Page 4 of Play Dirty (Brooklyn Dawn 1)

It was time for her to make way for me this time. In every fucking possible way.

I let the song end. She swallowed, her throat bobbing as she obviously searched for something to say. When nothing came, she tossed back the rest of her drink and set the glass on the edge of the piano.

When I grabbed her by the hips and pulled her onto my lap, it fell to the floor and shattered, the pieces scattering like shrapnel.

I expected her to bolt. For someone beyond the screen to react to the broken glass and charge back here to see if the damsel was in distress from the asshole who played piano like a demon and rarely spoke.

He—me—was probably dangerous, and she was clearly an innocent.

I ran my fingertips down the side of her throat to pull back her hair. She wore a hat. Annoying as fuck. Her hair poked out messily from underneath it, but the strands were as soft as satin as my mouth found her skin.

Not in a kiss. In warning.

“You’re going to want to run. Do it now.”

If she’d reacted involuntarily at all—so much as a shudder—I’d have shoved her off my lap and gotten the hell out of that bar. But she didn’t. As if she could read my mind, she reached up to pull off the stupid hat, tossing it on the piano before she shook out all that marvelous hair in my face.

Some was still restrained in a halfhearted twist. I ripped it apart with impunity. Pulling harder than I needed to so she’d get the goddamn message.

I’m not one of your safe boys. I’m not even one of the ones you think are so naughty. I will decimate you.

It was all I had left after decimating myself.

She had on a stretchy little dress and tights, for God’s sake. The kind that looked like a sweater and were as thin as socks. I didn’t ask for permission as I yanked her against me one more time, reminding her exactly why I’d pulled her close.

It sure wasn’t for a chat or to share in the joy of the music.

Again, she didn’t quake as if she couldn’t handle what I was dishing out or as if she was afraid. She arched back against me, her fingers moving over the keys as I dragged my hands up her inner thighs. Christ, not tights—thigh-highs. Not even a garter, just a bite of elastic hugging her endless legs. I didn’t know if she was playing out of nerves or as a distraction for the crowd, but as my thumbs skimmed the thin panel of silk between her legs, she played a…Halestorm song. Pretty sure that was what it was. I dug my thumbs into her hot cleft, offering pressure and not much else, but she didn’t falter. Not then and not when I peeled the sticky fabric away to rub the flat part of my thumb against her clit.

The bold move might’ve sent the Lindsey I’d met some time ago running. She’d been full of games and teasing, but I wasn’t sure she was ready for what I had in mind. But this Lindsey just rocked into my hand, daring me to move, widening her long ass legs to straddle my lap and give me the room I needed to make her come.

Of course. Because that was my role. Playing piano for her while she sung. Rubbing her off while she writhed on my lap and made me fucking ache for my mistakes.

Namely not banging the fuck out of her the first time we’d met at Logan’s festival, so I wouldn’t have had to look at the pictures of her in the tabloids with my buddy and with Johnny-goddamn-Cage and who knows who else. If I’d already had her before I saw those pictures, the itch would’ve been gone. She was a beautiful woman, and lots of men wanted a big, juicy bite.

Even me.

Even though I knew I’d be just the latest in a line of her admirers.

At least she wouldn’t forget this night. And then my need for her would be slaked. I wouldn’t feel it gnawing inside me like a hunger I didn’t have a hope in hell of satisfying.

My thumb pressed harder, circling insistently as I held her panties wide open under her dress with the other hand. Considering how wet she was and the drafts of air moving through the room, every sensation would affect her. Would help her get where she wanted to go.

I thought I’d be giving her a push, but it turned out she was all about the trip without my help.

To prove it, the song switched from “I Miss the Misery” to “I Get Off.” Same band, whole different message.

“You’re not making the demands here, Duchess.” I set my chin on her shoulder. “Your chance of calling the shots ended when you came into my fucking corner.”

Deliberately, I slowed things down, making my touch a tease. The barest flick of my fingertips over her before I reached up and tugged on her nipples, pleased when her playing faltered. Just for a second. Long enough for me to return between her legs and slide a finger into her, so deep that her wetness coated me. She made a sound deep in her throat, and it vibrated through her and reverberated into my chest.

Echoing like a heartbeat.

Still, she continued her song. The position was odd for her, half sitting and half standing to straddle my lap, but no one would’ve known she wasn’t seated with her back perfectly straight.

She was a fucking goddess on the piano. Behind the mic. In my lap as she squirmed against my cock and tested my control even as I pushed her to the limit of hers.

One finger turned into two inside her and I alternated my pace with a twist of my thumb over her clit. Little glancing blows to give her a hint of what she needed. Her hips were never still and her thighs had my hand in a death grip, yet her playing was flawless. When she finished one song, she took a deep breath and launched into another.

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