There is no duty we so much underrate
as the duty of being happy. By being happy,
we sow anonymous benefits upon the world.
—Robert Louis Stevenson
BASTIANO ROMANO
Days Missing: 6
“Play me something.”
Ari and I sat on my kitchen island, a juice pouch in each of our hands. I’d spent the day searching for Vincent. She’d spent the day taking care of Tessie and, according to her, fielding Tessie’s questions about Uncle Vince.
And at four in the morning, like clockwork, I’d come home and join her for a juice pouch. Our version of a nightcap. Sometimes, we’d talk. Sometimes, we’d make out. Sometimes, we’d do both.
I tossed my juice pouch in the trash. “You first.”
“I don’t play the piano.” She tugged at the bottom of her shirt—my shirt—and I wondered if she wore anything underneath.
I’d figure out in a moment.
I tossed her juice pouch in the trash, too. “I know.”
“Then… what?”
She let me lead her to the piano, and when I tapped its top, she gave me a dubious look before hopping on. I’d saved this piano for Everett, but every investigation I’d done into Elsa had turned up empty, and I could never get something to hold over Elsa’s head. Not even with the money she’d supposedly owed to someone.
With Vincent gone and all our searches coming up empty, my hope had plummeted somewhere beside my soul, and that motherfucker was probably the size of a pea. Or maybe something smaller, like Elsa’s heart.
I pressed a hand to Ariana’s knees and nudged them wider. Her legs parted, and a smirk curved my lips at her lack of panties.
Such a beautiful distraction.
More than a distraction.
I shoved that voice down. The one that told me to take a risk with Ariana, that she wasn’t Elsa, that I could trust her.
You already do trust her.
“I’ll play the piano keys”—I curled my fingers around her calf and spread her legs wider—“if your fingers play the same melody on your pussy.”
“What?” Her lower lip dropped open a bit, amusing me.
I placed her hand on her pussy and rubbed her fingers in tiny little circles on her clit. “Are you slow today or is this a usual thing?”
She sighed and closed her eyes as she quickened her movements. “Always a jerk.”
“Did you think you could change me?”
In some ways, she had. She’d gotten me to want her. I didn’t just want to fuck her. I wanted her. Everything. Anything she’d give me. Dangerous territory, considering the last time I’d felt this way…
Only this time felt different.
Falling in love with Elsa was like jogging at the park; this with Ariana—and I refused to call it love—was like falling face first onto hot concrete on a cold day. I could pick myself off the ground, but then I’d be the assface with pebbles indented on his skin, so I figured I’d lay on the ground for a little and enjoy the heat before the consequences set in.
“I’d never be so arrogant.” Ariana closed her legs, the movement nipping at my hand I had between her legs. “You’re not playing the piano.”
I nudged her legs open again and tilted my head. “You have been arrogant.”
“Oh?”
“Where’s the woman who worked her Degory degree into every sentence?”
“I never did that.”
My eyes dipped to her legs. They were better suited for a Sports Illustrated photoshoot than behind a bar. She had tits that would make Katy Perry weep, and her ass resembled the after picture of a Brazilian butt lift testimonial.
But it was her mouth I wanted to fuck. Those pouty, plump lips that spewed challenges like peace was a foreign concept, like her mission in life was to start World War III. The lips that comforted my sister with sweet words and heartfelt reassurances. The lips that were there for me, silent when I just needed a juice pouch nightcap and vocal when the silence threatened to eat me.
I stared at those blow job lips and asked, “Are you calling me a liar?”
“Well, you said you’d play the piano.”
I placed her hand back on her pussy and struck the first chord of Yiruma’s “River Flows In You” harder than necessary. It vibrated the piano, and I knew she felt it in her core.
“Oh, God,” she whispered, her free hand clenched on the piano top.
“Every time I hit a key, a hammer hits a string beneath you. It vibrates the string, and you can hear it. But if you’re sitting on the piano, you can feel it.”
I continued playing, hitting the notes harder than I needed to, letting the siren sitting on my custom Steinway ride out the vibrations. I played to the view of her stroking her pussy instead of the keys.
Her wetness slid onto my piano, but I didn’t care. I’d make her lick it off later. She rubbed tiny circles on her clit and moaned out my name until I finished the song, picked her up, and carried her to our bed.
I laid on the mattress and sat her on top of me, so she straddled my waist. She tugged off her shirt until she was naked, her tight little pussy pressed to my chest, not caring that I was fully clothed.
I stuck two fingers inside of her, leaned back, and commanded, “Fuck my fingers.”
Her hips jerked forward, and she looked so aware that I was watching her grind herself against my fingers.
“Filthy girl.” I smacked her ass with my free hand. “Are you always this wet or is it just for me?”
“You,” she groaned out, once again transporting me away from my reality.
The truth was, I spent my days searching for Vincent and my nights escaping that fact. Right now, she was the only thing keeping me sane.
Without her, I’d splinter.