Dark Notes

by Pam Godwin

  His eyes meet mine, lower to my chest, then return to my face.

  I harden my expression and lift my chin.

  Time stands still as his head tilts, and his mouth opens slightly. Then he swings.

  Leather whips across my swollen nipple in a fiery flash. A gasp lodges in my throat, and tears blind my vision. He doesn’t give me a second to regroup before he strikes the other breast.

  My back bows, and I swallow my scream as my mind scrambles to make sense of the pain. How did I get here? Why am I letting this happen? What in the holy fuck am I doing?

  The belt hits the floor, making me jump. He reaches behind his neck and drags the t-shirt over his head. Denim hangs low on his tapered waist, his bare chest flexing and bunching with dips and ridges.

  In the next breath, he’s on me, hands in my hair and lips chasing the tracks of tears across my cheeks.

  “So beautiful when you cry for me.” He sprinkles kisses across my eyes, nose, and mouth as his fingers stroke my hair. “Oh, Ivory. You have no idea what you do to me.”

  The rumble of his voice and the tenderness of his touch soothes the fire in my nipples and stokes a new flame deep in my core.

  “Tell me,” I say, my voice reedy.

  He drops his forehead to mine. “I’ll show you.”

  Dragging the piano bench closer, he sits. The position puts his mouth inches from my pussy. Fingers spread over the keys, he dives into a raucously violent song. Another metal cover, but I can’t place it. I’m lost in the banging notes, shivering against the pain in my breasts, and wondering if those seven orgasms will be his or mine.

  I test the bindings on my ankles, my legs twinging in the extended stretch. “What song is this?”

  His eyes dart between my lips and my pussy, his hands pounding the keys. “‘Symphony Of Destruction.’ Megadeth.”

  Never heard of it, but sweet hell, it sounds ominous.

  He leans forward and presses his mouth against my inner thigh. My entire body stills in anticipation as he slides his lips toward my center. His hands move manically over the keys, and when he reaches the crease in my thigh, he changes direction without a slip in the melody. He licks a path to my knee, nibbling and sucking my skin, then shifts back once again toward my cunt.

  With his lips hovering above my clit, the song changes to one I immediately recognize.

  I burst into groaning laughter. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  He flashes me a grin before he buries his face between my legs. As he curves his tongue through my folds, the piano vibrates to the tune of “Smells Like Teen Spirit” by Nirvana.

  The swarming sensations beneath his lips plunge me into a panting mess of desire. He probes deeply with stabbing strokes, and when he finds my clit, it doesn’t take long. I’m already primed with all the touching and kissing, and hell, even the whips on my breasts made me wet.

  I come with a loud, gasping moan, rocking my hips against his relentless mouth as my limbs jerk in the restraints.

  His hands fumble over the keys, losing the rhythm before picking it back up again.

  “That’s one,” he says in a husky voice.

  I meet his eyes, panting and shaking. “There’s no way. I—”

  Can’t say I can’t. But seriously? Six more? He’s way too diabolical with his punishments. I’m going to die.

  He presses a kiss to my clit then attacks it with lips and teeth. I scream through orgasms two and three. After that, I no longer hear the music or feel the vibrations through my limbs or see the room around me. Every sense narrows on the tongue inside me and the deluge of climbing and falling sensations attacking my body.

  After the fourth release, I reach a strange floaty kind of catatonic state. My pussy tingles with over-stimulation, the nerve-endings in my clit stinging against the lightest stroke of his tongue. But he doesn’t stop. Not when I tell him to go to hell or call him a sadistic bastard.

  He silences me by clamping his teeth around my bundle of nerves.

  He’s not playing the piano anymore, because those talented fingers are inside me, banging me into a torturous hell of pleasure.

  “You have to stop.” I sway in the restraints, my spread legs shaking with exhaustion. “Please. I’m done.”

  His soaking wet lips burrow in, kissing and licking, his groan thrumming a different kind of song through my core. A moment later, he curls three fingers inside me and wrings another agonizing orgasm from my body.

