Broken Pretty Things by Amber Faye
Chapter 33
“What do you want to play?”I stand in the huge, empty piano room. The chandelier is off, the only light streaming in through gaps in several curtained windows. It feels cold, dark, soulless. I run my finger over the top of the beautiful wood of the piano and feel a painful tug in my chest. The fun I’ve had in this room. It’s not fair that it’s all over.
I feel his strong arms wrap around my waist and his head dips, nose to my ear. I lift my own head, feeling the solidness of his chest, his shoulder, against me. He smells so good. Spicier, stronger than usual; the scent of his aftershave, usually lingering but now fresh. I reach up as if to test my theory and run my fingertips down the line of his jaw. Smooth, soft. He nuzzles deeper into my neck, breathing me in right back.
And then he grips my hip with his left hand and twists my hair into a makeshift ponytail with his right, bending me forward until my palms are flat on the top of the piano.
“I know what I want to play,” he says. His voice is gruff, some kind of internal struggle obvious in every word. I try to turn, to give him a look over my shoulder for saying something cheesy, but his grip in my hair tightens, brief pinpricks of pain until I relax and keep my head facing forward. His hand on my hip digs in, more protective than aggressive, and pulls me flush against him, bumping my ass against his hipbones.
I want to tell him to stop, more than anything because I don’t want his family or his family’s staff to wander in here, but when I open my mouth I just suck in a breath instead. His cock is grinding right between my thighs, and even through all layers of our clothes I can feel how badly he wants me. And when his fingers hook around my front to the button of my jeans, I still don’t say anything. I don’t know what I’d say.
We can’t. We shouldn’t.
I don’t forgive you.
You don’t forgive me.
Stop. Stop. Please.
He shoves my jeans below my hips, and then my underwear, and my lips are still parted and I’m still not speaking. His fingers trace the outline of my pussy, needy and already so ready, and I hate that I push back against them. His other hand leaves my hair, letting it untwist and fall around my shoulders again, and he runs his palm over it, sweetly, and then curls his hand around my neck. He’s just cupping it, just feeling my heartbeat, feeling me swallow hard, but it’s there.
His middle and ring fingers run down my slit and then probe inside me to the first knuckles. “So fucking wet again,” he says. “You ever get this wet for anyone else?”
I squeeze my eyes shut when I answer. “No.”
He lets out a soft laugh. “Good answer. You lying?”
I whimper as he pushes his two fingers inside me, another knuckle deep. “No.”
“Have you ever imagined me fucking you?”
I don’t answer. He traces his fingertips up and down my throat, then pulls his fingers from inside me. I bite my lip to stop myself from asking why he stopped. Then his hand is at the front, circling my clit, and then pushing inside me again. Two fingers, as deep as he can get them. He lets out a heavy breath like it’s him buried inside me to the hilt. “Tell me.” His voice is rough.
“You don’t get to fuck me,” I say, my teeth half-gritted. His fingers slide out of me and then slam back in, the heel of his hand grinding into my clit.
“No,” he says. “That’s not what I said. Have you ever imagined it?” His breathing is faster, and he starts to pound into me with his fingers, his other hand keeping me steady on my neck.
“Yes.” The words tumble out. Somehow the admission, the fact that he made me say it, surges me closer to climax.
“Here? In this room?” We spent so many evenings together in this room. Sometimes we’d mess around with the piano, sing together, or do goofy dances. But it was pretty much always in a group.
I can hear the sounds of his palm against my increasingly soaked skin. Every stroke pushes me forward on my toes a little. I make a choked sound. “Yes.”
“Hmm?” His thumb is on my clit now, circling, searching, until my breathing is ragged, and then he finds a rhythm. “What did you think about?”
“Blowing …” I say, and then bury my face in the crook of my elbow, ignoring his hand on my neck. “I …”
He stills his hand completely, feeling me tremble and tighten around his fingers. “No, hold on. What were you going to say?” I hear the smile in his voice. “Blowing?”
“Blowing you while you played,” I admit, miserably, into my arm. He pulls out of my pussy and smacks my ass cheek with his wet hand. It echoes loud through the perfect acoustics of the room and I whimper, partly in pain, partly in fear of being heard. But, and it makes me hate myself a little, mostly with need.
He spins me around, tugs off my pants all the way and presses his mouth to mine, lapping at my lips and then kissing me hard and desperate, his hands in my hair. He pulls away, breathing heavy. “Really?” My face is already on fire, my eyes wide, and I nod. He kisses me again. “Fuck,” he says into my mouth. “I need you.” He pulls my shirt up and over my head and unfastens my bra behind my back, still lapping at my tongue with his, squeezing my bare ass so hard his fingers slip between the wet lips of my pussy again. “I need to fuck you.”
“You can fuck yourself,” I reply, and before he can say anything to that I grip his hair at the roots and take control of the kiss, delving deeper and tasting him while my other hand clumsily messes with the clasp at the front of his pants. A couple of tries and it’s open, and then his zipper is down, and I run my hand up and down the long, hard outline until he groans, pushing me back until I hit the cold wood.
