Page 64 of The Devil’s Feather

Rafael paused in the doorway to the bathroom, leaning against the jamb. The light spilling through outlined the superhuman vee of his figure, caressed the wide shoulders, the supple spine, the narrow waist, and his long, long legs.

“You are a perfect little shit, do you know that?” His shoulders shook.

“I really didn’t mean to upset you—wait, are you laughing?”

He turned and swept me into a crushing embrace. “Originally, I worried you would deny my kinks completely. Then I hoped you might be amenable to a light flogging now and then. Instead, I find you are delightfully wicked. I am fucking thrilled at your enthusiasm. A silly dick joke will not impede that. Besides, it is complimentary.”

“It very much is. I’m sure this is like the height question, but um…”

“Right at twelve inches hard. Around ten soft.”

Not too much of a grower, thank god. The salt of his dried sweat prickled my lips as I kissed the center of his chest. “Can I draw you a bath?”

His body loosened. “No, I have new music to work out. You gave me that, my muse.” He grabbed my face and kissed both cheeks.

“You are not right in the head. At least wash off the body fluids!”

“I have been telling you so, and I will keep my souvenirs.” Rafael gave me a wild grin, reached past me to snag a clean pair of sweatpants out of the closet, and disappeared through the bedroom.

The shower beckoned. Hot water loosened my aching muscles. Coming down from the wildest sex I’d ever had meant feeling exactly how much I’d overextended myself. My arms ached so much I’d be lucky to lift them later. Much more of this, and I’d be built like Rafael himself.

It was thrilling, but also incredibly intense and exhausting. Would it always be like this? Would I come to miss regular old vanilla lovemaking in the bed?

A grumble from my belly convinced me it was time to leave my steamy haven. As I turned the water off, faint piano notes tickled my ears. Rafael really was in there composing, the madman. When I finished drying my hair, the notes had picked up in tempo to an aggressive, driving beat.

In my pajamas, I wandered downstairs into the music room. Eyes closed, Rafael sat at the piano. He began again with a few slow, experimental chords. Then an arpeggio—at least, I thought it was an arpeggio. Childhood piano lessons were a little rusty.

The notes fell into the rhythm I’d heard from the drums. The song meandered, rising and falling in intensity. Eyes still closed, Rafael paused and shook his head. Curls escaped his hair tie, falling forward over his shoulders. Annoyed, he re-tied his hair and fell back into the melody. Increasing in tempo and ferocity, he played harder, pounding out the chords like he was sparring with the keyboard.

I open-mouth gawked at how his pecs flexed and bounced as he hammered at the keys. With a grunt, he struck a single, loudly off-key chord, and his eyes snapped open. The composer slumped dramatically, not unlike Howl Pendragon melting into ooze.

“Fuck. This is not it…” He blinked. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I am no better than a man.” It tumbled right out of my mouth. “Have you ever seen a video of yourself playing piano shirtless?”

Rafael straightened with a gasp, covering his chest with his hands in mock affront.

I giggled. “Ok, you fucking weirdo. I’m going to get some food, then I’m going to bed.” I dragged myself out of the chair. “Wait, why do you always close your eyes when you play?”

“Keeps out the visual noise. I hear my music better that way.”

I nodded like I understood. Maybe I did. “Will you be up late working on this?”

“Yes, but I will close the doors so it does not disturb you. If I stop now, I will lose the momentum. I promise to bathe before I come to bed.” He crooked a finger at me.

As though pulled by an invisible thread, I went to him.

Rafael swept me into his lap and kissed my forehead, my cheeks, my nose, my eyelids. “You are a blessing.” He kissed my lips, my jaw, my ear. “Thank you for indulging me.”

I took his face in my hands, kissed the hooked bridge of his nose, and slid off his lap to shuffle up to the kitchen.

As I munched on cucumbers, cold chicken, and hummus, a thought occurred to me. For all the art in his house, Rafael did not have a single framed photo. Was that due to his excellent memory or his trauma? We had yet to take any photos together, too. I’d have to fix that. Mmm, a photograph of that dildo between his pecs would be a good place to start. Just for me.

His deep voice drifted in as he closed the door to the music room. “Kuzum, why are you answering so late?… They work you too hard. Listen, I have something for you and Richard…”

He’d warned me it would often be this way, and making him choose between me and the music wasn’t fair. No matter how much I’d like a little cuddle to help me sleep. Wistfulness melted into appreciation for his genius as the notes swirled around me.

Rafael was still pounding away at the piano when I slithered into bed.