  “Six.” He leans back and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. “The last one will be with me.”

  “No more.” My head is so heavy my chin drops against my chest as I suck for air. “Please.”

  He lifts my chin with his finger, his gaze burning against my lips, his voice a ragged whisper. “I love when you beg.”

  He stands, and with a few flicks of his wrists, he releases my hands and legs from the straps.

  I slump against him, my muscles like water, pouring out and falling over. But he has me, my limp body held in strong arms and supported against a damn fine chest.

  The heat of his forearms disappears from my back, replaced with the hard surface of the piano lid. He lays me face up, feet pointing away from the keyboard, shoulders on the edge where I’d been sitting. My head dangles upside-down, bumping against the keys.

  My already hypersensitive skin flushes hotter, and blood rushes to my brain with the pull of gravity. “What are you doing?”

  He circles the piano, inspecting my body as if memorizing every inch. His fingers tickle along my skin as he moves, starting at my throat, gliding along my sternum, veering around my belly button, and lingering between my legs.

  My pelvis lifts toward his touch, straining to maintain that point of contact. Despite the fact he just finished biting and welting my breasts and torturing me with orgasms, I want more. He must have short-wired my brain.

  Locking the cuffs around my ankles and wrists, he effectively pins me like an X on his Fazioli. When he returns to my head, he gives me an upside-down view of the steel rod pushing against his zipper.

  He opens his fly. “You know how hard to suck.” Shoving down his jeans, he releases his sizeable cock, the pink skin taut over the wide girth. “You know how fast or slow to move that wicked tongue.”

  Heat pools and throbs between my thighs with every word.

  Touching the crown to my inverted mouth, he fists his length and smears salty pre-come across my lips. “Tap your right hand against the piano if you want this to stop. Tell me you understand.”

  “I—” My pussy clenches, empty and needy. Such a foreign feeling to experience. “I’ll tap if I need to.”

  He wraps a hand beneath my dangling head, his fingers serving as a buffer between my skull and the wood casing. With his eyes half-mast and steadily watching mine, he grips his erection, rubs the shaft across my cheeks, and thumps the tip against my lips.

  I open my mouth, instinctively, eagerly. Do it already.

  His gaze flicks down the length of my body as he presses himself against my tongue. His exhale shudders out, and he thrusts.

  He doesn’t ease in. He ruthlessly and repeatedly plows. Over and over, he stabs his cock past my lips, fucking my mouth as if he were plunging between my legs.

  His thighs flex against my forehead as he clamps his fingers against my scalp, tangling in my hair, and holding my head immovable. I can only lie there, hands and legs tied down, throat relaxed, and jaw stretched for his pleasure.

  Bending over my chest, he squeezes my breast with his free hand, pinching the nipple and tormenting it with his hot mouth.

  I surrender in drugged wonderment as his length drives deeper against my throat, his hips grinding and rolling with his urgency. This is what he would look like if he was filling my pussy. The strain of his muscles, flex of his ass, and ram of his cock compose a seductive dance of intensity. He gives as much as he takes, his hunger spreading over my skin, garbling my moans around his pounding length, overtaking me.

&nb
sp; Holding my head against his thrusts, he slides the other hand over my stomach and hooks two fingers inside me, sparking a needy clench through my inner muscles.

  “Not gonna last long.” His sharp breaths husk the air. “We’re doing this together.”

  He shifts his touch to my tender clit and applies a solid, rolling pressure. My hips reach for it, grinding and rocking against his fingers. Right there, right there.

  A spasm of tingling heat explodes beneath his diabolical caress.

  He jerks against my tongue, his forehead falling against my chest as he strokes us into a moaning, trembling orgasmic duet.

  I greedily swallow his release, panting beneath the wave of my own. His cock twitches against my lips, and my inner thighs quiver through the remnant aftershocks of orgasm number seven.

  He tucks himself away and frees the shackles, lifting and moving me, limb by melted limb. I hang like a rag doll in his arms as he carries me to the piano bench and arranges my legs in a straddling position around his waist.