Then he lifts me, setting me down completely naked on the edge of the piano, parting my thighs and scooting me forward until I’m hanging off the edge. He licks me carefully with the flat of his tongue, then pushes a crooked finger inside me and licks me again, harder, bent over and devouring me.
I get the sense that it’s not for me, none of this is for me, exactly. He wants me to feel good because it makes him feel good. He wants to get me wet so he can taste his victory. He wants me to buck against his face so he can feel like he owns me, even if he is the one with his head bowed, deferential, between my thighs.
I wrap my legs around him, hooking my ankles and leaning back on the piano. His hand is on his cock now, and his delicate powerplay fades into the darkness of the room with every stroke. Now he is eating me like he needs me, licking into me like he needs it. A man possessed, or a man obsessed. Desperate, aggressive, like he hates me, or he loves me. I can’t tell, and I’m coming, tightening my thighs around his head, but he doesn’t make any move to stop me. When I come crashing through to the other side, I can still hear the echoes of my cries in the room, and I press my hand to my mouth as he breaks away from me, wiping his mouth like he’s taken a long pull of some strong drink.
I don’t say anything. We stare at each other, breathing heavy together in the darkening room. I’m completely naked, wet, shaking. He’s clothed, but he’s ragged. Imperfect. Leaning over, hard as steel and gripping himself through his undone pants. All of him looks undone.
“Play something,” I say, hopping off the piano. He wipes his mouth again but he sits, wincing like he’s hard enough that it hurts. “If you can,” I tease. He looks me right in the eye, tilts his head, and starts to play Chopin without missing a note. “Screw you.” I laugh, and kneel. He scoots out to let me in, let me kneel diagonally in front of him. One of his feet still works a pedal. The music, beautiful, fills the room without a beat of silence, without one wrong note, and I pull his long, thick dick out of his boxers.
The first time I’ve ever touched it, and I still haven’t ever really seen it. And I’m still throbbing with aftershocks of the orgasm he just gave me. I’m still completely naked. He’s pretending he isn’t fazed at all, hands skimming over the keys. Hands that were just inside me. I lick his long cock, learning the shape, feeling the veins, with my tongue. It twitches into my mouth and I hear his breathing shudder, and he plays a bad note. I laugh, closing my lips over the tip.
It’s salty, wet with precum, and he hisses through his teeth. He plays too slow, then pauses, leaving a long silence, except for a low groan as his head tips back. I flick the slit at the head with the tip of my tongue and pull back. “Don’t fucking stop,” he says.
“You stop, I stop,” I say. I run my fingertips over his shaft, ghost them over his balls and feel them tighten. He shifts in his seat and starts playing again. From the beginning. “You lose your place?” I ask innocently.
He stops with one of his hands, but continues with the other. It’s disjointed, clunky, but it still manages to be pretty. He sweeps a lock of hair out of my face, and then rests his hand on the back of my head, pushing the tip of his cock through my parted lips. He hovers a little, partway off the seat, and grips my hair. Then he’s thrusting, fucking my mouth with the first couple of inches of his cock and playing Chopin terribly with his other hand. He pounds on the keys to get purchase, a discordant noise, and he pants as he guides my lips up and down the head of his cock.
I pull away, releasing him with a wet ‘pop’, and he groans, twisting his fingers in my hair. “I said, you stop, I stop.”
“No,” he growls, letting go of the piano completely and raking his other hand through my hair. I flick my tongue over his head and he makes a noise I have never heard Gunnar make before.
“You—”
When I open my mouth again he lifts his hips off the piano stool and slides his dick between my lips, grazing the back of my mouth and hitting my throat. I squirm. “Relax,” he grunts, trying to slow his breathing; trying to calm down. He takes a deep breath, guiding my head back up to the tip, but not letting me pull away completely. “Relax.” Then he moves my head again, slower this time. I let him without struggling, sucking hard on the downstrokes and circling my tongue around his tip on the upstrokes until he cries my name. He’s panting in the rhythm of my lips sliding up and down, sometimes, ‘Fuck, Andie, fuck’, and then it’s, ‘Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop,’ and I recognize the desperation in his voice.
I twist my head out of his grip and in the same motion I grab the slippery base of his cock and squeeze up to the tip, jerking him until he comes white, endless jets, all over his shirt and pants, my fingers. He doesn’t say anything, thrusting into my fist again and again, one of his hands still gripping the back of my head. His mouth is open, his eyes closed, his head bent. Then he’s still, except for the rise and fall of his shoulders. The room is silent again.
“That’s kind of what I imagined,” I say to him, getting to my feet and knowing my knees are going to be bruised from the hard floor tomorrow. He is looking down at himself, the mess on his fancy family dinner clothes, and then rubbing his face as I get dressed. Quietly.
“Don’t freak out when I lock your door later,” he says when I’m clothed and heading towards the hallway. He doesn’t say anything else, or look my way, so I leave.
And even though it’s still early, I haven’t eaten, I hate that I’m going to be trapped, and I wish I was home, I manage to fall asleep as soon as I change into my PJs and climb into the bed.