*Tia*
Keep playing? Is he mad? If not for the wicked challenge in his eyes before he disappears beneath my skirts, I might have kicked him out of the way. Instead, I return my fingers to the keys while he brackets my hips and slides me to the very edge of the bench. I strike a wrong chord and cringe. I am not going to allow the kisses he is trailing along the inside of my thigh to distract me. It matters not that I can scarcely breathe or that I am suddenly so warm I could swear the room has caught afire.
Then his mouth lands on the bud of my desire, and I nearly come up off the bench. Instead, I pound the keys as his tongue circles, as the pleasure mounts. I drop my head back, unable to concentrate on the tune, simply striking random chords. What does it matter when he is doing such wic
