I down the rest of my drink. Let the room keep applauding. Let the men keep dreaming. She played for all of them. But she’s going home withme.
Thefire’slow,flickeringlike it knows better than to intrude. She’s curled up in the corner of the oversized green velvet couch, bare legs folded beneath her, wine glass resting against her thigh. One of my sweaters hangs off her shoulder—cashmere, forest green, the same shade as her eyes when she’s pissed off. Or turned on.
I’m in black joggers and a loose white linen tee, sleeves pushed to my elbows, a bottle of Barolo between us, breathing just like we are—slow and tight. Neither of us speaks. Not about the gala. Not about my father’s glare. Not about the way she toasted him like a goddamn blade pressed beneath his ribs.
And definitely not about the song. That fucking song. The room is warm. Too warm.Or maybe it’s just her.I watch the curve of her ankle move in slow circles. She’s still humming under herbreath, some unfinished melody winding through her like she never really stopped playing. It’s haunting. Soft.
And I’m drowning in it. She sips her wine. She doesn’t look at me. But she doesn’t have to. She knows I’m watching her. The same way she knew every note she played tonight was a provocation. The silk of her nightgown—champagne-colored this time, with delicate black lace—is hidden beneath the sweater, but I saw it when she walked out of the bedroom. Saw the way it clung to her hips, to her ribs, to the sharp little bones I want to sink my teeth into.
Saw the deliberate way she didn’t ask if I liked it. Like she already knew the answer. The silence stretches, thick and sweet. And then—She stands. Moves to the piano tucked against the far wall. Doesn’t ask permission. Doesn’t say a word. She just sits. And starts to play.
She doesn’t look at me when her fingers find the keys. The melody drips into the room like honey and ghosts. Yann Tiersen—La Valse d’Amélie. Sweet, lilting. It sounds like her laugh used to. The real one. Before everything turned to ash.
It starts slow, hesitant, like a memory unfolding. Her spine is straight, the hem of that silk nightgown peeking out beneath the sweater as she sways slightly with the rhythm. She plays like she’s dancing with someone only she can see. Maybe it’s her mother. Maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s no one at all.
The wine in my glass goes untouched. My eyes can’t leave her. With every note, she peels something back. A layer. A lie. Awound. Then—without breaking pace—her hand slides beneath the hem of the sweater. Pulls it up. Over her head. Drops it behind her on the bench. She’s still playing. Still swaying.
The fire cracks in the corner. My chest goes tight. The silk hugs every curve of her—pale champagne and black lace, catching the firelight and swallowing it whole. The strap slips down one shoulder, but she doesn’t fix it. She just keeps playing.
The melody dips, turns fragile and airy, then builds again. A whirl. A tease. And she shifts. Spreads her knees slightly. Crosses her ankles. Lets the song curl around the room like smoke.
I stay rooted in place. Watching. Breathing her in. This isn’t a performance. It’s an invitation. And I’m already crawling to my knees.
She stops playing mid-note. The silence is a weapon—sharp, intimate, heavy. She rises from the bench with the grace of a swan and the intention of a sinner. Hands at the hem of her silk nightgown. She slides it up—slow, torturous—revealing bare thighs that still glisten faintly from earlier teasing. And then she pulls it off over her head and lets it fall.
Fuck me blind.
Her skin is cream and wildfire. Soft and lethal. Her nipples are peaked, her chest rising and falling with quiet defiance as she sits back down, completely bare. Then, she plays. Fingertips ghost over keys, no real melody—just something soft andhaunting. Like she’s letting her soul speak in quiet gasps of sound.
I move. There’s no stopping it. The room narrows to just her. The polished floor muffles my steps, but she knows I’m coming. She shivers—just once—when I reach her. Doesn’t look. Doesn’t need to. Sheknows.
I drop to my knees behind her. Turn her around to face me. Part her thighs. And bury my face between them.
She lets out a strangled moan—half music, half murder. My tongue licks a hot stripe through her folds, tasting her like I’ve been starving for years. Salty-sweet, slick, and maddening. I groan against her cunt and she jerks like I’ve shocked her.
“Dhia duit, mo chroí…1” I murmur against her, my voice ragged. She gasps again, hands gripping the edge of the bench so tight her knuckles go white. “My Dove, sweet as fucking nector just for me. ” I whisper filth into her skin.
I suck her clit into my mouth, gentle at first, then rougher. Her thighs close around my head and I let them. Let her use me. Let her ride my face, chasing the high. She cries out. Her accent cuts through—low and breathless, wrecked.
“Cillian…2mo grá… please…”
That wordkillsme.My love.
I growl against her, tongue flicking faster, fingers spreading her open wider, devouring her like the fucking sinner I am. She’s close. So close. Her hips are grinding. Her voice is trembling. Her whole body is begging me— And then I stop. Pull back. Watch her fall apart in silence.
“No,” I rasp. My hands pin her hips. “Not yet.”
She whimpers—pure, wrecked need—and tries to pull me back. I don’t move.
“I saidnot yet, darling.”
She’s panting. Furious. Desperate. Glowing. I rise to my feet, towering over her, breath coming hard.
“You don’t get to come just because you beg,” I say, dragging the tip of my thumb down her sternum. “You want that release? Youearnit.”
She licks her lips. Eyes full of fury and heat. “You’re cruel.”
I grin. “You fucking love it.”
