by Pam Godwin
Dr. Marceaux moves toward the door, his voice low and harsh. “Emeric, there are five nurses here today, watching your every move. I won’t be able to contain the gossip.”
Emeric holds my eyes as he speaks to his dad. “After the scene Joanne just made, they’ll think I came in here to talk to you.”
“Is she still here?” I relax my hands in my lap and try to look brave and mature. “What did you talk about?”
“You can discuss it at home.” Dr. Marceaux pulls a gown from the drawer and sets it beside me. “Dr. Hill will be in any second to do the pelvic exam.”
“I’m staying.” Emeric leans against the counter, hands in his pockets, settling in.
“No, you’re not.” I grab the gown, turning it every which way to make sense of it. “This is awkward enough. Besides, I’m pissed at you.”
He snatches the smock from my hands and holds it open. “It goes on like this.”
Dr. Marceaux grips the doorknob. “Let’s go, son.”
In a flash, Emeric closes the distance between us, grips the hair at my scalp, and puts his mouth at my ear. “We’re not finished.”
Then he follows his dad out of the room, leaving me breathless and even more confused than I was before.
In a daze, I pee in a cup in the bathroom and change into the weird gown in the exam room. The elderly Dr. Hill arrives with news that I’m not pregnant. Then he hands me a package of birth control pills, does a breast exam, and sticks his hand and other invasive things in my vagina.
By the time I climb into the Porsche, my head is pounding with a barrage of questions. Where do I go? What should I do?
I grip the steering wheel and search my gut for the right decision. Going to his house doesn’t mean I’m desperate or needy. I can always go back home and return to the way things were before.
But I’ve never been the girl who runs from an argument. I need answers, and there’s only one place to find them.
A few minutes later, I punch in my code at the security gate, a code Emeric let me come up with on my own. Then I park beside the GTO and enter the house through the unlocked back door.
Schubert greets me in the mud room with a purring leg rub. As I scoop him up, I’m distracted by the muffled melody of a piano. He’s playing?
I give the kitty a nuzzle, set him down, and follow the notes through the winding corridors.
I’ve peeked into his music room several times, admired his Fazioli from afar, but I’ve never gone in. I had this idea that he would lead me there when his hands were healed. Then he would sit behind the keyboard and play something crazy amazing, like Ravel’s Gaspard de la Nuit.
As I draw closer, I don’t hear Ravel or Brhams or Liszt. He’s playing Metallica.
I freeze in the doorway, held in paralyzing captivation as the familiar tune of “Nothing Else Matters” wraps around me. Twenty feet away, he rocks on the bench, eyes closed, profile relaxed, and forearms flexing as he hammers the keys.
He’s conservatory trained but plays metal on the piano? Without a music sheet. Only virtuosos can so smoothly replicate pieces they’ve heard. I’m completely and totally awe-struck.
When I remember to breathe, my lungs expand, inhaling the sight of him, the poignant arrangement of notes, and the energy in the air.
Head down, black hair hanging over his brow, he sways his jaw side-to-side in a slow tempo with the music. The melody is a desperate plea infused with longing, and he opens it up with expert strokes, tapping his bare foot softly, his posture a powerhouse of contracting muscle beneath the white t-shirt.
The face of his watch glints in the light as he leaps between octaves. With each snap of his wrist, I imagine that hand whipping across my skin. The spread and flex of his fingers makes me wish they were curled around my throat with the same passion and intensity. His hips roll, and I tremble to straddle his lap and ride the wave of his body as he plays.
In the right hands, the piano can steal the soul. Clearly, his hands are made for the keys, because I don’t just feel the notes inside me. They devour me like a dark, voracious flame.
He’s so sexy and talented I don’t know what to do with the dangerous feelings he stirs in me. I’m supposed to be mad at him and demanding answers. I should feel lost, uncertain.
Instead, I feel claimed, as if he’s caressing each key with me on his mind. We’re not finished. He wants me here, even though he hasn’t acknowledged my presence.