  I slump against him, chest to chest, skin on skin, and hug his broad shoulders. “That was the worst torture ever.”

  Chuckling, he kisses my cheek and reaches behind me, fingers on the keyboard. With a deep breath, he envelops us in a gentle song, tranquilizing my hammering heart with Pink Floyd’s “Comfortably Numb.”

  I curl up against him, soaking in the flex and sway of his body as he plays. The tempo of his breaths synchronizes with the melody, pacing my own. His skin, so soft and warm, smells woodsy and masculine and safe. I bury my nose against his neck and fill my lungs.

  With my arms and legs hooked around him, I cling to the pillar of his torso. This brutal man is my home. His hell is my heaven.

  I’m his Ivory, and he’s my darkest note.

  No matter what happens, I will never resent this. I’ll never regret him.

  He closes the song on a low, deep key and slides his strong hands across my back, massaging my spine.

  Hugging me tighter against his chest, he lowers his lips to my shoulder, his tone quiet, gentle. “I didn’t know she was pregnant until after…”

  After Shreveport. After her betrayal.

  I kiss his neck and run my fingers through his hair as bitterness flares inside me.

  “She’s seven months along.” He breathes in, out. “The baby could be mine. Or not.”

  I lift my head and find his stark eyes. “Do you think…?”

  He blinks, his expression conflicted. “I don’t know. There was never an indication of cheating, and I’m pretty fucking observant.”

  Hard to argue that. “Then why do you question it?”

  He tucks my hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering on my jaw. “I never thought she would betray me the way she did. If she can do that…”

  “She could cheat.”

  He lowers his hand to stroke my hip, his eyes following the movement. “When I took over Shreveport, I worked long hours. Day and night. I was rarely home.”

  She could’ve been doing anything during that time. With anyone. Maybe he wasn’t so observant back then?

  I swallow around the ache in my throat. “Why was she at the clinic today?”

  His gaze lifts to mine. “I’ve been ignoring her messages. Only way she knows how to find me is through my dad.”

  “What does she want?” My voice shakes with fragile nerves. “To reunite with you? Pick up where you left off?”

  “Yes.” He grips the back of my neck when I start to pull away. “She wants my money, Ivory.”

  I find that hard to believe. Anyone with half a brain must know that any love this man offers is more valuable than all the wealth in the world.

  Leaning forward, I comb my fingers over the short hairs on the back of his head. “How much money are we talking?”

  “Half of my inheritance. Millions. I would gladly give it if I knew the child was mine.” He folds his arms around my back, holding me against him. “I gave blood months ago in my demand for a paternity test. She’s yet to provide the results.”

  “That doesn’t bode well for her. I mean, if the child is yours…”

  “This would be a done deal, and she would be a very wealthy woman.” He looks down at me, his eyes swirling in thought. “She knows my terms. I want those test results. If the baby isn’t mine, she doesn’t get a penny, and I’ll never have to see her or think about her again. If it is mine, I’ll be a father in every sense of the word.”

  And Joanne will be fully embedded in his life. My heart stutters and breaks.

  He cups my neck, searching my face. “There is no Joanne and me. I’m yours. Tell me you understand.”

  I close my eyes against the intensity in his. “You said you love her.”

  “I also said I hate her.” With a deep sigh, he lowers his forehead to mine. “Then I found something more meaningful than love and hate.”

  I stop breathing, my eyes fluttering open. “What?”

  “You.”

  My pulse jolts with the rapid rush of my breaths. How can he shred my trust and stitch it back up so thoroughly in the span of such a short time?

  “I’m sorry, Ivory. I should’ve told you.” He rubs my back. “You have enough to worry about, and I just… I trust my instinct, and it tells me she’s lying.”

  “I forgive you.” Deeply. Endlessly. I rest my head on his shoulder. “What happens now?”

