Page 100 of Petrify

He hums, thinking, his deep brown eyes staring directly through me. “All the ideal conditions for someone to hide.”

The waltz is incomplete, and though the performance is not far away, I don’t worry. Especially not when he gathers up some loose, blank sheets of paper with his pen and ushers me to the upright against the wall. The keys are split and yellowed, and the wires are in need of a tuning, the notes just off key enough to sound disjointed—haunted.

He sits next to me. And then he begins playing, without a second glance at the sheet music, starting at the first measure. Out of tune, pressing the keys with an assuredness that can only come from the song’s composer.

One, two, three. One, two, three.

I know what comes next, after so many weeks perfecting what’s been written. I shut my eyes, listening to the music that surrounds us, dissonant like a lullaby from an old music box.

He stops, the silence as cacophonous as what came before.

“Stand up,” he says. His eyes are hooded behind the mask, shadowed and burning.

I do as he says.

“Take off your clothes.”

Warmth floods through my center.

He watches from the bench as I slowly slide the leggings down my thighs. I lift the sweater over my head, exposing my breasts, until I’m left only in my underwear. I only pause for a second, to see if he’ll give me further instruction.

But the look in his eyes tells me exactly what he wants.

I slide off the thin material, until I am naked.

He sits back on the bench. There’s a metal clinking of his belt buckle, and then his cock is free.

He is always as eager for me as I am for him.

“Sit.”

My mouth goes dry. He’s silent as I step closer, leaving just enough room for me to slide between his body and the piano. It’s erotic, watching him grip the bottom of the shaft, give it a few pumps, before I’m standing between his legs. I brace myself on his thighs, gasping when the head of his cock slides through the wet heat of my pussy.

He grips my hips and forces me down.

My back arches before I even take all of him, crying out at the intrusion, jolting and hitting a few discordant keys of the piano.

He groans in satisfaction. “I feel the most human when I’m inside of you.”

He’s pushing my thighs apart, so my knees are outside of his, and spreads me wider, almost as far as my hips will allow. “Baz.”

“Fuck me, Mallary.”

Then I understand. He needs this—for the music. He needs me, needs the ecstasy my body can give him, thelittle death, to finish his funereal dance.

His breaths turn ragged when I begin to move in his lap. I circle my hips, best I can, overwhelmed by the deep nudging of his cock inside of me.

After only a few seconds, his hands leave my body, reaching around me for the keys. His masked face is buried in the crook of my neck. He begins to play again. Our song fills the air, from the beginning, a little slower this time.

“Yes, good.” He hums.

An exquisite burn has begun in my thighs. I grind against him, my fingers finding my clit, and I know I'm already seconds away from coming.

One, two, three.

One, two, three.

He never misses a note from the melody, his left hand hitting every chord. I lean back against him, breathless, slowing the circling of my hips. Each note resonates through me, and the harder he presses the keys, the more intense my pleasure. It’s too good, sitting on him like this and controlling the pace. I notice as I slow, so does the music. He rocks forward once, his thighs tightening beneath me, chasing my hips.