It takes me several seconds to realize the lid is closed on the Fazioli. Did he forget to open it? Looking closer, I see something that doesn’t belong.
Familiar black straps hook underneath the piano, stretch across the black top, and attach to leather cuffs near the keyboard.
My pulse skyrockets, and my gaze flicks back to his face.
His eyes are still closed. I could slip into the hall and… What then? I’m not going anywhere until I talk to him.
Am I afraid of what he has planned for me? Well, my lips are numb, and my heartbeat is raging out of control. But I’m certain those cuffs will lead to answers about Joanne as well as myself. If the truth is too painful, he’ll release me with one word.
I stand taller, but not quite confident enough to step into the room.
The song winds to a close, and he rests his hands in his lap.
Lifting his head, he turns his glacial eyes on me. “Leave all of your clothes at the door.”
“Metallica.” Ivory tucks her hands in the back pockets of her jeans and gives me a tentative smile. “That was good.”
I was trained by the best, graduated from Leopold, and hold a seat in the Louisiana Symphony Orchestra. Not once in my musical career have I cared what anyone thinks of my talent.
Until now.
She’s been frozen in the doorway for five minutes, and good is the only compliment her gorgeous lips utter?
When we met, I was afraid the balance between us would be heavily tipped, that I would overpower her and take advantage of her. I weigh almost twice what she does. I’m twenty-seven, and she’s seventeen. I’m a Dominant, and she’s my high school student. Christ, I had so many doubts.
But no more.
As I sit here, aching for her brilliant pianist’s mind to spout poetry about my music, I realize she doesn’t just hold the power in the bedroom. She commands my emotions, tests my confidence, and haunts my every thought. She could destroy me, not just my livelihood, but the very fiber of who I am, and she doesn’t even know it.
It’s my responsibility to balance the harmony between us and manage our roles. Right now, she’s disobeying, and I’m going to remind her what it means to be mine.
“Your clothes. Now.”
Flinching at my hard tone, she glances at the restraints on the Fazioli. Her chest heaves once, twice. Then she closes her eyes and lifts the t-shirt over her head, dropping the material to the floor.
Her tits swell over lacy pink cups, her toned abs encased in dark golden skin. Those sexy legs… I clench my hands. She’s making me wait, her fingers frozen on the button of her jeans.
I rise from the piano bench, the Dom in me taking over. I straighten my spine, roll back my shoulders, and even my breaths. She watches me with hooded eyes, parted lips, her hands dropping to curl against her thighs.
Knowing her trust in me was fractured at the clinic, it’s incredibly satisfying to see her standing here, let alone considering my order. But for us to work, it’s vital I push her to the edge, to that place where she both fears and respects me, but not so far that she can’t breathe.
I force myself to ease back a notch, to use less growl and more finesse.
Approaching her slowly, I hold her gaze with assertive focus. As I crowd her space, her chin lowers, breath hitching, but those huge brown eyes stay with me, refusing to look away. So brave. So fucking intoxicating.
I lower into a crouch and, with painfully slow movements, unzip the fly of her jeans. Hovering my lips an inch from her panties, I drag the denim down her legs. She trem
bles as I gaze up at her and take my time kissing the skin around the pink satin.
With my fingers on the backs of her calves, I trail them up her legs, speaking softly yet firmly. “Remove your shoes.”
As she toes them off, her swift obedience builds a hungry pressure in my groin. My hands trace the rise of her ass, and my lips follow the dip of her naval. She gasps and rolls her hips, her fingers plunging into my hair, clinging to me for balance.
Fuck, I want her on my cock, clenching and spasming and giving herself to me in every way.
I kick the sneakers to the side and guide her feet out of the jeans and socks. With featherlight touches, I tickle the serpentine line of her spine and toy with the clasp of her bra while rising up her body and kissing a sensual path between her breasts.
Her head falls back, and her slender frame rocks in my arms. She smells like jasmine soap, sultry with arousal, and exquisitely Ivory.
My cock jerks in my jeans, trapped and demanding. Not yet.
