Dark Notes

by Pam Godwin

The indentation of his knee on the mattress jump-starts my heart. The predatory look in his eyes stops my breath. He crawls over me, legs on the outsides of mine, prowling on hands and knees and straddling my thighs.

  I expected him to wrench my legs open and shove between them, but he’s proved repeatedly he’s not like the others.

  Hovering over me, he fuses his mouth to mine while his hand roves my body, stroking and fondling my chest, thighs, and pussy. His feverish tongue, heavy exhales, and devilish touches drive me breathlessly insane.

  I tug at his shoulder, attempting to bring him closer. “Will you…lie on top of me? Let me feel your weight?”

  He’s pinned me against a wall, tied me to a piano, and fingered me against the kitchen island, but I’ve never been in this position with him. No matter how many times I’ve imagined it, I know it’ll be unlike anything I’ve experienced.

  With my thighs squeezed together between his, he cups the back of my head in both hands and lowers his long frame on top of me. His eyes search my face as his weight sinks me into the mattress, his chest covering mine in heat and muscle.

  My mouth falls open on a blissful gasp, and he catches it, his tongue sliding and claiming, his lips firm, aggressive, and all mine. The bulky size of him smothers me in security, his strength a shield of protection, and his hands supporting my head as if in supplication.

  We kiss through an endless sonata of heartbeats and moans, our foreheads rolling together and hips grinding greedily. Our bodies rock in a synchronized wave, trapping the steely length of him between us.

  I’m scared out of my ever-loving mind thinking about his wide girth being rammed up inside of me. But I’m ready. I’ve never been so ready for this.

  I flex my quads, trying to open my thighs. Why hasn’t he spread my legs already?

  “Don’t test me, Ivory.” He reaches between us and rubs his fingers along the slippery seam of my pussy. “Where my head’s at right now, I’ll split you in half.”

  In the next breath, he flips us, rolling me on top and folding my legs to straddle his hips.

  “I’m giving this to you. Just this once.” He reaches over his head and grips the laddered rungs of the headboard. “My hands won’t move. I’m going to lie here and hold still while you fuck me.”

  Oh.

  Wow.

  Okay, that’s…different. And really nice.

  Until I gaze down at the huge, long cock rising up in front of me. How does this work? He wants me to…sit on that thing?

  I meet his eyes, shaking my head. “I’ve never…”

  His fingers blanch around the rungs, his expression pained. Is that anger?

  “Never been on top?” he growls.

  “Never.” Nervous energy trickles through me. I grip his shaft with both hands, stroking up and down, reacquainting myself with his size. “I don’t know, Emeric. Can I even fit…?”

  His breath rushes out. “Dammit, Ivory. It’ll fit.” The sinews in his forearms strain with his hold on the headboard. “You’re fucking tormenting me here.”

  Flexing his thighs beneath me, he pins me with a look that is so integral to who he is. The almighty confidence in his eyes tells me to shut up and pay attention because he’s about to share a mind-blowing experience with me. It’s his most powerful expression, one that’s probably gotten him laid, without a single spoken word, more times than I care to think about.

  “That look you’re giving me…” I squeeze my fingers around his cock, enjoying the sound of his strangled breath. “Do you do that when you’re performing on stage?”

  His hips shift beneath me, his voice tortured. “What?”

  “Do you eye fuck women in the audience?”

  “Ivory, get on my dick before I lose my fucking mind.”

  I bend down and place a kiss on the bulbous crown in an affectionate greeting. The next kiss is a plea to be gentle.

  Then I rise on my knees and position him between my legs.

  True to his word, he doesn’t thrust or move his hands. His eyes glow like blue flames as he waits for me to draw him inside.

  I lower onto him, inch by inch, marveling at the stretching sensation, the easy slide, the perfect fit. It’s never this wet, this careful. Fuck, I feel so full. Hungry. Relieved.

  The sound of his guttural groan spurs me faster. When he’s all the way in, I squeeze my inner muscles around him.

  His eyes clamp shut, muscles flexing in his jaw, his body shaking beneath me. I don’t think he’s breathing.

