Page 92 of Always Been His

I look at him for a moment. Then at the piano.

“‘Heartbeats’?” I ask, and he nods.

“Yeah,” he replies.

I sit down on the piano bench. The wood is cool through the thin lace of the dress. I find the opening chord of ‘Heartbeats’, the one that came to me in the lupine field with everything blue and purple and the stars beginning to show, and I press the keys. The note comes out soft and full, swallowed by the panels and given back to me as something more intimate than I expected, close, like the piano is only speaking to me.

I sing, and his hands find my waist from behind, warm through the lace.

I keep singing.

His fingers find the hem of the dress and move slowly upward, gathering the black fabric inch by inch, his knuckles brushing the backs of my thighs, the calluses catching on the lace with a small deliberate sound.

I lose the second line.

“I’m singing,” I manage.

“I know,” he murmurs against the side of my neck. “Keep going.”

His mouth is at my throat. Not moving. Just resting there, his lips barely parted, his breath slow and even against my skin. My fingers are still on the keys but the melody has become something that matches the slow movement of his hands instead of anything I intended to play.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” I say.

“I like when you tremble for me, baby,” he returns, and the word vibrates against my throat.

The dress is gathered at my hips now. His hands are warm and certain and not in a hurry about anything.

“Come here,” he says.

He stands, takes my hands off the keys, and pulls me up off the bench to face him. I look up at him in the low lamplight with the windows behind him and the oak tree dark behind the glass and the whole room humming faintly with the resonance of the chord I left unfinished.

Then he kisses me slow and deep, like he’s giving me something he wants me to feel all the way through, his hand in my hair and his thumb at my jaw.. I hold onto the front of his shirt and feel the warmth of his chest through the fabric and let the room hold us the way the room was built to hold things.

“I want you on top of the piano,” he groans.

“It’s a nice piano,” I say.

“It’ll be nicer covered in your cum,” he says, lifting me before I can argue, one arm hooks under my ass, the other bracing my back. The wood is cool and smooth against my bare thighs. I’m tall enough that the piano puts me at eye level with him, and the look on his face,the way his pupils have blown wide, the way his mouth is slightly parted, the way his chest is rising and falling faster than before,makes something hot and liquid pool low in my belly.

“Lie back,” he says.

I do. The piano is solid under me, vibrating faintly with a note I must’ve hit with my elbow. I stare up at the ceiling, at the recessed lights, the acoustic panels that are supposed to keep sound from escaping. The room could swallow a scream. He probably planned that, and a thrill travels down my spine.

His hands part my knees.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, and his voice has gone rough at the edges, sandpaper over gravel. “Spread out on top of the piano I bought for you. Do you know how long I’ve been thinking about this? How many nights I’ve been in here, setting up these panels, looking at this piano and thinking about having you right here?”

“You planned this…”

“I planned this room for everything. Your music. Your voice. This…” His thumb traces the inside of my thigh, slow and deliberate. “For watching you fall apart where you’re supposed to create. I want this room to be soaked in you, Sienna. Every time you sit down to play, I want you to remember this.”

He kneels.

The sight of him on his knees in his designer pants, shoulders straining against his shirt, pushes the air from my lungs. His breath is hot against the inside of my thigh. His hands are spreading me open, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh, and I can feel how wet I am, how ready, how my body has been preparing for him since the moment he said it’s yours.

“I could spend hours down here,” he says, and his mouth is so close that I can feel the words against my skin. “Hours. You taste like…” He stops. Breathes in. “You taste like mine.”

His tongue slides through me.