I tease the clasp of the bra, my mouth gliding across her delicate collar bone. Moving higher, I kiss the slender column of her neck and nibble along her jaw.
Our foreheads touch as I unlatch the bra and flatten my palm against her spine. Our breaths rush out, melding together, our lips gravitating closer, closer. When our mouths finally connect, she melts against me.
My hands lift to her face, thumbs stroking her cheekbones as I devour her seductive moans. I kiss her aggressively, ordering her without words to trust me. I whip my tongue against hers, a promise of impending pain and ecstasy. Her mouth parts in acceptance, and her hands clutch my waist, pulling me against her.
I break the kiss and let my fingers linger on the straps on her shoulders. My eyes never leaving hers, I gently slip the bra down her arms. Her nipples are so hard the lace catches on them. I slowly ease the material away, exposing her delicious flesh. She exhales sharply as the bra falls to the floor.
Jesus, she’s perfection. I need to bury myself inside her and struggle to think past my raging hard-on.
Taking a step back, I let my gaze roam her long, lean body, worshiping every flexure, twitch, and fragile bone as she regards me with round eyes. Full perky tits rise with her breaths, narrow hips shift with anxiousness, and a wet spot darkens the satin of her pink panties.
Her body loves my touch, but her mind hasn’t forgiven me. If I don’t let her take the next step on her own, she’ll only feel worse afterward.
I nod at the panties. “Take them off or say your word.”
Biting her lip, she hooks her thumbs under the satin, glides it down her legs, and kicks it away. Her gaze never leaves my face, watching me with wariness, curiosity, and undeniable desire.
I prowl around her, reveling in her stunning nudity and the way her breaths stop and start with each of my steps. My finger traces the scrollwork pattern inked from her waist to the opposite shoulder.
She shudders against the sensation, panting and craning her neck to see me.
I press my chest flush with her back, fingers teasing her hipbones. “You’re going to tell me about that tattoo. Not now.” I rest my mouth in the juncture between her neck and shoulder and lick. “Maybe not today or this week.” Sliding my hands around her pelvis, I dip between her legs and slip through her wet folds. “But you’ll tell me soon.”
She releases a heavy sigh and arches her neck, tipping her head to the side to give me easier access.
I set my teeth on her shoulder and bite down. She whimpers and writhes against me, her arms lifting and fingers seeking my hair.
Kissing the hurt, I step back. “Follow me.” I lead her to the Fazioli and point to the ledge above the keyboard. “Sit on the edge. Legs spread. Right foot on the lowest keys, left foot on the highest.”
Her expression pinches with uncertainty, but she climbs into position, filling the silence with random notes.
Nylon straps snake from beneath the piano and over the lid, two on each side and all four connected to leather cuffs. I attach two to her wrists and cinch them behind her with a hard yank. She gasps.
With her arms restrained at her back, her eyes track my movements, lips separated and shoulders lifting. She seems to be fighting her posture, battling the fear that’s pulling her body in on itself.
As I cross in front of her, I caress the backs of my fingers along the inside of her outstretched leg. “What is the word that makes this stop?”
“Scriabin,” she breathes, watching me cautiously.
“Will you use it?”
She nods with a flutter of fear in her eyes. “If I need to.”
“Good girl.”
With the other two cuffs, I lock her ankles against the molding that brackets the keyboard. Then I stand back and absorb the erotic view before me.
Perched on the edge of the lid, thighs spread wide enough to hold the entire keyboard between her feet, and arms restrained behind her, she’s a picture of lust and torment, strength and trust. Her pussy is open, pink and drenched, begging for my cock. Her tongue peeks out and touches the underside of her bottom lip.
I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want her. Not just her body. I want her everything. She is the strongest emotion I’ve ever felt.
I adjust the throbbing ache in my jeans. “I’m so fucking aroused I want to roll over and die.”
“Dead is one way to get rid of that erection.”
The playful glint in her eyes makes me impossibly harder.
“Or.” She bites her lip. “There’s…you know, the other way.”
