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She’s sitting at the piano she rented earlier this week, bent over the keys, wrapped up in whatever she’s playing. I don’t recognize the song as one of hers.
Maybe it’s the new one she mentioned that’s been going through her mind lately.
It’s a ballad, and it’s pretty, whatever it is.
Rather than interrupt her, I sit on the couch behind her and listen. Her hands move over the keys as if they’re stroking a long-time lover. As she builds to the bridge, she tips her chin up and arches her back into the music, the same way she does when we’re having sex and she’s about to come.
It’s no less intriguing and sexy now than it is then.
She hasn’t played for me before. We’re always too wrapped up in other things, too wrapped up in each other, to take the time for it.
And now that I’m sitting here listening, it occurs to me that I should ask her to play for me more often. Not because I’m seeking a private concert from the ultra-famous Sidney Sterling.
No, it’s because this woman that I’ve grown to like so much is talented, and being alone with her as she makes music is one of the most intimate moments we’ve shared.
And she doesn’t even know it yet.
When she finishes the song, I softly clap, and she turns on the bench to smile at me.
“I knew you were there.”
“I didn’t want to interrupt. I wanted to listen.”
“I figured. That’s the melody that’s been chasing me down for a while.”
“It’s beautiful. Does it have words yet?”
“A few,” is all she says as she watches me. “How’s the family?”
“They’re all fine. Haley had a good birthday. She talked me into taking a bite of something called an impossible burger, and I was pretty sure I was about to die.”
“I’ve heard of those. I figure, if you’re going to have a burger, have a burger.”
“That’s what I’m saying.” I grin at her, and she returns it with one of her own. “Your eyes are so gorgeously blue.”
“And here I was just thinking about how damn green yours are, and how it should be illegal for them to look that damn good.”
She knocks me off balance with comments like that. They’re not practiced or fake. She just says what she’s thinking, and it’s surprisingly refreshing.
“Maybe later you can play the piano for me without any clothes on.”
“The bench might be cold,” she says with a laugh.
“Don’t worry, you can sit on my lap.”
Chapter 5
Sidney
The way he looks at me makes me want to shiver in anticipation. He’s such an intense man, so serious most of the time. There’s not a goofy bone in his body, at least not one that I’ve seen yet. And that, surprisingly, doesn’t bother me at all because when he does give me one of his disarming smiles, it’s like the best gift in the world.
When Keaton smiles, you know that he means it. There’s no pretense with this man at all, and that’s awesome.
I hate guessing games.
“You’re awfully far away.”
And there’s the smile that I’ve grown to love in such a short time. Not a huge, toothy smile, but a smug one that tugs his lips up in the corners, as if he’s amused by me.
Which is good because I’m amused by me, too.
“What would you like me to do about that?” he asks and leans forward, planting his elbows on his knees.
“I’d like you to come over here.”
He doesn’t hesitate. He stands and walks to me, lifts me off the piano bench, then sits, and I straddle his lap.
“Now what?” he asks.
“Kiss me.”
“No problem.” He brushes my hair back as he braces my face in his hands and presses his lips to mine. Our tongues dance as I sink into him and wrap my arms around his neck. I can’t help but grind my center against his denim-covered cock.
I always want him. When he’s nearby, my body yearns for him, and he must feel the same way because we’re rarely clothed when we’re together.
“Bedroom,” I say against his lips, but he doesn’t move away from the piano. Instead, he lifts me on top of it and sets me down. The keys tinkle as my feet rest on them, and I watch with fascination as, in front of these open windows, Keaton pulls my loose shirt over my head and lets it fall to the floor.
He doesn’t bother to work my pajama pants down. Instead, he just rips the crotch of them, and I can’t help but laugh.
“Impatient much?”
“Always, when it comes to you.” His voice is rougher now, his hands a little more demanding as they rub up and down my now-bare thighs. He’s spread me open, but his eyes aren’t pinned to my center in the soft glow of the nearby lamp.
They’re on mine, watching my every reaction to his touch, to his voice.
