INK AND MILK

BRIELLE

I lean against the doorframe and watch him play. A sad melody fills the space between us as his hands make love to the keys. It’s late, close to 2:00 a.m., and I woke in his bed with no idea how I came to be there. The sorrowful notes seemed to call to me from the ballroom, and so I followed them up the stairs and down the hall as if he were the pied piper, and I was a hapless child.

There is a bottle of whisky on top of the piano, and an empty glass. Of course, he is drinking again. He is never long without a whisky or wine in his hands, and I don’t know which makes him happier, sex or alcohol. I wonder if he knows how to have one without the other.

I move closer, trail my fingers along the ink that marks the hard muscle over his shoulders and down his back. My insides tighten. Levi turns and faces me with a curious expression. I retract my hand and stare into the hazel eyes so full of anguish and torment, and I want to erase his pain, but I don’t know where to start.

He grabs my hands and tugs me closer, setting me down so that my arse smashes the keys. He runs his hands up my sides, finds the sash on my robe and tugs, exposing my silk chemise underneath. Levi runs his thumb over my nipple, and my body breaks out in goosebumps. He kneads my breasts and stands, kicking back the stool. It lands with a loud clatter in the empty room. He slides his fingers into my hair, gripping it roughly as he meets my lips with vigour, and passion, his need as intoxicating as his misery.

I kiss him back, wanting more of this delicious, ridiculous man who more often than not borders on insanity. He tugs at my robe, ripping the fabric from my shoulders, and jerks me closer, devouring me with his mouth on my neck, my shoulder, my breast. He tears the silk of my chemise and I’m laid bare to him, exposed and vulnerable but revelling in it all the same. Levi squeezes my breast while his mouth covers the opposite nipple. He lifts me onto the piano, the keys protest under the soles of my feet, making a strange and beautiful music all of their own as he splays a hand over my abdomen and pushes me back against the sleek white surface of the piano.

I rest my feet on the keys and that dissonant noise comes again as he trails his hands over my chest and belly, and down my thighs, avoiding my pussy altogether. Grasping my knees, he spreads my legs, so I am splayed for him. Wide open and vulnerable.

“Jesus, you’re fucking beautiful.” He lowers his head, and kisses the inside of my thighs, all the way up to my pussy where his finger dips between my lips. His tongue laves at me, opening me little by little, and then all at once, he thrusts inside. I cry out. Wanting more, but too afraid to demand he give it to me. Too afraid his drinking and silence means he’s still pining after another woman while his mouth and hands make promises to me that he cannot keep.

The thought of being just another plaything to him boils my blood, and I grab hold of his hair and tug him closer, grinding my pussy against his face. He moans, the sound reverberating through my flesh. It makes me shiver all over. My legs are shaking. I can’t keep still and every time I move, the keys groan again with more discordant notes, shattering the silence. Levi grabs my ankles and thrusts my legs forward, so my knees rest on my chest. The position makes my already sensitive flesh sing. I arch my neck so that I’m looking into the mirror on the wall behind us. We make a handsome couple. His shock of thick black hair and pretty face buried between my thighs, one inky hand under my arse, the other grasping my breast. My milky skin flushed with desire, and perhaps the most erotic of all, my ravaged and torn chemise exposing my body to him.

I come staring at our reflection, begging for him to stop, and silently wishing for more. More of him, more time, and more nights like this.

When Levi stands, he’s smug. I want to smack the smile right off his face. Instead, I sit up with a huff, but it’s apparent he hasn’t had his fill of me. He greedily sucks on my breast, and I let him, because he’s so very talented with his mouth. Shoving his sleep pants down his hips, he takes hold of his cock. It’s thick, a gorgeous dusky pink with just the right amount of veins. The slit is leaking pre-cum. I wet my lips, wanting to lick it away, longing to take him in my mouth and feel him succumb to me, but I watch—enchanted—as he strokes himself. I commit to memory how the hard, corded muscles of his chest and biceps bunch as he works his long shaft. And I slide my own hand between my legs and rub my swollen flesh with hands as greedy as my eyes.

“ Fuck me, Levi. S'il te plaît.” I moan, the promise of euphoria so close. A few more strokes and I will come undone again, but I want him. Non. I need him inside me. “Please?”

“Jesus Christ, begging looks good on you, Brie.” His own voice is strained. He dips his thumb into my mouth, and I suck, hard, the way I would his cock.

Why won’t he fuck me? I need him to fuck me. This is probably the last chance we will get because my flight leaves early in the morning, but he won’t.

“Please?” I cry again.

“No. Not until you say you’ll stay with me.”

I frown and shake my head. I don’t understand why he’s doing this now. “I cannot. You know I cannot.”

With a low, throaty groan, he comes. Hot jets of semen hit my stomach and pool in my belly button. He pants and slumps over as his hand strokes his cock and he draws out the last of his orgasm. He closes his eyes, and just when I’m about to sit up, he presses his hand to the centre of my chest and holds me in place.

“Stay,” he whispers, as he pushes into me, hard. I am soaked from his mouth, and my fingers, but I’m still unprepared for his punishing thrusts. He can’t be in very far, and yet it’s too much. I can’t take it. The pressure, the pain, it’s too much. He pulls out and slides his hand over the flesh of my stomach, scooping up his cum and using it to coat his length. Then he positions himself at my entrance and slowly eases back in. “Stay with me. Not because I’m paying you, because you want to.”

“I can’t.”

“Bullshit,” he hisses.

I tense up. I don’t want to have this conversation now, not when he’s drunk on pain and pleasure, and thoughtless with his words, with me.

“Give me the month, Brie. Just one month, and you never have to see me again.”

Never see him again?

The Brielle of one week ago would have laughed at this man so desperate and needy for my company, my body. She would have told him to go to hell and gladly never laid eyes on him again. But I am no longer that Brielle.

Levi pinches my clit. I arch my back with the sensation, as it coils like a snake in my belly, ready to strike. He rakes his hand across my breasts and down my abdomen, his blunt nails leaving long red lines, marking me, and rests his hand over my pubic bone, massaging gently. I feel myself open even more to him, taking him deeper, my heels digging into his back to hasten his thrusts. They aren’t gentle, but they are perfectly timed with the pressure of his hands, and as my orgasm rushes over me, I find myself saying yes over and over, though I’m not sure I know what I’m agreeing to.