  “I never wanted to threaten her career. I don’t get off on leaving her jobless with a baby. But I need to know if that child is mine.” The muscles beneath me harden with tension, and his tone sharpens. “She has until next weekend to prove paternity. If she doesn’t meet the deadline, the Shreveport Board will receive damning photos of their dirty, deceitful Head of School.”

  The following week passes in a blur of restlessness. With Lorenzo Gandara still on the loose and my constant paranoia about my living situation with Ivory, I’m on edge, irritable, and fucking exhausted. Adding to my stress is my orchestra performance this weekend.

  Between nightly meetings and dress rehearsals for the symphony and Ivory’s private lessons and homework, there’s little down time. We spend half of our waking hours together, but we’re focused on school, piano practice, and the necessary chores of everyday life.

  The few times I’ve been able to pin her down with my fingers in her cunt, we’re either rushed or exhausted. Not fucking her is torment worse than death, but the timing and my focus needs to be perfect.

  I want to date her, and I’m frustrated by my inability to do that. She’s never been treated to a romantic dinner or spun across a dance floor, all dressed up for a night out and appreciated by a man who simply enjoys her company. I ache to give her those things, without the expectation of sex. But venturing out in public with her has to wait.

  The reminder that she’s only seventeen tempers some of my impatience. She has an entire life yet to experience, and I intend to be a part of it.

  In the meantime, I cherish our brief moments before sleep, those small spaces of time when she curls her body around mine. With the shedding fur ball nestled between our feet, we share stories about our lives, random pieces of ourselves, until she drifts into dreamland. Without fail, I lie awake for long hours after, holding her tightly as the looming news of three pivotal things monopolize my mind.

  One, it’s Thursday, and I still haven’t heard from Joanne. Not a call or a text. Logic tells me if the baby is mine, she would’ve provided the evidence months ago. But she gets off on mind games and making me wait as a means to control me.

  Two, my dad expedited the blood work from Ivory’s exam, and the results are due any day. Once I have her clean bill of health, I won’t be able to stop myself from fucking her into next week. I know she thinks she’s ready, but she’s yet to use her safe word. When I fuck her, will she lie beneath me—like she’s done for every other dickhead—and silently will me to stop? Or will she be with me, making a conscious choice to surrender completely?

  I need to find a
t least one of her hard limits and force her to confront it. Then I’ll know.

  The final thing occupying my mind is Lorenzo Gandara. After implementing my plan to remove him as a threat to Ivory, I’m stuck in a holding pattern, burning to see it come to fruition. The wait is maddening, making me question the sagacity in my approach. Maybe I should’ve handled him more directly, legal risks be damned.

  Doesn’t help that Ivory asks about him every fucking day. I’ve been honest with her about the current proceedings, but if it doesn’t pan out, I haven’t enlightened her on my intent to straight-up murder that motherfucker.

  I doubt she would care as long as it doesn’t interfere with her dream. Ivory’s nothing if not ambitious. She lives by the motto, Everything is possible, and her everything is the ivory tower of Leopold. I’m not in a hurry to upset the tenuous balance between her and me and the dean, but when the time comes, Ivory and I will have some decisions to make.

  On a positive note, Prescott Rivard appears to be cooperating. I assigned his activity to my PI, his phone calls and movements all monitored discreetly and reported back to me. There’s been no indication of retaliation.

  On Friday, everything changes.

  The afternoon arrives in a rapid succession of phone calls and messages. The explosion of disruptions makes it impossible to lecture so I give the students some busy work and bury my head in my phone. Ivory watches me curiously from her desk, her brow lifting in a What the hell are you up to? arch of suspicion.

  I give her a hard glare, but on the inside, I’m barely holding myself together. By the time the final bell rings, I’m unable to keep my rabid fucking emotions at bay.

  When the last student exits the classroom, I slam the door shut, yank Ivory from her desk, and crash her against the nearest wall.

  She yelps, stretching her toes to reach the floor. “What are you—?”

  I attack her mouth and devour her lips, starving and possessed, my hands flying over every inch of her I can reach, stroking, grabbing, holding. My cock hardens, and my pulse detonates. No more waiting. I fucking need her.