I decide on her hips, the better to rock her pussy against my cock. I’m throbbing and hurting, but all I want is for her to come. I show her the rhythm, and there, there, she learns it.
Her frantic little breaths flutter against my neck like a butterfly. Every muscle in my body strains against the need to throw her onto the table, the dishes and seduction be damned. There is self-control somewhere inside me, I don’t feel it, but it must be there, because somehow I remain seated, barely, my whole body clenching, hips already fucking into nothing.
When she comes I feel her ecstasy wash over me like a balm. It doesn’t feel good. That would be too ordinary for someone like Bea. It feels like I’ve been granted a reprieve.
I hold her against me as the tremors take her body, one hand keeping her hips flush against me, the other cradling her head against my shoulder.
Distantly I realize I’m muttering to her in Arabic. Strange, that. It’s the language I used on the streets of Tangier. The one of familiarity and abandon. I’m alternately soothing her and cursing her, though I’m sure she can understand neither.
Slowly she stills. Her breathing evens out.
When she lifts her head there’s a distinct echo of loss in my chest.
“Is this...okay?” Her pale green eyes are large now, still hazy from sex but with some worry seeping in. Perhaps she senses that I’m not okay.
Perhaps because I’m clenching her ass hard enough to leave fingerprint bruises.
It’s an act of extreme hardship and heroism that I let go of her. I’m not entirely graceful as I shove her off my lap. Not entirely steady on my feet, but mon Dieu. My cock is as hard as iron in my pants, leaking against the black fabric, ready to explode.
If this were an ordinary relationship, I would take it out. Let her talented little fingers stroke me the way she plays the piano. Let her pretty lips taste me, but this isn’t an ordinary relationship. I’ve had women blow me, of course. Many clients wish to. Some even want me like this, desperate and demanding. But they are experienced enough to ask for it. This woman, she’s too innocent for the thoughts in my head. So I force myself to the bathroom.
I force out the words to say, excuse me, but I’m too far gone to be sure. They might be in English or French. Or in Arabic, the street language, the one I mumble in dreams.
Only in private do I lean my back against the door and pull down my zipper. There is infinite relief, letting my heavy cock fall onto my palm.
It only takes two strokes, remembering the spice on her tongue, the softness of her lips. The sweetness of her body in my arms. And I’m coming, spurting into my hand.
In the aftermath I can only stare at the gold-plated bathroom fixtures, the tile that is probably imported from Paris itself, with faded script and designs on every other piece.
I know I should not, but I have never been very wise. And so my head turns to the side, where I can see myself in the mirror. My hair is askew. My cheeks dark with passion. I look like a man who has been months without sex, years without it.
Like a man who has only just discovered what it is.
Chapter Eight
When I return the dining room is empty.
Except for the cat, who sits and watches me with judgment in her grey eyes. Does she smell Bea’s desire in the air? Does she smell mine? Of course she does, she’s a cat. Why do I care? I can’t help but want her to like me, this scared little girl with razor-sharp claws.
I peek into the bedroom, but the white sheets are neat and tidy. I’m half tempted to check behind the dresser, as if Bea might have shoved herself into a corner.
And then the music starts.
Like the kind that came streaming over the internet, but far better than anything the tiny speakers in my phone could have reproduced. The sound draws me back through the living room to the other end of the penthouse.
I pause at the doorway, uncertain of my welcome.
Notes filter through the cracked doorway. More than anyone, I know that true privacy comes not from the body but from the mind. She might not want me in the room.
In the end it’s my own need that decides me. I need to see her, to feel her. To make sure she’s okay. We didn’t do anything particularly traumatic. A dry humping session is practically adolescent, but I find myself strangely protective of her. Protective even from myself.
The door is silent as I push it open, revealing a room with a grand piano in the middle, lighting and video equipment all around the edges. There’s a large black rectangle in the corner with a hundred silver switches on it, as if she’s going to fly to the moon.
Bea sits at the piano, her eyes closed as her fingers dance over the keys.
The music stops.
Her eyes light up as she sees me, and I can finally take a deep breath.
“There you are,” she says, a little playful.
I like her like this, relaxed. It’s the music that makes her this way, but I like to think that it was me, too. Her orgasm, the one she wrung from my body.
“Here I am,” I say, wandering into the room, careful not to step on any wires. “This is quite an elaborate setup. Do you know what all these machines do?”
A smile flickers at the edges of her lips. “It was either that or get a filming crew every day.”
“You post every day?” I already know that I’ll be checking her channel from home, a level of connection I’ve never had with any client before, never wanted.
“Most days.”
“Do the other musicians mind? When you play their songs?”
“Some.” A small shrug. “Now it’s a big enough business that I can license the songs that I want to show. And before that…”
She plays a little song. It takes me a moment to realize it’s the refrain from Baby, One More Time by Britney Spears. Considering why I’m here I can’t help the smile that spreads. She’s a dangerous woman, this one. Already beautiful and smart and shy. And now, funny?
Dangerous.
“Before that?”
“Before that I was lucky. This really huge artist saw one of my videos and she reposted it. Then it happened again with someone else. Next thing I knew I had these big PR firms contacting me, wanting me to do one of their client’s songs as soon as it comes out.”
I lean one hip against the piano, looking down at her. I’m the one above her but she’s still the goddess on her glossy black bench. Lucky? That wasn’t luck. That was her incredible talent and what must be serious business intelligence. “And if you don’t like the song?”
“Then I don’t play it. But that’s not really the test. It’s more about whether I think I can add something to the song, something to make it my own. I wouldn’t just play the song as written. So if I don’t feel it… on the inside, you know? If I don’t have something to add, I won’t take the deal.”
“That’s incredible,” I tell her. “That you’ve built this empire in your spare bedroom. You can pick and choose what you play. Make it your own. I’m in awe of you.”
A breathy little laugh that I feel all the way in my soul. “It feels like me alone in a room, most days. Which is the only reason I can do it.”
So much isolation. Does it cost her something? I think it does, even if she doesn’t know it. “Would you ever play in front of an audience?’