“You have no idea what I can accomplish when I set my mind to it.” I press up against her backside and settle my mouth near the curve of her ear. “Don’t move,” I tell her, the gravel in my tone eliciting a shiver.
I stalk to the control panel and hit the switch to close the shutter. A metallic groan fills the chamber as we’re sealed in darkness. I power on the sound system, and Collins gasps as a soft drone resonates from the low-frequency subs.
I adjust the range, tuning the output. Satisfied, I remove my glove and hit Play on the touchscreen. The speakers emit a deep, low hum, slowly rising and filling the darkened chamber with an unearthly, ambient ring. The sound starts with an eerie prelude, gradually building into a rhythmic pulse until the sound rattles my chest and vibrates the floor.
“Orion—”
“If you move, Collins, I’ll be forced to restrain you.” The deviant in me salivates over the thought of chasing her down as she flees the observatory.
When she says nothing more, I remove my watch and pull off my other glove. I only hesitate a moment before shedding my dress shirt. The cool air strokes my skin and I fucking swear, I can’t see her tremble, but I can feel it. The arousing sensation rolls along my flesh like the ripple of sound waves.
There’s something my little anomaly keeps hidden, afraid to let me glimpse this part of her. To strip a layer of her defenses, I’m willing to strip one of my own. I drape my shirt over the monitor, snuffing out the last of the light.
The rhythmic sound increases in intensity, guiding me toward the speakers. I stop within an inch of her body, my chest vibrating with each labored breath.
“You can’t touch me,” I say, my chin near the top of her head. “That’s the only rule. No matter what happens.” I sense her movement. “Words, Collins,” I demand.
“I won’t touch you,” she rushes out.
Jaw flexed, I push in closer, where the fibers of her clothes whisper across my bare chest. Cautiously, I reach around her waist and tug her blouse free of her skirt.
“I have a rule,” she states, trying to conceal the quake in her voice. My fingers halt. “The lights stay off.”
I lick my lips, relishing this curious peek beneath her walls. She’d rather drown in her fear, afraid of the smothering dark, than let me see her.
Gathering the hem of her shirt in a tight grip, I wrench the delicate fabric apart, popping the buttons open. Her sharp intake of air tenses my abdominal muscles.
“You don’t touch me, I won’t look at you.”
Her relief is palpable, allowing me to part the blouse farther and expose her to cool air. As I’ve visually mapped her body, felt her against my chest, I know she’s not wearing a bra. Without instruction, she presses into the speaker to shield herself.
The faintest moan sounds above the ambient music, evocative and thrilling, as stimulation courses along her nerves.
“In the corridor, when you asked if it was me you heard playing piano…” My voice drifts over the building pulse of sound. “I used to compose my own music,” I say, resigned to give her this much.
Her back expands with a deep inhale. “Used to?” she questions, still trying to analyze me.
I make a thoughtful sound as I let my bare fingers trace the curve of her back, the thin material of her shirt the only barrier between her skin and mine. Her heated flesh infuses the fibers, and I can almost summon the texture of her soft skin, what she’d feel like beneath my touch.
Muscles drawn tight, I envision the light bruises marking her neck, see her hand clutched to her throat, caught in the throes of autoerotic asphyxiation as she deprives her lungs of air. My cock jumps at the explicit image that I have of her, how her pretty features contort as she brings herself to the brink. Her forbidden desires too intimate, too shocking, to explore any other way but alone.
Something depraved wants to tease those secrets out of hiding. To discover what filthy things she imagines when she’s lost in that space.
“You’re listening to my music now,” I whisper over her ear as I clutch the blades of the necktie in each hand.
From Pythagoras’Music of the Spheresto Kepler’sHarmonices Mundi; Holst’sThe Planetsto NASA’s cosmic data—music and astronomy have always been intertwined. Bound together on a cosmic scale.
“It’s called sonification,” I explain in a low voice. “Celestial data translated into music. The orbital resonances of planets and stellar oscillations scaled to an audible range, then mapped into piano notes.”
There’s more to it than this; matching ratios of orbits to musical intervals, aligning astronomical frequencies into pitch and rhythm. Fine-tuning the harmonics. Each celestial body holds a unique resonance, its own sound. And when these bodies are given a symphony, it’s an immersive experience.
One I intend to use to shatter her.
“It’s a little terrifying,” she admits, and for a moment, I’m unsure if she’s referring to the music or the tension gathering in the tie around her neck.
I relax my grip. “Hmm.Beautiful and terrifying all at once.” If I’m never able to capture her melody, regretfully, this may be the closest I come. “It’s the sound of two black holes colliding, merging. As they spiral closer, their gravitational waves build, frequency climbing like notes rising in pitch. And even though their waves pass through each other without touching, barely leaving an imprint,” a noticeable ache flares in the core of my chest, “we can still detect their subtle vibrations.”
She silently absorbs the melancholic song before she says, “That sounds almost romantic.”
