Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98486 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98486 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
I shuddered.
Fuck, it was like her positive met my negative and created a current, flowing unhindered between us.
Her hand in mine was almost too much. My body clenched to claim more. It took every ounce of willpower to grit my teeth and keep my touch gentle.
Once I’d gathered tattered self-discipline, I fought the urge to inhale her. “Good. Let me control you.” I guided her hand to the fingerboard.
She struggled a little as I wrapped her palm tight on the veneer and her fingers pressed against the strings.
“Feel it? It’s not alive. It’s nothing but a lacquered shell and string.”
She shifted on my knee, bumping against my cock.
I locked down my muscles as the anticipation of having her so close while playing almost tipped me over. “It’s not alive until you do this.” I reached further around her, guiding her fingers to the right chord. Once she was in position, I softly dragged the half-ruined bow over the strings.
Sound leapt, echoing in the age-old cello—pouring rich and raw around us.
Goosebumps leapt over my skin.
I hadn’t had goosebumps from playing in years.
Pim jolted.
Wrenching her hand from mine, she clenched it with the other as if the cello had stung her. Perhaps, it had. Memories stung. Recollections whipped. She had to get past her mind to enjoy such simple pleasures.
Not saying a word, I grabbed her hand and replaced it once again on the fingerboard. She went stiff but didn’t try to pull away. She leaned tight against my chest, as if to get as far from the cello as possible. I fought my instinct to kiss her throat and played a B.
My eyes snapped closed as the robust, meaty note quavered. There was no better sound than this. No better magic than this.
She wriggled, but I didn’t let go this time. “Stop it. Whatever hold these notes had…let it go. Be that girl in the storm. Remember who you are and who you want to be.” I played an A then a D and a G sharp, introducing her ears to a range of highs and lows, savoury and sour notes, sweet and salty. And once we’d done a chord chart, I gathered her closer. “Let me guide you. Don’t fight it.”
And then, I began to play.
Some notes slipped as our fingers entwined together. Some ended short with my ruined bow. But for the next four minutes and fifty-three seconds, Pim allowed me to drench her in pain-swimming music. She let me drag her back to the depths to pick up the pieces that’d sank so far inside her she would never have had enough oxygen to dive down and salvage them on her own.
The barriers between us melted away and just like in the storm, I felt her inside me. I heard her plight. I saw her history. And I understood her on a level I hadn’t let anyone enter for decades.
Her spine remained locked against my chest, never softening or submitting, but her fingers warmed beneath mine, accepting not cursing the song we created.
Sexual intensity peaked mid-way when the tune soared high then swooped epically low—a rich combination speaking of abuse and melancholy. The hair on the back of my arms stood up and I couldn’t stop my face turning into Pim and my lips caressing her throat.
She winced but her neck arched for me to nuzzle then dropped to prevent an open-mouthed kiss.
We lived in a state of lustful flux where sex plaited itself around us, pulling tighter and tighter, harder and harder to ignore.
Her weight on my leg and hip against my cock drained my energy faster than any sprint or swim.
I was breathless.
I was witless.
I was utterly spent and ripped apart.
The song was an eternity.
The song was a second.
And when the last note faded, I let her hand go and dropped my arm from around her. I needed her gone because if she didn’t, I’d fuck her.
Leave.
Get away from me.
She remained frozen on my lap. Her feet planted on the ground, taking her weight even though I would gladly support her—just not when I was seconds away from becoming a savage.
Tears decorated her eyelashes like spider webs, hanging so fine—threading a silver-webbed trap over her cheeks.
How long had she been crying?
My desire switched to rage. Every urge wanted to wipe away those damning tears and find a way to plug her mind from memories, but I let her stay in her thoughts. I didn’t force her to return. I gave her the time we both needed to find sanity.
Slowly, her body relaxed from its music-induced statue; she stood from my lap.
I let her go.
I no longer want her to leave.
I never looked away as she paced toward the bed and sat on the mattress with her head in her hands. The cello felt heavy in my arms as I shifted it to the floor, making sure it was safe before going to her.