She walked through the moonlit house; the night was still except for the structure around her creaking and settling for the night. The warm air caressed her body and the floor boards were a cool balm to her bare feet.
She had left him to sleep, the sheet rumpled around his waist, his arms pushed under the pillow, but had been unable to resist a feather like touch along the muscular line of his back before rising. He never stirred.
She had been reluctant to leave him, but she couldn’t sleep – she couldn’t stem the flow of thoughts; always wondering, questioning… never sure.
So she walked until she came to stand before her solace. The wood was scratched now, the polished shine long gone, but she loved this piano: every nick and chip, every familiar key and pedal.
She ran her fingers along the keys, up and down, covering the black and the white, the majors and the minors. She needed to play but worried that she’d wake him. In the end she sat down – the draw was too great.
She settled her thumb on middle C, 1, 2, 3 – 1, 2, 3, 4 – her fingers flowed through the simple scale, effortlessly moving into the soft opening bars of her favourite piece of music. Clair de Lune soothed her – eased her tired mind. She lost herself in the melody, the beautiful expression, light on dark, the cascade of notes leading to the bolder, louder chords.
She stumbled over a few notes when his hands came to rest on her slim shoulders.
“Keep playing.” He murmured.
So she did.
She closed her eyes and embraced the music again as his hands slowly, gently moved down her chest to cup her breasts. She sighed as he stroked the sensitive underside, the place she loved him to kiss.
Her long, slender fingers spread wide, moving fast over the keys, her short, unpainted nails a blur against the discoloured ivory.
His hand followed the curve of her breast until he found her tight little nipples. Rolling and pulling them, he bent forward to bring his lips to the side of her neck. She instinctively moved to give him full access, still playing, but not so lost in the music now. Loving the feel of his mouth on her, his soft, full lips a sensory feast.
His soft tongue licked a long line from her collarbone, up to her ear, where he nipped her earlobe. His hands continued to play their own rhythm on her breasts, until they were full and heavy, begging for a firmer touch.
She shifted on the stool, opening her legs a little wider as her foot worked the pedal and her arms moved along the keyboard. She heard a rough laugh and her heart smiled.
He knew what she needed.
His hands slipped down to lay flat underneath her breasts, his arms under hers. His fingers tilted towards the juncture of her thighs as they stroked a path down her torso. The muscles in her stomach jumped and clenched as he passed over them; goose bumps rose despite the heavy, humid air.
Her body moved with the music – her hips rolled – his chest brushed against her back.
She gasped as the movement of her hips brought her into contact with his fingertips. He combed through the silken curls there – he loved to do that – could play with her for hours, he said. Right now, she wanted them to move lower, needed him to touch her where she ached the most.
“Please.” She whispered. Always so impatient.
“Open a little wider.” He encouraged.
Oh there! God, yes, there – right there!
His finger circled and rubbed, just the right pressure, just the right spot; his knowledge of her body always a constant source of surprise for her.
Her head fell back onto his shoulder, her fingers slowing, the notes halting and disjointed now.
“Is that good, baby?”
“Yes.” She breathed. “So good, I… you… don’t stop.”
She finally gave up playing, her hand falling to cover his, wanting to feel the movement of his fingers as he worked her body, spreading her legs wide so he could sink them inside her. In and out, the slick sounds a lewd accompaniment that only aroused her more.
She could feel it building now, her own perfect piece of music. She was a beautiful arpeggio, every note placed on her body and he played every single one.
His hand continued to work her, slipping out so he could focus entirely on her swollen, needy clit. It didn’t take long. She was so ready: one stroke, then another, and her back arched. She gripped his hand and yelled out her release, every question, every uncertainty floating out to the moonlit night.
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