On the screen she places her hands on the piano.
In real life she twines her fingers together, anxious and anticipatory.
Both of the actions make a knot in my chest, tight enough that it’s hard to breathe. I can’t take a breath until the first note reverberates through the air. Even through the pale phone speakers I can feel the depth of the sound. The undeniable rightness of them.
And then she plays, bringing to life Sia’s Chandelier with a classical bent that I can only marvel at. I can feel her skill and her passion coming through every note. There is reckless abandon in the song, fear and grief and hope. “Mon Dieu,” I breathe.
From the corner of my eye, in the single ounce of my body not focused wholly on the song being played, I can see Bea’s fingers twitch in the same pattern they do on screen. She really is in her element with music. She’s a goddess.
I set the phone down, letting it play between us.
The notes build something new between us, a kind of foreplay. When she looks at me, I can tell she feels it too. This time she isn’t afraid. It isn’t something to fear, the music.
“Bea,” I murmur. “Come here.”
She does not hesitate. In seconds she’s in my arms, and I pull her firmly onto my lap. There’s only a slight squirm, enough to make my cock throb, while she wonders whether I can support her. Why do women worry about that? There’s nothing more fulfilling than holding her this way, than feeling her soft and supple in my arms while I hold her still for a kiss.
My lips touch hers with barely held restraint. Don’t devour her.
The music is her tutor, this time, but it’s also mine. It teaches us the rhythm to use as I nip gently at her bottom lip, as she shyly strokes her tongue against mine.
When she pulls back, she’s breathing hard. Those pale green eyes are darker now, with passion, with confidence, and I am close to bursting.
“Wow,” she whispers.
It makes me laugh a little, though it comes out unsteady. Mon Dieu, indeed.
You might think that I must woo every client, but most frequently it happens the other way around. Women tempt me and flatter me and please me, even when they are paying for the privilege. I have been treated to the finest chefs and flown in private jets. They wear beautiful lingerie and compliment me as if I might walk out the door if they don’t.
Nothing has ever seduced me as much as this.
No one as much as her.
“Can we do it again?” she asks, a little playful.
Why did I think I could be the court jester for her? I would be the peasant, not even fit to set a foot in the same room. “I want to lick you,” I tell her, fervent and true. “Kneeling before you while you play this song for me.”
Her eyes widen, because she does not mistake my meaning. “I’m sure I couldn’t keep playing.”
“You’ll have lots of practice first,” I say, and I don’t mean practice playing the piano.
I mean practice receiving pleasure from my tongue, her legs spread wide for me, her pussy wet and swollen from my caresses. I want her so well versed in this that she begs me with her subtle little moans, barely audible above the song. It’s a physical pain, imagining her hips jerk against me as she climaxes, the singular vibration of the keys as she comes.
Her eyes have turned a beautiful shade of green, darker than jade. It makes me think of a smooth lake lit by a full moon, both opaque and luminescent.
“Again,” I murmur.
Can we do it again? It’s startling how much I want that. Not only to kiss her, but to hold her, to see her. There’s a longing inside me to ask to see her again, even though it shouldn’t matter if she books another Saturday night, shouldn’t matter if it’s her or any other woman. It’s never mattered before.
This time she is the one to press her lips to mine, and it’s that much sweeter. With her uncertainty and her eagerness. I have never experienced anything this wholesome. I certainly did not expect to find it in a client.
She does not move to open her mouth, nor open mine. There’s only the press, somehow made more erotic by the chasteness. I surrender to it, surrender to her, glorying in the sensation of plump lips and feather breaths. The sensation of her trembling body in my arms, the shimmer of moonlight on water made real.
Her body shifts on my lap, barely an inch to the side. Enough to brush against my hard cock. I suck in a breath, shocked by the effort it takes not to come.
She barely touched me. She didn’t touch me, not on purpose. There are so many layers of clothes between us, but I’m ready to come like a teenager.
Her eyes meet mine, wide and wondering. “Is that…”
“My cock. Say it. I want to hear you say the word.”
A blush. “Right now?”
“If you want it inside you, you should be able to ask for it.”
“Cock,” she whispers.
I’m moved by her shyness and by how much she wants me. Moved by the sweet curiosity in her trembling voice. But not enough to let her off the hook. “Say I want your cock.”
There’s a longer pause this time. “I want your cock.”
Jesus, my cock throbs in response. It hears her. It wants her right back. “Say Make me come on your cock, until my pretty little cunt can’t take any more.”
She sucks in a breath. “This is what you meant.”
“What?”
“About desire.”
“Haven’t you felt it before, mon amie? Why did you call for me if not for desire?”
It’s a question she has dodged before, her reasons. And she dodges it again. “Not like this. I wondered. I was curious, but I never felt it like this.”
I force myself to observe her coolly, from a distance instead of like the slavering beast I feel inside. “Breathing hard, eyelids low. You’re warm all over. Yes, this is what desire looks like. And I’m sure you’ll be wet when I touch you, won’t you?”
She exhales, a sound of acquiescence. “Make me come on your cock.”
“Until?” Perhaps it is cruel of me. The knowledge isn’t enough to make me stop. That’s how badly I want to hear those words from her petal-pink mouth.
“Until my pretty little pussy can’t take anymore.”
Hearing the words from her lips is too much. I have to kiss her, and once I start, I can’t stop. I’m tasting her, licking her, biting her. Her enthusiasm matches my own; she tugs at my shirt, my collar, trying to get closer. It’s not enough, never enough.
There’s a moment of indecision, when her knee comes up, blocking us. It’s now that I should take us to the bedroom. Now that I should turn this frantic make-out session into a seduction. But my own need burns too hotly. I’m wild and untried, as if her inexperience has become my own. So I yank her onto my lap, harder, fully against me. And then she straddles me, her heat pressed right up against my cock. There’s no slowing this down. No stopping.
She moves her hips against me, hesitant, curious. “Is this okay?”
“It’s perfect. Do it again.”
When she does, I’m the one who lets out a groan. Mon Dieu, her body is heaven. I’m torn between the places I want to touch her—to cup her face and feel her hair curl around my hand. To feel her breasts, maybe find the buttons hidden in the demure lace dress and bare her to me.