“Play Me”

The door clicked shut behind you. He didn’t turn.

He didn’t need to.

He knew it was you by the way the air shifted. By the confident rhythm of your heels tapping across the floor like a countdown.

You didn’t say a word.

You climbed onto the piano—deliberate, dangerous—and spread your legs wide for him, fully, brazenly, unapologetically. You weren’t wearing anything beneath that dress.

He faltered.

The notes stuttered, his breath catching in his throat.

Then he looked up, slowly, eyes dragging from the keys to the heat between your thighs.

"You really expect me to keep playing with that in front of me?” he said, voice thick and low.

You smiled lazily, leaning back on your palms, legs still open, inviting. “I expect you to play harder.”

He stood, dragging the bench back, jaw tight, hunger written across his face.

“You came without panties.”

You tilted your head.

“I came for you.”

“You sit there like a song begging to be wrecked,” he growled, stepping between your legs.

You breathed out slowly, lips parting.

“Then wreck me with music.”

His hand wrapped around your thigh, firm, possessive, sliding higher with every word.

“You want a melody?” He leaned in, voice a low promise against your skin.

“You’re about to feel a damn melody.”