I want to ruin her.
I push her gently but firmly back against the piano and sit her on the edge of it.
She stares at me, breathless. “Roman?—”
“Spread your legs.”
She hesitates.
I slide my hand back up her thigh, under the skirt this time, pushing the fabric with it. “You know what happens when you keep hesitating.”
“What?”
“I get impatient.”
That should make her dig in.
Instead, she opens for me. Slowly.
The sight of it nearly finishes me on the spot. Her thighs parting over the polished black edge, her skirt riding up, the little lace panties between us already damp where I touch them.
I slide one finger over the wet patch and her whole body jerks. “Yes, my sweet, do you feel this? Do you feel my fingers?”
She grips the edge of the piano behind her. “Please.”
The word hits me hard.
I hook my fingers into the sides of her panties and pull them down her legs. She lifts her hips without being asked. Good girl. I get the lace past her knees, then her ankles, and toss it aside.
She’s bare for me on the piano.
Red-cheeked, breathing hard, trying not to look ashamed and failing only because she still thinks wanting this much should cost her something.
I sink to my knees in front of her.
Her eyes go wide. “Roman.”
“What?”
“You don’t?—”
I drag one open-mouthed kiss up the inside of her thigh.
Her back arches instantly.
Then I do it again, higher.
And again, until I’m close enough to feel the heat of her, to smell how wet she is for me, to hear the little broken sounds she’s trying to swallow.
“Tell me to stop,” I say against her skin.
She doesn’t.
I spread her with both hands and put my mouth on her.
She cries out.
No slow tease. I lick her in one long, deliberate stroke and feel her thighs tense around my shoulders. She tastes exactly like I remember and better because now there are four years of frustration in my mouth with her.
