Dion’s house is quiet as I walk from room to room, admiring the final result. There’s something so special about having decorated it myself. I never knew a house could feel like this — so warm.
Every time I set foot in here, I feel at peace. I know that technically, it’s just four walls, and they hold no mystical powers. Yet somehow, I feel safe here. It feels like my father can’t reach me, like the weight of my responsibilities is lessened. I’ve been using this house as an escape, telling him it was important I finish decorating before Dion gets back, and the reprieve it’s granted me has been invaluable.
The interior design in this home is a culmination of all my choices, and just being here brings me joy. In my father’s house, I wasn’t even allowed to pick the color of my desk chair, but I handpicked every last detail here, right down to the doorknobs. I spent weeks ensuring everything was perfect, and I felt like I was truly in my element.
I didn’t think anything else could bring me the peace playing the piano gives me, but I truly lost myself in design details. Maybe it was simply the aspect of being able to control my new living environment, and the hope that inspired, but it felt like more.
I pause in the living room, my gaze settling on the grand piano by the window. Grandma Anne had it delivered last week, and the state it had been in was painful to witness. She told me it’s Dion’s most prized possession, but it was so badly out of tune it was barely playable. I had it tuned and restored as best as I could, and it’s quickly become my favorite part of the house. I wonder why Dion let it deteriorate to that extent?
I can only assume it’s because he wasn’t around much, but somehow, I find that hard to believe. This piano probably cost more than my father’s house, and it was clearly custom made.
I sit down and lightly trace the tip of my fingers over the keys of the gorgeous and priceless Steinway, a rush of excitement thrumming through my veins as I begin to play Liszt’s La Campanella. A piano like this one was made to be played.
I smile as the melody fills the living room, the acoustics as good as they can be in a home. It took years of practice to be able to play this piece at all, and it’s since become my favorite. When life felt too hard and the weight of my family’s expectations became too heavy, I’d lose myself in piano pieces like this one. Playing La Campanella requires a certain amount of control, and being able to do it has always made me feel powerful. I sigh as I play the last note, my eyes falling closed. I wish I could feel this way every second of every day.
“Beautiful.”
I tense at the sound of Dion’s voice, my spine going rigid. I didn’t realize he’d be back so soon, and I certainly hadn’t expected to find him here tonight.
I inhale sharply and lift my gaze to find him leaning back against the wall behind me. “I… I’m sorry,” I murmur, frozen in place. I should get up and apologize properly, but somehow, I can’t do anything but stare at him. Once again, he’s dressed impeccably, and the light stubble on his face only enhances his sharp jaw. “I… I didn’t mean to touch your piano. I just… I… It’s just so stunning, and I couldn’t resist her,” I admit, my heart pounding wildly.
His gaze roams over me, but I can’t read that intense look in his eyes. He looks both haunted and mesmerized at once. This is exactly how he looked at me when he attended my concert, and he’s got me enraptured. No one has ever looked at me what way before — not even Eric.
“I know the feeling,” he whispers, almost as though he didn’t want me to hear but simultaneously couldn’t keep the words buried.
“Everything that’s mine is yours, Faye,” he murmurs, his voice louder this time. “Everything.”
He pushes off the wall and walks toward me, his steps slow, leisurely. He doesn’t stop until he’s right beside the piano bench I’m seated on, his eyes never leaving mine as he kneels down. “Play it again,” he murmurs, his hand wrapping around my waist. “For me, this time.” He inhales shakily and buries his face against my neck, stealing my breath. “Please, Faye.” His voice is a whispered plea — one I cannot deny.
My fingers tremble as I begin to play the piece again, and I miss a few notes. I expected him to reprimand me, or demand that I start over like my father always does, but instead, he softly kisses my neck, his grip tightening on my waist for a moment before his palm slowly slides down my stomach. His breath hitches, and he nips at my neck before sliding his hand further down, until he reaches the hem of my skirt.
His fingers slip underneath, and I tense, missing several notes as his hand slides up to my thigh. I squirm under his hold, confused by the way he’s making me feel. It’s just like when he kissed me in Hawaii. My body is heated, needy, and a soft whimper escapes my lips when he slips his fingers between my thighs, his thumb brushing against my lace underwear.
He keeps his hand there, and it takes all of me not to squirm in my seat in an attempt to bring him closer, to make his thumb brush against me just a little more.
“Sixteen days,” he murmurs, seemingly unbothered by how unrecognizable La Campanella has become. I’ve missed so many notes that I’m no longer sure what I’m playing, and for the first time in my life, I can’t bring myself to care. “Soon, I’m going to make you play the hardest piece you know, while I kneel between your pretty legs and taste your pussy.”
I hardly recognize the needy sound that escapes from deep in my throat, and Dion chuckles, his breath tickling my ear.
