Sonata (Butcher and Violinist 2)

His thrusts grew harder, faster… causing waves through the bubbling tub. Water splashed against the sides. In between strokes, he sucked on my nipple. Together, we raced after our climax. I rode him, and he met me with hard thrusts.

“Oh, Jean-Pierre, I’m coming.” My climax rushed in like a train. I exploded. Came hard. My body pulsed and hummed in a mass of shivers and spasms. And the whole time, he held me close to him, nibbling on my neck and groaning. That intense gaze. Those huge hands. That lovely cock.

“Oui, princesse, orgasme pour moi.”

And I ripped apart. Groaning within rippling water and his embrace. I fell apart, and he had me in those huge arms.

Oh my god. . .

When I finished coming, he lifted me up from his lap.

“Baby?” I gasped as he flipped me around. Before I could ask anything else, he bent me over. A sigh left my lips, as my body rode more aftershocks of my orgasm.

“You make me crazy.” He thrust inside me from behind.

I reached for the side of the tub, gripping the edge.

“My princess.” He slammed into me. “That’s what I’ll call you.”

And he did, as he buried his cock deep inside of me, gripping my hips. “Oui, princesse.”

My breasts swung with the rhythm of his pumping. My legs grew week as I held on. Although I’d just came, shivers of mounting desire rushed through me.

“Oui, princesse.” He came hard, groaning in pleasure and banging his final thrust into my body. Rocking me. Splashing the water. He lost control as much as I did, and I loved witnessing it. There was so much beauty in his breakdown. Poetry to the way he grunted and thrust, right on the edge, right before spilling into me, wild with loud groans.

“Goddamn it!” He slammed into me hard, his cock jerked inside of me, bumping and exciting me for another round. I gripped the edge of the tub.

“Fuck.” He leaned against me, as if it was hard to stay up. He hadn’t moved his cock yet, which told me that one more inch and he’d spurt some more.

I grinned in pure satisfaction.

And then he thrust one more time, growling violently against my back and spilling into my pussy some more.

Damn you’re a beast, Jean-Pierre.

We stayed there, in that intimate position, for several seconds.

He clung to me, holding my body close to his. Steam rose around us, along with the scent of our sex. The jet streams twirled and twisted rose petals along bubbles.

And we remained connected. Our breathing slowed together.

No regrets.

Our courtship wasn’t traditional. My mind still boggled from the truth of it all.

Still, there was something between us. Strong and hot. Alive and breathing. It moved around us. It slipped within and outside of us.

There was something between Jean-Pierre and me.

Was it just lust? Obsession? Some odd form of luxury Stockholm syndrome?

It didn’t matter.

This was it. Something I’d been waiting for all my, life but didn’t have the words to describe. And this felt good. It opened my eyes. Mind. Body. All my senses. I felt more alive than ever. And that meant something. And this meant something.

And this moment was ours.

This moment could never be taken away.

This moment when we remained connected within warm water and rose petals. This moment when we became one and never yearned to let go.

Chapter 1

Pillow Talk

Eden

Under silk crimson sheets, we lay in bed, holding each other.

Jean-Pierre’s master suite was the only dark part of his whole condo. It didn’t have as much elaborate decorating like the other rooms—a bed, dresser, small desk, and mounted high-tech entertainment system. Everything was minimalistic, except for the coloring.

The coloring was strategic in some way.

He was saying something.

Black carpet covered the floors. In some ways there was an elegance to the black. A pure sophistication. Power. Class. And then, on the other hand, there was this feeling of absence.

Every step, I felt as if the darkness might suck me away.

A midnight sky had been painted on the ceiling—more dark sky, than stars. More endless shadowed space, than the true brightness of the galaxy.

And everything else was black or made of expensive wood.

The walls were the only white thing in the room. Bone white. Nothing hung on them, not pictures or paintings. No memories. It created a balance to the darkness. White space to the black ceiling’s emptiness.

And then there was his bed. The decor and foundation were all red. Dark cherry red wood. Crimson silk covers and pillows. The contrast of black and white surrounding the red bed, made it energizing somehow. It made a powerful presence. The bed seemed to be alive. So soft. At times, liquid-like and moving. Stimulating. It damn near increased my blood pressure, when I lay in it.

However, with the colors and his confession yesterday, I knew that there was more to Jean-Pierre than the muscled man resting naked next to me.