I snort—the extent of the energy I can muster. But in my defense, he works out two hours every day.
The mattress bounces as he shifts around me, kissing every inch of my body from my head to my toes. Doesn’t take long before I fall blissfully asleep beneath the affection.
When I wake, he’s stretched out beside me with a towel wrapped around his waist, trailing a finger along my spine.
“How long was I out?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
I fold my arms beneath my cheek and meet his hooded eyes. “I’ve never done this.”
He reaches behind him, grabs a glass of water from the nightstand, and holds it out to me. “What?”
After a long refreshing drink, I hand it back and change the subject. “You didn’t eat dinner.”
He returns the glass then lies on his side, resting his head on the bend of his arm. “Neither of us ate. Finish what you were going to say.”
I reach out and trace the curve of his upper lip. “The after stuff. This. It’s always been sex and run, usually followed by crying and hiding.” I give him a soft smile. “I like this. A lot.”
He pulls me against his chest and kisses my temple. The hush of our breaths envelopes us, and he hugs me like that for so long I wonder if he fell asleep.
Eventually, his whisper breaks the silence. “I like it, too, Ivory. So much so I’m terrified it’ll be taken from us.”
I wrap an arm around his wide back. “We’ll be careful.”
“We need to tone it down at school.”
I scratch my fingernail across his nipple. “You need to stop giving me those eyes.”
“What eyes?” A smile teases his lips.
“The ones that say…” I deepen my voice. “Come here, Miss Westbrook. Look at me, Miss Westbrook. On your knees—”
He surges up with a roguish grin on his face.
I roll out of reach, my mocking tone tumbling into laughter. “Suck my cock, Miss Westbrook.”
He flashes his teeth and crawls after me, losing his towel in the process.
My gaze dips down his chest and lands on his dick. It’s…soft? Holy shit, it looks weird. I tilt my head, trying to get a better view.
He sits back on his ankles and narrows his eyes. “You’re going to give me a complex.”
“I haven’t ever…” I lean over his lap and wrap my hand around it. It’s still heavy, just… “So soft.”
He stares at me curiously. “Keep touching it, and it won’t be.”
Sure enough, within seconds, it begins to stiffen. I’m familiar with this part, and he’s the biggest and baddest of them all. Ironically, he’s also the safest.
He swings his arm around and slaps my ass. “I’m not finished with you, but we need to eat.”
We make it through half a gourmet pepperoni pizza before he bends me over the kitchen island and proves exactly how he’s not finished with me.
I hope he never is.
The following evening, I stretch behind the piano during the intermission of Mahler’s Ninth Symphony and tug at the strangling bow tie. The tux is one of many from my private collection, tailored and designed with quality workmanship. Doesn’t matter how fucking expensive it is. The restricting fabrics make me itchy and overheated. The whole pretentious look just doesn’t suit me.
Neither does the music.
Joanne never attended my performances, claiming boredom in hearing the same masterpieces on concert programs year in and year out. Can I blame her?
While I appreciate the classics, I doubt Gustav Mahler intended for his symphonies to become commercialized affairs of mindless repetition. In his fifty-one years, he only conducted his second symphony ten times.
I scan the Beaux-Arts style of the philharmonic theater, surrounded by an orchestra of pompous old farts and full-time musicians, most of which have their own resident halls. Rather than composing passionate modern music, they seem to be content wasting their extraordinary talents on routine recycling of classical repertoire.
But I am not content. Not even a little.
So why am I here, wallowing in this jeremiad?
Securing a seat in the symphony was a natural progression in my musical career, a highly notable one. It was a means of self-justification, a validation of all my hard work and talent. It wasn’t until the goal was achieved that I realized it was the wrong aspiration for me.
I want to create my own music, tap into my imagination, and transform classical piano into something fresh and wild. And I want to share that passion, teach it, and open eager minds to new ideas.
Sitting behind the strings section, I take in the shadowed silhouettes of concert-goers in the balcony seats. A grin twitches my lips as Ivory’s question teases my mind.
Do you eye fuck women in the audience?
There were several months after Joanne when the highlight of my concerts was finding my next fuck. Now?
My gaze connects with the most attractive feature in the theater, the only reason I’m smiling tonight.