The forced sexual torment.
All of it entered the room to thread amongst his chord.
Elder didn’t play fair. He hung onto a note far longer than comfortable only to string into another straight away. I hated every moment, but I couldn’t hate him. The way he played…a mask came off revealing the true him.
His eyes gleamed, his face relaxed, and his shoulders flowed into a rhythm that was purely male, purely sex, purely power.
My jaw ached from clenching so hard. I endured the pain while Elder played all because he’d commanded me, too. But also because I was strong enough. Brave enough to shatter the music’s hold over me and become entwined with better things.
His head swayed to the song, his body the perfect tuning fork.
As he lost himself to the notes, his limbs became liquid, drowning everything in its power with utter submersion. Faster and faster, more aggressive, more barbaric. He took classical and twisted it into a fantastical combination of metal, Mozart, and Madonna.
He was enthralling.
The fists and kicks faded as my attention switched from Alrik to Elder.
Watching him play was utter magic.
He was free like I wanted to be. Free to open the gates around his heart and live, to breathe, before the piece ended. He hung onto every strum, as if begging the note to take it with him when it faded so he’d never have to return to the world where Lucifer resided.
A few minutes. That was all it was.
A few awful, enchanting minutes where my ears screeched and my heart hid behind my ribs with earmuffs, but my mind ignored the fear and focused on his wizardry instead.
And then, it was over.
Elder stood, tenderly placed his cello and bow on the chair, and stalked toward me.
I couldn’t move. I jittered and shook and fully expected a fist to my gut because that was what I was trained to expect.
But Elder slammed to his knees before me, his eyes becoming level with mine where I perched.
Shaking a little, he cupped my face with both hands and pulled me forward. “Forget the past and only remember this.”
His lips crashed against mine.
The invasion and heat of his mouth ripped through my memories, forcing new ones to take hold. My hands flew up, bracing myself by wrapping my fingers around his wrists.
He didn’t growl at me not to touch him. He permitted me to clutch him like he clutched me—like we’d clutched each other at the white mansion.
His lips moved over mine, demanding but not commanding. My tongue teased the back of my teeth, wanting to lick and taste him again, to see if whatever voodoo he’d filled me with the last time was a fluke or true.
There was no fear to pull away or prediction of worse things. He’d successfully torn me apart to accept this new experience without prior condemnation.
My mouth parted just a little.
He sucked in a breath as he moved with me; the very tip of his tongue ran along my bottom lip.
I was hesitant. My tongue was healed. There was no reason why I couldn’t kiss him back. I wanted to kiss him back. I think. I was ready to take back this one thing that’d been stolen. But if I did, had he won? And if he did win…what exactly had he won?
My thoughts spiralled into a congested mess as he took the decision from my control.
His tongue speared into my mouth, automatically coaxing mine to meet his in a ritual so timeless we didn’t need to be taught.
His breath fluttered over my cheek as he exhaled hard, pulling my face deeper into his as our tongues tangled.
The kiss had no expectations, and that was what made it so heart-warming. Somehow, with the classical notes still hanging in the air, his kiss deleted one tiny memory of Alrik. I had a thousand and one more to go, but he’d taken a sliver and made it…better? Right? Different?
No, he's stolen it and made it his.
Because he was a thief, and that was what he did best.
And he would teach me to be like him.
All in the name of eventually becoming free.
THAT KISS.
Goddammit, that kiss.
I hadn’t meant to do it. Michaels would probably shoot me if he knew I’d had my tongue against hers, sharing saliva, running the risk of her healing being compromised.
But I couldn’t help it. Ever since she flashed me her tongue in blistering anger—doing her best to taunt me into admitting I wouldn’t be keeping her for long because her injuries were on the mend—I couldn’t stop thinking about her mouth.
Kisses and blowjobs and sinking inside her were the one-track playlist of my utterly obsessed mind.
I hated her being in my room. I loved her being in my room. Instincts clawed, whispering falsehoods that she’d come on her own accord. While she was in my domain, I was free to do what I liked to her.
I was a fucking wreck from keeping my hands off her and myself.
And when I played for her.
Fuck, it had been the biggest aphrodisiac.
I always got hard when I played. It wasn’t something I could control. It wasn’t sexual but more of a thrill that gave me pleasure. And that pleasure had compounded to supernova the second I pulled her lips to mine.
And when the kiss ended? Pimlico didn’t look as nearly as wild. Shit tons of adrenaline ran through her system from my music, and if I was honest, I shared the same shaky high from her kiss, but when I’d pulled her from my bed and guided her to the door, she hadn’t disobeyed. She’d floated as if a tiny piece of the chains holding her down had been snipped.
It took every inch of willpower I had left to kiss her forehead and send her back to her room.
I deliberately kicked her out so I couldn’t give into temptation. It would’ve been too easy to strip the robe and push her backward on the bed. Too simple to spread her legs and lick her; to climb on top of her and take her.