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He pulled back and gripped my face in his big hands. “Play for me.”
My eyes widened in surprise. “You want me to play my harp?”
“Yes. Play that song you played in your room.”
I was taken aback at the request, never considering that Ivan truly enjoyed listening to the harp, that he might find it as soothing, as comforting, as I did. I kissed him softly on the mouth and went to sit at my harp, my skirt fluttering around me just as it had when I had played this song for him the first time.
He pushed an armchair in front of me and sunk his body into it, his eyes locked on me as my fingers relaxed into the familiar feel of the strings.
My face heated with a bout of self-consciousness at the steady intensity of his gaze. Soon enough, the words started to flow, but our gazes never wavered. Even though I was the one singing, somehow, I was the one who felt hypnotized. Mesmerized by his undivided focus, the force of his energy, his tormented, adoring, penetrating gaze.
He needed me, needed me to comfort him and I was ecstatic to provide it. To give him something he’d never ask another soul for.
With every string I plucked, every note out of my mouth, every beat of my heart, I sent him love and support and comfort. As if we were two magnets being pulled together, his lean body leaned forward in the chair until he finally rose and moved behind me.
I was confused as his firm grip pulled me to my feet, briefly disrupting my playing. He sat on the padded stool and pulled me on his lap, my thighs spread over his. His lips hovered over my ear. “Keep playing,” he murmured as his lips descended down my neck and his hands slid up my thighs under my skirt.
Was he serious? How the hell was I supposed to play with his mouth and hands on me.
He bit my earlobe, then licked it. “Play,” he commanded in a much firmer tone, and I was helpless to resist it.
I started plucking the strings, hoping that it was actually a song. There was no way I was going to be able to sing. I’d probably sound like a croaking frog if I tried.
His hands started rubbing up and down my thighs, but quickly started wandering everywhere. Diving under my shirt and shoving my bra up and out of his way to roughly cup my breasts and squeeze and pinch my nipples, all the while biting, sucking and kissing my neck.
“Ivan, I can’t—”
“Keep playing, my sexy, sweet malyshka. Moya.” A tangle of other Russian words followed that I had no hope of understanding. Whatever he said had me struggling to continue plucking the strings. If it hadn’t been for his impassioned request, I would have abandoned the instrument altogether and focused entirely on him.
His right hand stayed at my breast, massaging, plucking my nipple and making me crazy, while his other hand slid into my underwear and attacked my clit.
“Want to fuck you so bad, right now. Fuck you while you play your beautiful music for me,” he growled, the sound of his voice and the two fingers thrusting inside me causing shivers to roll up my spine.
My hips jerked against his plunging fingers, not even remotely discouraging him. I could feel his cock grinding against my lower back and briefly wondered how long he would have me continue playing—or trying to play.
As if actions were conjured by my thoughts, he suddenly stood and ripped my underwear off. I was prepared to be carried to the couch, or at least the floor, but I was surprised when he opened his jeans, pulled his dick out, then sat back down on the stool.
“Sit, Em,” he said, gesturing to his hard dick while I stood there. “I want to fuck you while you play.”
Instead of waiting for me to respond, he gripped my hips and, in a controlled motion, slowly dropped me onto his cock. We both groaned in unison at the feel of him sliding inside m.
“Play,” he rasped as his hands resumed their onslaught, roving all over my body.
Oh my god! How could I possibly focus on creating music when he was consuming every bit of my focus.
He slapped the outside of my thigh and gave a powerful thrust of his hips that would have thrown me off his lap if it hadn’t been for the strong arm he wrapped around my waist. “Play, neposlushnaya devochka.”
My shaking hands reached out for the strings, unable to believe I was going to attempt to play while he continued to infiltrate and devour every part of me. With shaky hands, I plucked out the sweet sounds of the harp, surely missing notes as Ivan started a slow grind.
It didn’t take long until we were moving against each other in a slow, building rhythm, our hips moving together in ever increasing slides. “Ivan, I—I…It’s…oh god,” I had no idea what I was even trying to say. Instead of playing, my hands clenched tightly around the strings, discordant sounds filling the air.
“Fuck, you feel so fucking good. God, I love you so fucking much,” he groaned into my hair, his hips starting to surge with more urgency.
Breath caught in my throat at his words. The notion that Ivan loved me and could express it freely was one I was still adjusting to, and each time he said it, it felt like a precious gift.
My hands left the strings of my harp and reached behind his neck, sifting into his hair and gripping the silky strands. It was the only way I could hug him, given our position. “I love you, too. I feel like I loved you forever,” I said, burying my face against the side of his neck.
Instead of responding, his hands moved between my legs and started strumming my clit, quickly sending me into orbit. My hips started squirming and rocking and he had to hook his arm around my waist to hold me still for his pounding thrusts. As endorphins flooded my bloodstream, I felt him give three driving lunges followed by a harsh groan of pleasure.
