I push two fingers back inside her and watch her face change.
“Still want me?” I ask.
She gives me a look that would be killing if she were capable of speaking coherently.
I curl my fingers again.
She moans instead.
“That’s what I thought.”
Her hands slide down to my belt, clumsy now, urgent. I let her fumble at it for a second before I catch her wrists and pin them behind her against the piano.
She gasps at the position.
“You don’t get to touch me yet,” I say.
“Roman, that’s cruel.”
“Yes.”
I keep my fingers moving inside her, slow and deep, while my thumb finds her clit. The combination makes her body writhe under me. Her legs spread wider. Her breasts lift with every broken breath. She looks like a woman being taken apart in a room where she should be practicing scales.
The thought is filthy enough to make me harder.
I kiss her once, hard enough to bruise, then let her wrists go only to turn her face and make her look at me.
“One more time,” I say.
She’s already close. I can see it.
“Tell me you don’t want this.”
Her eyes are glassy. Furious. Lost.
“I hate you,” she says weakly.
I push my fingers deeper and rub her clit harder. “That’s not what I asked.”
She comes with my name in her mouth.
Harder this time. Longer. Her whole body tightens and shakes, and she nearly slides off the piano if I’m not there to catch her. I hold her upright while she breaks, watching every second of it, feeling the pulse of her around my fingers.
When it’s over, she sags against me, trembling, breath hot against my neck.
I bury my face in her hair for one second too long.
Then I step back.
Because if I don’t, I’m going to fuck her on the piano exactly the way I want to, and I don’t trust either of us not to make enough noise to bring the whole house down on us.
She looks at me in dazed disbelief.
I pull her sweater down over her breasts, smooth her skirt, and retrieve her ruined panties from the carpet.
The sight of them on my hand makes me want to start all over again.
Instead, I tuck them into my pocket.