  “Emeric?”

  A throaty grunt is the only response he gives, charging my already overloaded senses with giddiness. And I haven’t even moved yet.

  I lean forward and press my lips to the ridge of his tense chest. “This is it. We’re doing it.”

  His eyes fly open, and he releases a pained laugh. “We’re not doing anything.” His hands tighten around the headboard, his glare hard and demanding. “Fuck my cock, Ivory.”

  I roll my hips, testing the feel of him sliding against my insides and filling me with jolts of static.

  His entire body trembles beneath me. “Faster.”

  With my palms on his chest, I rotate along his shaft, lifting and rocking. The dragging, tickling strokes are unreal. The little shocks of electricity, the panting sounds of our breaths, everything centers around where we’re joined.

  He raises his head, watching me intensely. “Ride it.”

  I do, willingly and with abandon.

  “Fucking grind it.” His hand slips from the headboard, but just as quickly, he adjusts his grip. “Harder, Ivory. Deeper.”

  I let loose, lifting my arms behind my head, closing my eyes, and circling my hips. When I bounce, my breasts sway and the bed frame creaks. When I bear down and rock, my clit catches fire.

  I could come like this. A bona-fide orgasm. With a cock inside me. Mr. Marceaux’s cock. Hard to ignore the significance of that.

  “Ah, fuck.” The headboard groans in his grip. “Look at you.”

  I open my eyes and collide with his, a smile pulling at my cheeks. “I’m fucking my teacher.”

  “Jesus Christ, Ivory.” His biceps flex above his head, his thighs hardening beneath me. “Give me your mouth.”

  I slide up his chest and thrust my hips, delighting in the feeling of the new angle. When I reach his lips, his tongue seeks mine, twirling and tasting.

  He snaps his teeth at me, his muscles bunching and twitching. “Your sloppy cunt is dripping all over me.”

  His filthy mouth strengthens the brewing tide inside me. I sweep my hands over his biceps and cup his face, the scratch of his stubble scraping my palms. He deepens the kiss, the strong stretch of his jaw as erotic as the sinful way he glides his tongue.

  I miss his hands on me, though, and the bite of his belt, his painful pleasure. I don’t like his silence, either. I ache for his growly orders commanding my every move. But he seems incapable of talking all of a sudden. With his body so rigid and hard, I suspect it’s taking a heavy dose of concentration to not move his hips or let go of the rungs.

  No more torturing.

  With my hands on his face, I kiss him fiercely, passionately, while working my pussy up and down his length, searching for the spot. When I find it, all of my nerves, cells, and thoughts rush to my womb, gathering, pressurizing, and exploding through my body in a pounding series of percussions.

  My mouth opens in a soundless scream, my gaze locked on his eyes. His lips part with me, his pupils dilate, and his hands fly to the back of my head. Then he’s kissing me mercilessly, hammering his hips, and spiraling me through another orgasm.

  He rolls us, hands on my face, his mouth and breaths consuming mine. Our tongues battle, licking and lashing as his weight crushes my chest and his cock fills me up. Over and over, he slams his hips with wicked-hard thrusts. I reach down, put my hands on the hard muscle of his ass for the first time, and hold on.

  My God, it’s a perfect ass. He’s perfect everywhere. The cinnamon on his ton
gue. The dark bass notes in his voice. The musical talent in his hands. The sight of him in jeans and t-shirts, ties and waistcoats, and nothing at all. I’ll never get enough.

  His plunging pace jumps and jerks, falling into an abrupt staccato. He tears his mouth away, his hand dropping to the mattress to support the bow of his back as he roars through his orgasm. His eyes stay with me through every gasping shout, telling me I’m the reason for his pleasure, the heart of it.

  Lowering his head to my shoulder, he seems to be winding down, trying to steady his heaving breaths. But the press of his teeth against my skin holds me on a heightened edge of arousal.

  A moment later, he pins my arms above my head, hips rocking, cock throbbing inside me. “Remember your word.”

  My eyes widen. “We’re not done?”

  He makes a tsking sound, closes a strong hand around my breast, and bites my nipple.

  Then he fucks me.