I hold her in a suspended moment of eye contact as my hand strokes along my trapped cock. “Is that what you want, Ivory? Your cunt is soaked and ready for me. I could slide right in and fuck you so hard you’ll feel me for days.”
She averts her gaze, nostrils flaring and muscles straining in the shackles. She might’ve been ready to surrender this morning, but not now. Not after seeing my ex.
“Look at me.” I wait for her eyes then reach for my belt. “You get two strikes for referring to anyone but yourself as my girlfriend.”
“But Jo—”
“Don’t say her fucking name.” Heat courses through my veins. “We’ll get to that, but right here, right now, this is us. You and me and no one else.”
Grooves form in her forehead then smooth away. “Fine. Two strikes.” The corner of her mouth lifts. “Do your worst.”
She’s smiling now, completely clueless about where I’ll be doing my worst.
I cock my head. “As for the attitude you gave me on the phone…” I yank the belt free from my jeans and fold it in half. “Six orgasms for your six bratty comments.”
“Orgasms, huh?” She laughs, relaxing in her restraints. “Gee, that sounds like torture.”
My lips twitch. Oh, it will be.
The edge of the piano lid digs into my ass, and the muscles in my inner thighs strain in the locked and spread position. But it’s the heated blue gaze tracing every line of my body that holds me captive. I straighten as tall as possible, my heart banging and body aching for Emeric’s hurt and affection.
Since I’m sitting on his usual target, where will he hit me? My thighs? My back? I look down the expanse of my torso, and a chill tingles across my neck. With my legs extended wide and arms bound behind me, my tits and pussy are front and center. Surely, that’s not…
My gaze flies up, but he’s not looking at my eyes. His attention is glued to my chest, his fist clenched around the ends of the belt. No, he wouldn’t. Not somewhere so vulnerable. My nipples throb at the thought.
Stalking toward me on silent feet, he slides the bench to the side and puts his face in mine, studying my expression, watching me breathe, peering into the darkest, most depraved parts of me.
I swallow. “Where are you going to—”
He crashes his mouth against mine, licking and sucking and spinning my brain off its axis. Gliding his lips along my neck, up and down, slowly, achingly, he covers my throat in whispers of pleasure. My head
drops back on a gasp. His mouth is so gentle and safe it’s like he’s kissing my soul. Please, don’t stop.
His hand joins in, lightly stroking up my side and over my breast. Those four fingers, four tiny points of contact, charge my veins with electricity and strum my body through multiple arpeggios in a matter of seconds.
“I need you.” The words rush past my lips, breathy and unbidden.
“You have me,” he says softly, lowers his head, and bites my nipple.
I yelp, consumed with pain, jerking against the manacles and going nowhere.
He laughs and bites again, pulling on the nub with his teeth until it throbs and stretches out of shape.
When he moves to the other one, I hold my breath and shake my head.
His lips graze my nipple, teasing, and his eyes flicker to mine with so much need swirling in the deep blue depths. “Breathe.”
The moment I do, he sinks his teeth. I shriek in agony and buck my hips, slipping off the edge. He catches me, sliding my ass back in place as his teeth tear into my sensitive flesh, sucking hard and setting me on fire.
“Stop!” I sob, twisting my wrists in the shackles. “Please, stop.”
Rolling his tongue, he licks the godawful burn, his voice a razored rasp. “I don’t hear your word.”
Tears flood my eyes, and my entire body quivers like a harp string.
He leans into my face and bares his teeth. “Say it.”
I suck on my bottom lip and look down. Fucking hell, it feels like he sliced my nipples off, but they’re still there, huge, hard, and angry red. Not a drop of blood.
He steps to the side and taps the folded belt against his leg. “Where’s the cocky little brat from just a moment ago?”
“You bit my boobs!”
“You just increased your orgasm count to seven. Are you finished?”
If he’s trying to provoke me to say the word, he’ll have to try harder.
I twist my wrist behind my back and flip him off. Too bad he can’t see it. “I’m good.”
He raises the belt and touches the loop of leather to my nipple. A torrent of tremors ripple through me.
