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MYKA
Iwake in a room that is not my own with a dull headache I definitely can lay claim to. The clock on the bedside table reads three thirty-three a.m. and has a bottle of water and a small paper cup containing two aspirin…at least I hope they’re aspirin. I lift the cup and a note stored underneath reads.
Yes, they’re aspirin (smiley face)
I inhale deeply and exhale all my worry before ingesting the little white tablets and downing the bottle of water. Tossing the plastic bottle and paper cup into his recycle bin, I stand and wrap myself in the sheet. I search for my clothes and shoes so I can go home. I look on the floor and around the bed where I am sure to find them but come up empty. His custom-made bed is platform-style, allowing nothing under its frame. I shimmy over to the closet, thinking maybe he hung them in there. When I open it, I find it is neatly organized by style and color, but no chain mesh halter crop top or asymmetrical leather shorts with a chain accessory.
I wander farther into his closet, which is bigger than my living room, and trail my fingers over his things, getting a feel for Simon Ashton. I wonder if this is what the many girls he has slept with over the years did when they woke in his bed, alone, deserted.
Flashbacks to that interview on the entertainment channel resurface and a tear falls from my eye. My chest constricts and I find myself in another shame spiral. I slump to the floor and pull my knees up to my chest, laying on them.
“How could I be so stupid?” I sob to an open closet. The quiet of the enclosed space is becoming too much to bear. I rise to my feet, trying not to stumble over the bed linen, wipe my face, and go on a search to find Mr. Ashton and my clothes.
I check in the bathroom and it's apparent he's been here recently, since there is water on the floor and lingering steam on the mirror. I venture into the hallway and stop to examine the walls lined with various pictures of the band on tour, receiving accolades, and even some candid canvas prints of them with other mega-celebrities in the music industry. My favorite photo is of Simon and his siblings as a younger group. His goofy smile and Sebastian sticking out his tongue is adorable. The one next to this is of his parents on their wedding day. Family is important to them. It was clear on the trip to London, and it is evident here.
The faint sound of music playing catches my attention, and I follow it, hoping to find Simon. I descend the staircase one level and then the next, unable to find the source. Refocusing, I continue to search and come to a room well-hidden from the main floor of the rest of the massive dwelling—kind of secretive.
Simon sits at his piano, playing along with an instrumental version of ‘Maybe I’m Amazed’, one of my favorite songs. We’ve discussed many things, but I know I didn’t tell him that fact.
I stand in the shadows quietly, observing him as he sings. With each note, I’m more drawn to him. Taking my gaze away from him for a second, I spot my clothes over on a chair close to the steps on which I stand. I hold up my shorts, grab my phone from my pocket, and record this moment unbeknownst to him since he didn’t see me when I entered the room. After two minutes, I place the phone on the chair and stroll over to him, attracted to everything this man before me is, or perhaps has always been.
Now aware of my presence, Simon’s play intensifies, and his vocals become more pronounced as he starts from the beginning. His gaze locks on me, personalizing every word as if it were written for me only.
I smile as he serenades me, not able to look away from his gaze. My body tingles with excitement, my heart beats faster, my skin prickles with goosebumps, and my breathing increases with the thought of what could possibly happen. I’m trapped beneath his mojo, and I like the way it makes me feel. I move closer, positioning myself just to the side of the soundboard of his baby grand.
“That’s beautiful.”
“It was about you. What else could it be?” He smiles and continues to play the melody. “This song is very special to me. I never play it, really. See, when we were younger, my dad was involved in a horrible accident that left him comatose for two weeks and paralyzed from the waist down. Mum didn’t think he was going to make it, but she visited him every day at the hospital, sometimes staying overnight while our grandparents looked after us.”
I gasp when he shares this information. “I had no idea.”
“We were told he’d never walk again. Mum said she played this song every day for dad while he recovered since it was his favourite. He came out of his sleep, and after a long road of therapy, he was released. We held a big party for him after his release from the hospital. We wheeled him into the hall where the event was held, and the first song played was this one. He surprised everyone by standing from his wheelchair and asking mum to dance. It was the most emotional I’ve ever seen them. I played it at their vow renewal ceremony a few years later. I always said that I would play it at my own wedding one day.”
Simon looks at me, and my temperature rises under his deep stare. His gaze pierces my soul and takes over.
I try a little fact about the song, hoping to break the tension. “Did you know Sir Paul McCartney penned that for his wife for all the things she did to help him through a rough time? Kind of fitting your parents' story, don’t you think?”
He stops playing, takes my hand with his, and places a kiss on the back of it. “Yes. Just like you’re doing for me. Maybe you’re the Linda to my Paul.” He continues to kiss my hand, moving up my arm, standing to apply his affections to my shoulder. “Please be the Linda to my Paul,” he whispers in my ear. Simon kisses me with such tenderness, my core melts instantly, and its remnants leak down my leg between my thighs, making this a very sticky situation.
The night in Miami has nothing on the way he’s taking me now. My muscles clench as he lifts me onto the top of his baby grand piano, our mouths locked in passion. I feel like I missed an opportunity then but I’m not going to miss out on it now.
“Yes. Yes, Simon, I will.”
He smiles and resumes his position with my mouth, and slowly peels away the sheet I’m still wrapped in. He places my feet on the keys and a melodious sound escapes from inside with each strike of the strings. Parting my legs, he takes a slow, long lap on the inside of my thigh, up one side and then up the other. His gaze greedily drinking in the view with desire.
My back presses into the coolness of the black marble piano top as I lean back. I hear the bench scooting closer, his hand never leaving my thigh.
The feel of his hair touching my legs as he homes in on my center arouses my desire for his touch.
I want to tell him to take me and not play around before I come to my senses, but I refrain.
He nibbles and licks along the intersection of my thighs and hips while he works his fingers inside my box slowly.
I gasp when he presses against my g-spot, sending shivers up my spine.
“Simon,” I moan.
“Relax, Myka. Let me please you in ways you deserve.” He separates the folds of my tender pussy and licks them gently, paying attention to my reaction and giving me more of what I like. He moves from the first layer, to the second, licking around my opening before teasing my hole with the tip of his tongue. His knowledge of the female anatomy explains why he is greatly admired. Yet, I wonder if he does this to every woman he meets.