  For hours.

  His rhythms span between gentle and wild, his tempo quickly changing with countless alternating positions. He arranges me on hands and knees and smacks my ass while he thrusts from behind. He tosses me on my back, collars my throat with his fingers, and fucks me with my thighs pinched together between his. The choreography gets a little foggy after that as my body surrenders to the floaty, perverted world of Emeric Marceaux.

  Much of the evening slides past my heavy-lidded eyes in a blanket of sweat-slick skin, tender caresses, and passionate kisses. But as this is Emeric, and his way is infused with domination, it requires an emotional and mental subtlety that goes far beyond the technical act of sex. He tells me when, where, and how hard, and I roll with it, yearn for it, my need to satisfy him outweighing all else.

  In turn, he pleasures me. Right into a coma.

  “Ivory?” He bites my thigh.

  I can’t even move. Why do I need to? He’ll just move me himself.

  Having just come from the shower, where he banged me against the tiled wall, I lie face down on the bed. Naked, flushed, sated, I try to talk myself into lifting my hand to remove the dripping hair from my face. I’ll do it in a minute.

  He moves up my limp body and brushes the wet strands behind my ear. “You’re ten years younger than me. Don’t tell me an old man wore you out.”

  I snort—the extent of the energy I can muster. But in my defense, he works out two hours every day.

  The mattress bounces as he shifts around me, kissing every inch of my body from my head to my toes. Doesn’t take long before I fall blissfully asleep beneath the affection.

  When I wake, he’s stretched out beside me with a towel wrapped around his waist, trailing a finger along my spine.

  “How long was I out?”

  “Fifteen minutes.”

  I fold my arms beneath my cheek and meet his hooded eyes. “I’ve never done this.”

  He reaches behind him, grabs a glass of water from the nightstand, and holds it out to me. “What?”

  After a long refreshing drink, I hand it back and change the subject. “You didn’t eat dinner.”

  He returns the glass then lies on his side, resting his head on the bend of his arm. “Neither of us ate. Finish what you were going to say.”

  I reach out and trace the curve of his upper lip. “The after stuff. This. It’s always been sex and run, usually followed by crying and hiding.” I give him a soft smile. “I like this. A lot.”

  He pulls me against his chest and kisses my temple. The hush of our breaths envelopes us, and he hugs me like that for so long I wonder if he fell asleep.

  Eventually, his whisper breaks the silence. “I like it, too, Ivory. So much so I’m terrified it’ll be taken from us.”

  I wrap an arm around his wide back. “We’ll be careful.”

  “We need to tone it down at school.”

  I scratch my fingernail across his nipple. “You need to stop giving me those eyes.”

  “What eyes?” A smile teases his lips.

  “The ones that say…” I deepen my voice. “Come here, Miss Westbrook. Look at me, Miss Westbrook. On your knees—”

  He surges up with a roguish grin on his face.

  I roll out of reach, my mocking tone tumbling into laughter. “Suck my cock, Miss Westbrook.”

  He flashes his teeth and crawls after me, losing his towel in the process.

  My gaze dips down his chest and lands on his dick. It’s…soft? Holy shit, it looks weird. I tilt my head, trying to get a better view.

  He sits back on his ankles and narrows his eyes. “You’re going to give me a complex.”

  “I haven’t ever…” I lean over his lap and wrap my hand around it. It’s still heavy, just… “So soft.”

  He stares at me curiously. “Keep touching it, and it won’t be.”

  Sure enough, within seconds, it begins to stiffen. I’m familiar with this part, and he’s the biggest and baddest of them all. Ironically, he’s also the safest.

  He swings his arm around and slaps my ass. “I’m not finished with you, but we need to eat.”

  We make it through half a gourmet pepperoni pizza before he bends me over the kitchen island and proves exactly how he’s not finished with me.

  I hope he never is.

  The following evening, I stretch behind the piano during the intermission of Mahler’s Ninth Symphony and tug at the strangling bow tie. The tux is one of many from my private collection, tailored and designed with quality workmanship. Doesn’t matter how fucking expensive it is. The restricting fabrics make me itchy and overheated. The whole pretentious look just doesn’t suit me.

