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But I also want to strangle it. Want to remind her that no matter what she does, no matter how much money exchanges hands, she’s mine until I say she’s not.
And I can’t see myself saying that anytime soon.
Or ever.
“Not so fast,” I murmur, and I both loathe and love the look of unhappy doubt that flickers over her features. “I won’t be hanging around here every day and night waiting for you to play for me. You won’t be earning a hundred grand a day. And maybe I should bring that contract out again and remind you of the interest rate. Forty-two percent,” I explain when she cocks her head in confusion.
She blanches.
“Forty-two percent,” she says in disbelief. “That’s outrageous. That’s-”
“That’s what you get when you borrow money from fucking loan sharks,” I tell her. “I’m not a bank.” I take a step towards her. “I’m not your friendly neighbourhood credit union.” Another step, until I’m close enough to grasp her chin and tilt her face up to mine. “And I’m certainly not a charity.”
“Fine,” she hisses, jerking her chin from my hand. “Then let’s start. Right now.”
She moves away, then returns a moment later with her violin. And without her shoes.
The straps from her shoes have left criss-crossing red lines on her fair skin, and the marks make my blood heat.
“What do you want me to play?” she asks. I can tell she’s trying to assume a look of professional neutrality. But that spark of defiance in her eyes is still there.
“Something good,” I say, sitting on the edge of my bed and spreading my thighs. “Something Irish.”
Her slender orange eyebrows rise at that, but she recovers quickly with a nod. She lifts her violin and bow, and is about to start, when I say, “Not like that.”
“Not like what?” she asks, frowning.
“Not way over there.” I point downwards, to the space between my thighs. “You’ll play right here.”
“I… I can’t do that. It’s too close. I won’t be able to focus. I-”
“I told you that you’d earn one hundred thousand dollars per performance if the performance meets my standards,” I remind her. “I get to choose where and how and what you play. Now come here.”
She shifts on her little bare feet, and I wonder if she’ll disobey me, if she’ll fight. But she doesn’t. She comes to me, with small soft steps, and there it is again, that darkness that almost feels like rage when she obeys me. A darkness that tells me to order her to kneel, right now, so I can jam my cock down her throat.
But more than anything right now, I want to hear her play. It’s why I’ve brought her here, after all.
Deirdre stops between my knees.
“Closer,” I urge her. Her breath gets shaky, but she does it anyway, stepping forward until her hips are a mere inch from my crotch.
“Now play,” I rasp.
She does.
She starts slowly, the notes almost melancholic, before everything intensifies, rising and quickening into a relentlessly, tragically beautiful rhythm. I groan, letting my eyes fall shut. This is what I wanted, what I needed. This luminous, ravenous, drugged-up feeling. The bleeding, brutal beauty that Deirdre wields with the precise yet wild artistry of an angel. I fist the bedding, tilting my head back, letting the notes fall over me like snow, like rain, like a blessing and a curse. Sacred and profane. Salvation and ruin. Celestial, ethereal, and deeply, primally human.
How the fuck does she do this?
I’ve listened to violin on endless repeats for the past year and a half. I’m pretty sure I’ve even saved this exact song to a playlist somewhere. But it’s not the same. Nothing touches what Deirdre does to me, and I need to fucking know why.
I crack my eyes open, as if that will help me understand somehow. But that just throws me into chaotic, lustful turmoil, because I’m about eye-level with her breasts, and every time she moves her arms, they bounce and strain the silk of her dress.
Having her this close and hearing her play, properly play, while one breath away from her skin is too fucking much. I’ve wanted her for too long tonight, and my dick is paying the price. My eyes glued to her chest, my ears and brain and lungs and whatever’s left of my heart flooded with her song, I undo the buckle on my belt.
The sound makes Deirdre’s eyes snap open. Her playing slows, then stops altogether when I take out my throbbing shaft and start to stroke it.
“What the hell are you doing?” she breathes, her eyes huge and glued to my hand on my dick.
