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"We're going to go real, slow this time, Anastasia," he breathes.
And slowly he eases into me, slowly, slowly, until he's buried in me. Stretching, filling, relentless. I groan loudly. It feels deeper this time, delectable. I groan again, and he deliberately circles his hips and pulls back, pauses a beat, and then eases his way back in.
He repeats this motion again and again. It's driving me insane - his teasing, deliberately slow thrusts, and the intermittent feeling of fullness is overwhelming.
"You feel so good," he groans, and my insides start to quiver. He pulls back and waits.
"Oh no, baby, not yet," he murmurs, and as the quivering ceases, he starts the whole delicious process again.
"Oh, please," I beg. I'm not sure I can take much more. My body is wound so tight, craving release.
"I want you sore, baby," he murmurs, and he continues his sweet, leisurely torment, backward, forward.
"Every time you move tomorrow, I want you to be reminded that I've been here. Only me. You are mine."
I groan.
"Please, Christian," I whisper.
"What do you want, AnastasiaTell me."
I groan again. He pulls out and moves slowly back into me, circling his hips once more.
"Tell me," he murmurs.
"You, please."
He increases the rhythm infinitesimally, and his breathing becomes more erratic. My insides start quickening, and Christian picks up the rhythm.
"You. Are. So. Sweet," he murmurs between each thrust. "I. Want. You. So. Much."
I moan.
"You. Are. Mine. Come for me, baby," he growls.
His words are my undoing, tipping me over the precipice. My body convulses around him, and I come, loudly calling out a garbled version of his name into the mattress, and Christian follows with two sharp thrusts, and he freezes, pouring himself into me as he finds his release. He collapses on top of me, his face in my hair.
"Fuck. Ana," he breathes. He pulls out of me immediately and rolls onto his side of the bed. I pull my knees up to my chest, utterly spent, and immediately drift off or pass out into an exhausted sleep.
When I wake, it's still dark. I have no idea how long I've slept. I stretch out beneath the duvet, and I feel sore, deliciously sore. Christian is nowhere to be seen. I sit up, staring out at the cityscape in front of me. There are fewer lights on amongst the skyscrapers, and there's a whisper of dawn in the east. I hear the music. The lilting notes of the piano, a sad, sweet lament. Bach, I think, but I'm not sure.
I wrap the duvet round me and quietly pad down the corridor toward the big room.
Christian is at the piano, completely lost in the music he's playing. His expression is sad and forlorn, like the music. His playing is stunning. Leaning against the wall at the entrance, I listen enraptured. He's such an accomplished musician. He sits naked, his body bathed in the warm light cast by a solitary freestanding lamp beside the piano. With the rest of the large room in darkness, it's like he's in his own isolated little pool of light, untouch-able... lonely, in a bubble.
I pad quietly toward him, enticed by the sublime, melancholy music. I'm mesmerized watching his long skilled fingers as they find and gently press the keys, thinking how those same fingers have expertly handled and caressed my body. I flush and gasp at the memory and press my thighs together. He glances up, his unfathomable gray eyes bright, his expression unreadable.
"Sorry," I whisper. "I didn't mean to disturb you."
A frown flits across his face.
"Surely, I should be saying that to you," he murmurs. He finishes playing and puts his hands on his legs.
I notice now that he's wearing PJ pants. He runs his fingers through his hair and stands.
His pants hang from his hips, in that way... oh my. My mouth goes dry as he casually strolls around the piano toward me. He has broad shoulders, narrow hips, and his abdomi-nal muscles ripple as he walks. He really is stunning.
"You should be in bed," he admonishes.
"That was a beautiful piece. Bach?"
"Transcription by Bach, but it's originally an oboe concerto by Alessandro Marcello."
"It was exquisite, but very sad, such a melancholy melody."
His lips quirk up in a half smile.
"Bed," he orders. "You'll be exhausted in the morning."
"I woke and you weren't there."
"I find it difficult to sleep, and I'm not used to sleeping with anyone," he murmurs. I can't fathom his mood. He seems a little despondent, but it's difficult to tell in the darkness. Perhaps it was the tone of the piece he was playing. He puts his arm around me and gently walks me back to the bedroom.
"How long have you been playingYou play beautifully."
"Since I was six."
"Oh." Christian as a six-year-old boy... my mind conjures an image of a beautiful, copper-haired little boy with gray eyes and my heart melts - a moppet-haired kid who likes impossibly sad music.
"How are you feeling?" he asks when we are back in the room. He switches on a sidelight.
"I'm good."
We both glance down at the bed at the same time. There's blood on the sheets - evidence of my lost virginity. I flush, embarrassed, pulling the duvet tighter around me.
"Well, that's going to give Mrs. Jones something to think about," Christian mutters as he stands in front of me. He puts his hand under my chin and tips my head back, staring down at me. His eyes are intense as he examines my face. I realize that I've not seen his naked chest before. Instinctively, I reach out to run my fingers through the smattering of dark hair on his chest to see how it feels. Immediately, he steps back out of my reach.
