Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Somehow, even with shaking fingers, he found the tempo, the thread. Somehow, even with every hollow vibration of the cello resonating up through his cock and into his belly to leave him weak, broken, liquid with desire, he fell into the alternating and melding and shifting and writhing harmony of notes. And somehow…somehow, even with his mind fogged and his heart racing and his senses high and spinning…
Somehow he played, and in each throbbing skein of music was rapture.
This wasn’t Victor alone, coaxing at the strings. This was every passion Amani exuded in that transfixing, arresting aura enveloping him to make him part of it, to pull him into the music and into the soul of the beautiful man commanding him without even touching him. Every stroke of Amani’s fingers to the strings was a stroke against Vic’s body, and as he quivered he gave it back to the cello to make it howl and cry for him, howl and cry for Amani, and every frenetic keen from the Stradivarius seemed to call his name and draw him in.
There was no duet. A duet was born of two, when this was somehow one—this chaotic gestalt energy, symphonic and catastrophic, lifting him up and crashing him down in this twined flight of music that rode the current between them to link them deeper and deeper. He lost breath, lost thought, lost everything but that synchronicity as they spun wilder and wilder, notes flowing faster and faster, fingers moving in tandem, racing them toward a higher and higher peak…
Until they crested, stopping simultaneously, notes fading into a ringing and expectant silence. Amani was panting, sweat misting his throat in a soft-slicked sheen, his eyes wild and lit from within with a burnished amber glow, hot and electric as lightning. Their eyes locked. Amani set his cello aside with slow deliberation, propping it against the couch. Silence held for one more moment. Then:
“Come here, sweet boy,” Amani whispered.
And Victor broke.
l
ONE MORE MOMENT LONGER AND Amani might have come.
Not yet. Not yet, not when he wasn’t ready, not when he needed this feeling inside him to become flesh, to become motion, to become something deeper than words and song. And when Vic dropped his cello against its stand, snapped the spreader bar free from his ankle cuffs with shaky hands, and crashed into him, Amani locked his mouth to his pet’s and draped his arms around his neck and wrapped his thighs against that powerful waist as Vic bore down on him, crushing him to the sofa, burying him beneath his weight.
They clutched at each other, nails dragging, tongues twining and dipping and delving and tasting, wild wordless moans blending between them and melting into a single husky, hungry voice. Vic’s cock dragged against Amani’s inner thighs, his hips, so hot, so heavy, so thick, dripping against him and smearing his skin and his briefs with wetness, mimicking what he craved with every thrust and dragging against his own cock until it surged against the tight fabric trapping it. He bit madly at Vic’s mouth, teasing and tormenting it, catching up handfuls of tangled, sweat-darkened hair and dragging his pet in deep. Lust had a scent; lust had a taste; lust had a body, and that body was writhing between his thighs with such hardened perfection that Amani almost couldn’t stand to let him go.
But he managed to tear away, catching his breaths sharply, nipping Vic’s upper lip with a whisper of “Sweet boy” just to watch him arch, tremble, grit his teeth in near-pain while Amani dipped into the bag for the bottle of lube, flicked it open with his thumb, and coated his fingers. Even tangled with Vic he managed to drag his briefs down, flinging them aside, leaving him bared and spreading his legs underneath Vic, opening himself so he could tease his fingers against his own entrance, tossing his head back with jolts of pleasure as he spread that slickness against his skin, rubbed it in, slipped his fingers inside and gave himself a taste of what he wanted so much.
“Amani,” Vic breathed huskily, all the desperation in the world in his voice, in the dilated eyes that watched Amani with fixative hunger.
“Be…mmnh…be good for me, sweet boy,” Amani breathed, then cried out softly as he added a second finger, stretching himself, scissoring his fingers. “Don’t you want me to be ready for you?”
“Amani.” A snarl, gasping, fraying threads, and Amani reached up wit his other hand to trail his fingers over those snarling lips, dip inside, stroke and tease and trace his way downward to wrap against that straining throat, collar him just to see that burn build higher behind Vic’s eyes.
“Impatient.” He plunged his fingers into himself a few more times, lifting his hips on breathy gasps with each, then slipped them free, sinking to the sofa beneath Vic, stroking his inner thigh along his waist. Rock hard all over, wound so tight, ready to break. Lovely. “Beg me, sweet boy.”