“Soon, you’ll think of me every time you play, and each time I hear the sound of a piano, I’ll think of you. My beautiful, delicious wife.”
My fingers still, and the room falls silent. Dion pulls away a little to look at me, his free hand gently cupping my cheek. He turns me to face him, and the desire in his eyes steals my breath. He looks at me like I’m the only thing he can see, like everything else fades away when he’s holding me like this.
His gaze drops to my lips, and he sighs. “I’ve thought of you every single day while I was away. When I close my eyes, I can just about imagine the way you taste… but I need a reminder, Faye. Won’t you remind me?”
Dion leans in just a touch, until his lips brush against mine, his touch hesitant, as though he wants to give me a chance to pull away. When I don’t, he groans and captures my lips, his movements soft but urgent.
I moan when his tongue brushes over my lips and open up for him instinctively. Dion’s hand wraps through my hair, and he grips tightly as he tangles his tongue with mine, tasting, devouring. I reach for him, my arms wrapping around his neck, and he pulls me closer, his touch as desperate as mine.
He captures my bottom lip between his teeth for a moment before letting go, his forehead dropping to mine, both of us panting. “Faye,” he moans. “I thought I’d be able to resist you if I saw you again, but I should’ve known better.”
He leans in and presses a soft lingering kiss to my cheek, partially on the edge of my mouth, and it takes all of me not to turn toward him and kiss him all over again. Every step of the way, he surprises me, and in turn, I end up surprising myself.
Dion kisses my forehead, and then he pulls away with a sweet, intimate smile. Something about that look in his eyes makes me smile back at him, and a moment that should’ve felt awkward instead feels natural.
He sighs as he rises to his feet, making no effort to hide his desire from me. I instinctively press my thighs together when his movements place his hard length at eye level, and Dion reaches for me. He smirks as he places his index finger underneath my chin and lifts my head until my eyes meet his.
“And just like that, you’ve created a new fantasy, baby. You, seated right here,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse. His finger traces up my chin to my lips. “And that pretty mouth of yours wrapped around my cock.”
The image he paints drifts through my mind, and though it should repulse me to be used that way, it oddly excites me. A small part of me is curious what Dion would look like losing control because of something I’m doing to him.
“But for now,” he whispers. “I want you to show me around our new home.” He takes a step away and looks around the living room. “I love what I’m seeing so far.”
He walks to our large white sectional sofa, a faint smile on his lips. I watch him as he takes off his suit jacket and waistcoat, a soft sigh escaping him as he slowly undoes his cufflinks and drops them on top of his jacket.
“We don’t have to do it now,” I tell him. “You must be so tired. I didn’t mean to intrude. It’s quite late already, and you probably want to go to bed.”
He shakes his head as rolls up his sleeves, exposing his forearms. I bite down on my lip as an unfamiliar sensation rushes through me. “What I want,” he says, his eyes trailing over my body. He smiles roguishly and shakes his head. “Is for you to show me around.”
I move to walk past him, but he grabs my hand, startling me. Dion looks into my eyes as he entwines our fingers, his gaze heated. “Let’s go,” he says, smirking.
I bite back a nervous smile and pull him along, trying my hardest not to notice how large his hands are, and how much rougher and stronger they are than mine. Yet somehow, that’s all I can think about as we move from room to room.
“You did so well, angel,” he tells me as we step into his new home office. I decorated it in dark wooden tones, and it’s probably one of my favorite rooms. “I love everything you’ve done. I knew you’d turn this space into a real home.”
I look up at him, surprised by his words. No one has ever complimented me like that before. I’m tempted to ask him if he means it, but I’m too scared he’ll think I’m fishing for compliments, and the last thing I want to do is annoy him.
I look down at the floor as I lead him into the last room, our bedroom. For some reason, the idea of being here with him makes me nervous, and not in the way it used to.
Dion chuckles and raises our joined hands to his lips. He kisses the back of my hand and looks into my eyes, making my heart race. “This is my favorite room so far,” he murmurs.
“I’m glad you like it,” I whisper, relieved. “I went with dark tones and a modern aesthetic.”
He turns toward me, and I involuntarily take a step back, but that doesn’t deter him. My back hits the wall, and he smiles as my cheeks heat. Is he also reminded of the way he had me pressed up against the wall in Hawaii?
“Start moving your things in,” he tells me. “Sixteen days, Faye. That’s all the time you have left. From the moment we’re married, I’m not spending a single night alone in that bed.”
I nod, my heart racing. I’m relieved that he seems to want me, at least, but what happens when he realizes I have no experience in bed? What happens when he finds out I don’t know how to please him? How long until he gets bored with me, and his desire turns to frustration? What happens then?
