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I let out a moan and lift my hips off the bench toward his unforgiving strokes. My belly curls, muscles tight, and my shirt is suddenly too tight, the scratchy fabric tickling my nipples through the lacy bra. Releasing my neck, he seems to take notice of the hard peaks and scrapes the tip of his thumb over the sensitive buds.
A tortured whimper leaks from my mouth, my whole body stiff, as if wires run beneath my skin.
“The way your body responds to my touch. Like the strings of a piano when the hammer strikes it. Every note of a song that I write. A song you keep begging me to play.”
There’s a hypnotic darkness in his eyes, malicious and desiring, and I wonder if this is how it feels just before the devil claims a soul. I pant with his movements, his fingers tu
“What do you dream, Isa?”
“Of this. Of … of your hands on me.”
“How far do we take this in your dreams? Am I fucking you?”
The mere thought of that sends tingles of excitement shooting through my core, and I can’t answer him, for fear of sounding like a pervert who’s fantasized about him. The ache between my thighs swells, as if attached by some invisible string that he pulls for his own amusement, and I cry out instead.
“Of course I’m fucking you. How do I feel inside of you?”
The heat of his breath on my skin, the touch of his fingers, the sound of his voice. It’s all too much. Too much. My senses are on overload right now, spi
“So good. I don’t want it to stop.”
“You want my finger inside of you, Isa? To fill this tender little hole with something thick and warm.” The tip of his relentless little weapon circles my entrance for em, stirring the wet sticky juices over my skin, and I curl my hand around the bench, desperate to squeeze something.
I mindlessly nod, my body lost to the sensations he’s stoked. Lust blazes through me, an inferno of need building at my core. I can’t sit still. I can’t move. My body is in chaos, waiting for the moment he puts it out of its misery and penetrates me.
His dark chuckle rakes over me. “Too bad,” he says, and the moment he withdraws his fingers, the heat inside of me fizzles to a cold and bitter yearning.
“What?”
He captures my jaw in his hand, the same hand that stroked my overly sensitive clit moments before, and I can smell the arousal on his fingers. He presses his lips to mine, taking another piece of me. “I get off on pain. And there is nothing more exquisite than the pain of denying myself.” Shoving his fingers into his mouth, he closes his eyes, as if savoring the taste of me on his tongue. “You’re too young for me.”
Too young. Too poor. Too unpopular. I’ve heard these things my whole life. Reasons for rejection. Yet from him, it somehow bites harder. The mercurial nature of the man, this hot and cold, is enough to make me scream with all the tension burning me up like a fever.
Bitterness explodes inside of me. “Why did you touch me, at all, if you had no intentions of following through?”
A smirk takes hold of his lips, one I want to smack right off his face. “Why do we bother to breathe, when we know we’re going to die?” Standing up from the bench, he twists to look back at me. “I’d fuck you up in ways you’ve never been fucked before, Isa. Consider this a kindness.”
The sensation fluttering in my gut is one I’m intimately familiar with when it comes to this man. Humiliation. Wet and disheveled, I’m pretty sure this is exactly why he bothered to touch me, at all, to show me he doesn’t have to finish me off to leave me hot and panting for him like a stupid schoolgirl who’s hot for teacher.
“There’s a masquerade ball coming up this weekend. I’d like you to play for me.”
My mind longs to cling to the conversation of what happened between us, but the curiosity of his request draws me out of those thoughts. “Piano?”
“Yes. Can you do that? For me?”
I want to deny him, just as he did me, but I can’t. I’m ashamed to admit that I like this side of him. This teasing game of cat and mouse between us. I don’t know why. Maybe I’m sick, but there’s something thrilling about taunting the devil. “Of course. Whatever you like.”
He slides his hands into his pants pockets, moving further away from the topic of us. “You’ll need something to wear. I’ll make arrangements for you to get what you like. There’s a boutique in town. They have my credit card on file.”
A dress. Another goddamn dress. Even if the guy is paying for it, like something out of Pretty Woman, I still dread the thought of having to wear something fancy. And no doubt, any boutique that has his credit card on file is going to be fancy. “Okay.”
“Something elegant. There will be a number of very powerful and important people at this ball. Dress accordingly.” He walks from the room.