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.