It was so intense, so sensitive, her clitoris tight and hard, the pleasure almost painful, that she tried to retreat, tried to back up. But the piano ground into her, held her in place, held his tongue deep inside her, and she glanced down, finally dropping her hands to his shoulders for help in keeping her upright. His hair fell forward, covering his face from her view, and those silken strands, in their curious variety of colors, caught the light, looking ethereal, preternatural, surreal like the moment itself, the sensation of his moist tongue sliding along her hot flesh too real, too intense, for anything else to feel normal. It all seemed glossy and shiny, strange and crisp, like she was inside a painting, like the wall behind him was a canvas that could shift at any moment, like the only thing that she could trust in as being real was the feel of his shoulders beneath her fingers, the smell of his cologne, the hard press of the piano in her back, and the touch of his mouth on her desperate, overstimulated, agonized body.

She wanted to say something but she couldn’t think, grab on to any words. It was all just sensation, sound, want, reaching for a release, which came suddenly in a tumultuous wave that had her gripping his T-shirt, her head snapping back as it took her under. Sara bit her lip so hard she tasted blood, rocking forward, vaginal muscles vibrating and straining, her mind empty, breath held. The intensity overwhelmed her, the pleasure all-consuming. As the last spasms subsided, she had to force herself to relax—fingers, legs, shoulders, abdomen—to suck in air and remind herself to breathe, to remember who and where she even was. “Jesus Christ,” she said, loosening her death hold on his shirt.

Mouth thick and in desperate need of water, she took another deep breath, swallowing hard, suddenly aware that the hair on her forehead was damp and that her legs were trembling from the position. She wanted to say something, needed to say something, but she just looked at him, waiting for him to either flip her entirely onto the top of the piano, which struck her as a bad idea, or yank her down to the floor or the couch to finish what they had started. To fill her with him, to take both of them into that ecstasy, that completion, together.

But one glance at his face had her amending what was going to happen next. Gabriel wasn’t going to have sex with her. It was obvious in the tightness of his shoulders, his face, the frustration she saw etched in every muscle, in all of his body language. He was already pulling away, literally and figuratively. As he retreated, he pulled her skirt down, covering her, his hand wiping his mouth dry.