  Neither does the music.

  Joanne never attended my performances, claiming boredom in hearing the same masterpieces on concert programs year in and year out. Can I blame her?

  While I appreciate the classics, I doubt Gustav Mahler intended for his symphonies to become commercialized affairs of mindless repetition. In his fifty-one years, he only conducted his second symphony ten times.

  I scan the Beaux-Arts style of the philharmonic theater, surrounded by an orchestra of pompous old farts and full-time musicians, most of which have their own resident halls. Rather than composing passionate modern music, they seem to be content wasting their extraordinary talents on routine recycling of classical repertoire.

  But I am not content. Not even a little.

  So why am I here, wallowing in this jeremiad?

  Securing a seat in the symphony was a natural progression in my musical career, a highly notable one. It was a means of self-justification, a validation of all my hard work and talent. It wasn’t until the goal was achieved that I realized it was the wrong aspiration for me.

  I want to create my own music, tap into my imagination, and transform classical piano into something fresh and wild. And I want to share that passion, teach it, and open eager minds to new ideas.

  Sitting behind the strings section, I take in the shadowed silhouettes of concert-goers in the balcony seats. A grin twitches my lips as Ivory’s question teases my mind.

  Do you eye fuck women in the audience?

  There were several months after Joanne when the highlight of my concerts was finding my next fuck. Now?

  My gaze connects with the most attractive feature in the theater, the only reason I’m smiling tonight.

  She sits in the front row, glowing like a bright aria surrounded by dark instrumentals. Her red Versace dress follows the sinuous lines of her body from tits to toes, the thigh-high slit bordered with Swarovski rhinestones.

  I know every detail because I handpicked it myself—just like I did all her clothes. But I chose this particular dress for a night just like this one, imagining her wearing it while watching me perform.

  Despite my misgivings about her attending the concert, seeing her in that evening gown almost makes the risk worth it. Almost.

  The parents of Le Moyne Academy students frequent these venues, and though Ivory drove separately with Stogie in tow, I worry about the wrong people making the ri
ght connections about our relationship. But she begged to be here, seducing me with Please on her lips. So I secured two front row seats and lined up her date.

  Seated beside her, Stogie reluctantly wears the tux I bought for him, his big hand repeatedly rubbing his bald head, as if lamenting the absence of his beloved baseball cap. What a pair they make. Two musicians passionate about classical interpretation, and this is their first philharmonic performance?

  I wonder if it meets their expectations. I’ll pay close attention to Ivory’s reaction after the show, as well as her responses to the other things I have planned for her in the coming months. She claims she wants to attend Leopold, that her ultimate dream is to sit where I’m sitting now, in a sold-out venue, shivering under the stage lights.

  But what does she really know about the music world and the opportunities available to her? I intend to enlighten her. Then, if she still wants to go to Leopold, I have a plan to make that happen.

  Two sections away, my parents occupy their season-ticket seats, heads bowed together in conversation. I asked them not to approach Ivory tonight, in order to maintain her disassociation from me outside of school.

  Ivory and I willingly accept the risks of our entanglement. But it also puts my parents’ livelihoods in jeopardy. If I’m caught with her, no one would go to a doctor whose son is a convicted sex offender. And my mom? Leopold would burn her at the stake. So I’ve been holding Mom off from introductions.

  The concert ends, and the next three weeks float by in a blissful fog of Ivory.

  When Thanksgiving arrives, I finally give in to Mom’s demands to meet her.

  As I drive my seventeen-year-old student to my parents’ house for turkey dinner, I’m on tenterhooks, not feeling any easier about the secrecy of our relationship.

  The moment my mom opens the door and stares at my hand where it grips tightly to Ivory’s, my hackles go up.

  Yes, I’m her teacher. Yes, I shove my cock in her, rigorously and with unadulterated depravity, morning and night. But the depth of my feelings for her goes so far beyond bullshit laws I really don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks.

  But my parents worry. They’re also overly supportive and devoted to my happiness. That’s why I brought her here. She had a parent like mine once.