With her leaning closer, every inch of her body pressed against mine, I can feel the heat radiating off her. It’s intoxicating—her warmth wrapping around me like a breath of fresh air. Our noses brush as I meet her gaze, and the way those bright eyes shine makes it impossible not to grin. She pulls the song from me, gently coaxing it ahead while the patterns swirl in my brain.
I almost drop my sticks when she runs her hands down my chest and reaches into my sweats, palming my cock. “Don’t stop,” she encourages, knowing I’m seconds away from tossing my sticks and pinning her against the wall behind us.
Her hand wraps around me and pumps a few times before she surprises me again. She dips her fingers to her pussy, pushes her panties to the side, and plunges two digits into her wet heat.
With utter confidence, she pulls them free and traces my lips, leaving behind that flavor I love so much. Before I have a chance to lick it clean, she’s kissing me. Her tongue seeks mine, and I won’t deny her.
She lifts herself and lines me up with her entrance, sinking onto me as she returns to my lap. My cock throbs as I’m strangled by her tightness, almost making me want to bust. It takes everything in me to focus on my drumming instead of how good it is to have her warmth wrapped around me, squeezing so damn tightly.
I keep drumming, but softer now, the sticks barely grazing the snare. She picks up on the pattern immediately, sways her torso to match the rhythm, her sweatshirt bunching around her waist.
Her hands find their way back to my chest, fingers splayed wide, then slide one up until she’s tracing the line of my jaw with her thumb. She’s trembling, but she’s pretending not to be.
“Play our song,” she pleads, and I instantly know the one she means. The one I played against her skin. The song of our relationship.
My tempo changes. It’s different from when I used her body to play it for her the first time. Everything is sharper. Louder. But equally as sensual. Her body moves to it like she’s dancing to one of her songs on stage. It’s a performance, but one that’s only for me. She’s trying to show me with her movements what this song means to her, like I did when I first played it for her.
I know with every fiber of my being that she’s trying to find the lyrics to finish it. To complete the music of our souls.
“I’ll play our song everyday if you want, Peaches,” I rasp.
That’s all it takes. She surges forward, her mouth crashing into mine with all the force of a dropped amp. I nearly lose a stick with the fierceness, but catch it with my left hand, fisting it as I wrap my arm around her waist.
The kiss is messy, a little desperate, and tastes like adrenaline. I match her passion, careful not to let my teeth clash against hers, but she doesn’t care about being gentle. She pushes in deeper, tongue hot and insistent.
We stay like that for a beat until she grabs my arm and tugs it off her. “You’re not playing it right.” Her tone is playful, and I narrow my gaze on her for a second before returning to using both sticks.
I transition into a slow drum roll and lean into her ear until my lips brush against her skin. “Remember when I did this on your clit?”
Her reaction is instant; a shiver travels through her body, and she melts.
She tips her head up, finds my eyes, and grins. “I see the game you’re playing.” Her walls squeeze around my cock so tightly it’s like she’s trying to strangle it. “Bet I can throw you off your rhythm.”
“Not a chance,” I say, but it’s already happening.
Her hands dig into my hair, yanking my mouth back to hers. The drums keep time, soft at first, then louder, the rhythm picking up as our heartbeats go haywire. Every time I think she’ll pull away, she kisses me harder, like she’s trying to consume me.
We stay locked together, mouths fused, her breath fanning hot over my jaw. Her hips roll against me, the friction more than enough to light up every nerve I’ve got. For a few seconds, we move like that—bodies pressed tight, her hands everywhere, lips bruising. She’s the one who breaks first, head tipping back, throat bared, and I can’t help but chase the line of her neck with my teeth.
She moans, quiet but raw, and the sound makes me want to wreck her. But I force myself to continue drumming, wanting her to break first. All she has to utter is a single plea and I’ll have her pinned to the wall.
A whimper falls from her as I jostle her on my lap, her hands gripping my shoulders tighter as she lifts her body higher to get a longer stroke.
She moves with purpose, every roll of her hips timed to the beat I lay down. The sounds are soft—just the whisper of the stick, the creak of the throne, the wet slide of her against me. She closes her eyes, head tipped back, lips parted. It’s almost clinical, the way she chases pleasure, but I know her well enough to see how badly she needs it.
“Keaton,” she calls. Right on cue with her rising desire.
“Yes, Peaches?”
“Please,” she begs, but it’s not enough, not yet.
“Please what?” I trail my lips along her neck, spiking her desire.
“Demanding fucking men,” she complains, still not giving me what I want, making me nip at her skin. “Fuck me, Keaton. You can play our song later.”
She tells me exactly what I need to hear, and I instantly drop my sticks, letting them fall to the floor. She’s the only one who would make me do such a sacrilegious thing. If it wasn’t for all her teasing, I’d take the time to remove her sweatshirt, but I’ve exhausted all my restraint.
Gripping her thighs, I lift her into the air, making sure to hold her tight enough that my throbbing cock remains inside her. She squeals, the sound is the highest pitch I’ve heard out of her in forever, making pride rush through me.
