Page 175 of The Forbidden Center

“Your turn.”

“For what?”

“To let me see you.”

That wipes every smart answer out of my head.

Her hands settle against my face and she kisses me slowly, nothing urgent in it. I get my hands on her hips. She comes in against me and kisses me deeper and keeps coming until the backs of my legs find the bench and I sit down because there’s nowhere left to stand.

The keyboard is behind me. I can feel the edge of it against my back.

She stays standing between my knees, with my face tipped up to her.

“Stay with me,” she says.

“I’m here.”

She looks at me the way she did before she started playing.

Making sure.

Then she goes down onto the floor in front of the bench.

She gets my belt open without hurrying about it. I lift enough to help and that’s the last useful thing I do.

She takes my cock out and looks at it the way she looks at everything, like there’s a decision in it, and then her mouth is on me and I hear the sound I make before I know I made it.

Heat and wet and a pressure I’m not ready for, all three at the same time, and my whole body goes stupid about it.

I look down because there’s nothing else I can do with my eyes. The lamp is on over the piano. Her hand is closed around the base of me and her mouth is taking the rest, and she doesn’t tell me to look away.

Slow first. Slow enough that I set my jaw and start thinking I’m going to be all right about this. Her fist moves with her mouth, one stroke, and her tongue goes flat underneath on the way back up.

Then not slow.

She takes me deeper than I’m ready for and her hand tightens behind it, and my hips come up off the bench before I can stop them. She holds me down at the hip and doesn’t break rhythm. The sound she makes has nothing to do with me.

I get a hand into her hair. She lets me have that.

The other one goes out to reach for her, to get her up off the floor, to make this something I’m doing instead of something being done to me.

She puts it back down on the bench without looking up.

“I am not finished.”

Then she goes back to it and doesn’t build to anything this time. She’s wet from her own mouth and she uses all of it, her hand and her mouth working me together, and I sit there and take it, which is a thing I’ve never been any good at.

It starts low and mean behind my hips and it is not going to be slow about getting where it’s going.

My head goes back. My hand goes with it, feeling for the edge of the bench and finding the keyboard instead, and the piano makes a sound she didn’t put there. It’s the left hand. I get four notes smeared into each other instead of a chord, then nothing, then four more when I move.

I try to lift it off the keys. The fingers don’t open.

So it stays where it is, and the piano keeps saying what she’s doing to me.

“Colt.”

I bring my head up. That’s all she wanted. She has my eyes now and she keeps them, and she takes me into her throat while I’m watching her do it.