Ten minutes later, we’re laying in the dark, me wrapped around her, nose buried into her hair. I wasn’t lying before. That was an epic fuck—easily the best I’ve ever had. It’s still zinging through my veins, filling my head with sounds and melodies. But here, with her, it’s quiet.
Except for the rustle of sheets as she fidgets.
“You’re still not tired?”
“Not really.” She shrugs and looks back at me, giving me an apologetic smile. When she whispers, “It’s so quiet,” it’s such a perfect mirror to my own thoughts that I press a laugh into her neck. If things were different, I’d get out a blunt and blow her as many shotguns as she needed to finally settle down. I’ve already won both the challenge and the prize. There’s nothing stopping me.
But maybe I can cool it for a little while longer.
She squirms again, rolling to her back and looking across the room. “Maybe if you,” her voice is quiet, timid, “played something for me?”
I follow her gaze to the piano, and my fingers twitch instinctively. It happens every time I look at or walk by it. Groaning, I push my hair back. “Fuck, Story.”
“Please?” She leans into me, her bare chest drawing my gaze to the scar, the letters that mark her as ours. “I miss hearing you play. It always gives me good dreams.”
I look at her, waiting for that ball of dread to rise in my stomach at the thought of pressing the keys. But whatever transpired at the performance between us was over. She hurt me. I hurt her. She made music for me. She made music on me.
Relenting, I lift her chin. “For you,” I kiss her mouth before climbing from the bed, “anything.”
8
Killian
The team gets back late, so the house is already dark and quiet when I climb the stairs to my room. It’s been a shitty away game trip, a worthless stretch of time that included twiddling my thumbs and spending too long stewing in my own thoughts. My skin feels stretched too tight, and even though I spent most of the trip itching to get back, the second I reach the familiar hallway, something heavy settles in the base of my spine like a burden.
The first thing I do is check Story’s doorknob. To my shock, it’s actually unlocked, although it may not have mattered. I’ve been pissed for twenty-four-hours, filled with visions of me giving this fucking doorknob a nice snap, violating the locked-door rule once and for all. Now maybe I don’t have to.
I resent the way my chest goes light finding this, as if she’s gifted me something precious and shiny: admittance. I don’t have time to dwell on the things I’m going to do once I’m inside, because the feeling doesn’t last long.
Her bed is empty.
I know from the tracker she’s home, but it’s not great at pinpointing her location inside the house. I toss my bag in my room and head to the third floor, listening carefully for signs of life. What I get is the sound of voices floating from Tristian’s room. I tap the door with my sore knuckles, but don’t give him a chance to respond before pushing it open. He’s lying back on the bed, shirtless. His lower body is covered by a sheet, a laptop resting on his thighs, and it doesn’t matter that he closes it the instant he spots me. The sounds of the video he’s watching are unmistakable. I may have watched it a couple times myself, closed up in my room, hand flying over my dick as I watched Rath pounding into Story. Unlike Tristian, I watch it muted. The sounds of the pit make my dick soft.
He lifts his chin in greeting, seeming unbothered by the interruption. “You’re back.”
“Yeah. It was a long trip.” I rub the back of my neck and wince at the pain in my fist.
If he notices, he doesn’t mention it, but adds, “Especially when you’re side-lined.” I’ve only got one question, and he already knows what it is. “She’s in his room. Went in a few hours ago. I’m pretty sure they made up.” He gives me a long look. “Loudly. And acrobatically, if the mattress squeaks are to be believed.”
Ah, so that explains the video. I guess now Tristian is the only one who hasn’t fucked Story since the new rules. All of our balls are aching, but she’s really iced him out by turning off all the cameras. Still, I’m surprised. “Really?”
“They weren’t exactly subtle about it.” He shrugs, but I can tell from the tightness around his mouth—not to mention the bulge beneath his sheets—that he’s rankled. “It could have been a psycho rage-fuck, you know how they are, but…” he pauses for dramatic effect, “afterward, he was playing the piano.”