work at all? You could live on a yacht, drink rum, and grow a smelly beard.” Her eyebrows lift. “Like a pirate.”

  “A pirate.” My lips twitch. “As appealing as that sounds, boredom doesn’t suit me.” I would lose my fucking mind. “I need challenge and self-earned success, and I find those things playing piano, teaching…” I give her a narrowed look. “And disciplining.”

  Her eyes flicker. “You’re very good at that last one.”

  “But not the others?”

  A sly grin pulls at the corner of her mouth. “I’ve never heard you play.”