My humming deepens. Thrumming. Pulsing.
Zane trembles.
Actuallytrembles.
“Don’t stop,” he begs, voice cracking. “Baby, don’t…don’t you fucking stop?—”
Then, in one fluid motion, he stands, lifting me with him, still holding me like I weigh nothing, carrying me across the suite blindly?—
And I realize where he’s taking me.
The piano.
The white baby grand near the window.
He sets me on the edge, never breaking our connection, and his hands fly to the keys.
“Keep going, baby,” he rasps. “Hum for me. Hum while you—fuck—while you dance on my cock. Yes! Just like that.”
My sound vibrates through me, through him, into the air, into the strings of the piano. He plays under me, the chords deep and warm and broken, syncing perfectly with the sound in my throat.
It’s music.
It’s sex.
It’s insanity.
It’s worship.
It’s a man and a woman and a piano and a hum that feels like it’s ripping open the sky.
He reaches blindly for his phone on the piano lid, hits a button, and sets it down.
He’s recording it.
All of it.
When we finally collapse together, shaking and breathless, he fumbles for the phone and plays it back.
My hum and his voice and the piano fills the room, the rhythm of our bodies in every note.
It’s filthy and beautiful.
It’s art.
It’s us.
It’s…oh God…too much. I burst into tears.
Zane stills instantly. “Baby?” he whispers, cupping my face. “Hey, hey, look at me. Baby what’s wrong?”
I laugh through the tears, shaking my head. “I think I’m getting addicted to you,” I choke out. “God help me, I think I already am.”
His expression fractures, morphs with awe, possession, hunger, fear…all crashing into one impossible look.
“Good,” he whispers roughly. “Because I’m already gone.”
10
