Unfinished Sympathy

by Amélie S. Duncan

  “Let’s walk,” Paul announced, requesting Regan, who was driving us, to stop the car.

  A fog filled the streets; its light mist chilled my face as we left the car behind. He kept me upright as we walked along the cobblestone pavement, winding through the magnificent rows of Gothic and Baroque buildings. Only a few people were in the historic Old Town Square that early in the morning, but that didn’t keep the ornate Astronomical Clock at its heart from coming to life to rejoice the hour with bells and animated statues.

  “This is beautiful,” I said.

  “You’re beautiful,” Paul replied, and my heart fluttered in response. He brought us into the celebration, marking the hour by taking me in his arms and spinning me around and off my feet.

  I laughed into the air and when I landed, his face came close to mine. His expression turned serious.

  “We start here,” he said.

  “Outside of time?” I questioned.

  “Not outside. We start our time together.” His mouth crushed mine with fiery possession and wrapped my arms around him tightly willing to burn. He demanded all of me and it started now.

  Paul kept me in his arms and pressed to his side as we walked on past the Gothic arches at the ominous entrance to the Charles Bridge. We stopped at our accommodation, a terraced house off the square.

  My fingers traced the intricate metal ribbon on the double doors. It was crafted over a marbleized stone and situated between two elaborate Corinthian columns. I smiled over at Paul; we didn’t need words between us to take in its exquisiteness.

  “Wait until you see the inside,” he said, and rang the bell.

  The door opened, and Paul spoke in Czech to a housekeeper before they both switched to English for my benefit. To my awe, we stood in an inner stone and tile garden just before the mansion, and once again I thought of times past. We had time-traveled back to the Baroque Era. Every adornment was deliberate and precise, from the decorative wall panels to the monumental crystal chandeliers and sconces. Along them hung richly painted scenes. The sculptures had drama and movement. The couches and chairs were of pale, luscious velvet, built in curved wood down to their pedestal feet. The pièce de résistance in the day room next door was an original harpsichord sitting across from a piano.

  “We have time to explore the home later,” Paul told me. I followed him up two flights of stairs to reach the top level and find an exquisite master bedroom with a four-poster bed fit for a king.

  “This is magical,” I said, running my hand over the silk and linen covering the bed. “I feel underdressed.”

  “You’re over dressed,” he murmured as he helped me out of my clothes.

  Our gazes locked, and his raw passion took me apart. He showed me his own vulnerability. His need for me. My heart beat so hard it was all I could hear. There was no place left uncovered in us.

  His thumb touched the corner of my eye and he took the tear to his lips. His lips and tongue stroked my skin, leaving his mark.

  Paul didn’t hold back. He gave me all because he would take all of me.

  There wouldn’t be a part of me that wouldn’t think of him. Always.

  The music wasn’t loud, but I rose from the bed and opened the door to hear it more clearly, and right away it charmed me.

  I found a robe in the closet that hung down to my feet before descending the stairs and padding closer to where Paul was playing. He was rehearsing Beethoven, although that didn’t truly capture what he was doing. He played as if he were in a trance—his head moving, his hands soaring over the keys, with seamless briefs of writing. He was on a loop, and with each return, the music became fuller. Stronger. It wasn’t just a replication; he shaped the piece into something like himself—unique, exceptional. It was magnificent.

  Slowly, so as not to disturb him, I moved to stand behind him.

  “Did I wake you?” he asked, his voice rising over the music.

  “No. I woke on my own and heard you. I couldn’t stop listening. It’s magical.”

  He stopped playing and turned around in his bench. Drops of moisture dampened his forehead, and he lifted his shirt to wipe off the excess. I couldn’t take my eyes off his well-formed muscular chest, his six-pack abs and the fine hair there. It exuded manliness.

  “Pity you found a robe,” he said. He tugged on the tie and drew in his breath. “You’re not wearing anything underneath.”

  I shifted on my bare feet. “No, I’m not.”

  That was enough. Paul pulled me forward and placed me on his lap. Closing my eyes, I leaned back against his chest. He smelled of a mix of clean sweat and aftershave. I didn’t mind. I wanted to be close.

  Turning us around to face the piano, he played Rachmaninoff 2. As the piece ascended, my breasts swelled, and I became slick between my thighs, aching for his touch—and I wasn’t the only one affected. I could feel his shaft thickening in his briefs, though he hadn’t made a move. I couldn’t stop the dizzying current racing through me as my pulse pounded in anticipation.

  He brushed my hair to the side and kissed the small of my neck.

  “Open your robe,” he said, simply.

  I undid the sash, and he pulled it off my shoulders. There was something so sensual about the way he was holding me naked in his strong, firm hands, while he remained fully clothed.

  Putting one of his hands back on the piano, he lifted the other to my chest, and fondled with my bare, naked breasts. He gripped his fingers around my tits, toying tightly with them. A soft moan escaped my lips each time he clamped down firmly on them before releasing his grasp and massaging them with the tips of his warm fingers.

  His hand travelled to my thigh, where it rested. I pulse began to race, and my breath quickened as he ran the palm of his hand against it, slowly. The heat that emanated from his hand was tantalizingly erotic, and as he caressed me, I silently hoped that his hand would move higher.

  “You feel like you want me to fuck you,” he said.

  I did.

  “And you… got that from touching my thigh?” I asked, a small, mischievous smile on my lips.

  He nibbled at my neck.

  “You know I’m right,” he whispered in my ear, sending a small chill down my spine.

  I moaned. He was.

  “Play me,” I breathed. “And the piano, Paul.”

  “Your Rachmaninoff 2 fantasy,” he mused. “I knew you weren’t just casually listening when I called you the first time.”

  Acquiescing, he began playing the piano, one-handed, while his other hand slipped down between my legs. After a moment’s pause, he pressed his fingers up to my wet, heated lips, and nudged them against my clit. Slowly, he circled my small, throbbing clit with light, teasing strokes.

  My cheeks flushed, and I unconsciously widened my legs.

  “Pound the keys in forte,” I breathed, my eyes half-closed and my head tilted backward.

  Then pound me.

  “Should I take your script? It seems you already have a play-by-play for me,” he chuckled. “Now that I have you where I want you, let me play you right.”

  As he continued to play the piano one-handed, he smoothly slid two of his fingers into my wet, pulsing pussy.

  He began slow, almost like he was matching the tandem of the piece he was playing with the speed with which he was driving his fingers into me—as the piece picked up speed, so did the pace with which he drove his fingers in and out of me. His thumb strummed at my clit, caressing it carefully, yet so, so sensually.

  Slow, slow. Fast.

  I moaned as I felt myself climb. My breaths came short and fast, and I gripped the edge of the bench we sat on firmly, my fingernails digging into the expensive leather that lined it. Paul continued to play the piano and fuck me with his fingers, and he was getting closer to my climax by the second. “Oh, Paul!”

  “Let me feel you come, beautiful.”

  A few thrusts of his fingers and the first orgasmic shock hit me. I bucked sharply against his hard torso.

&nb
sp; Feeling me writhe in his grasp seemed to only encourage him further. He thrust his fingers into me even harder, his other hand still pounding away deftly at the black and white keys under it.

  Fast. Fast. Fast.

  “Oh fuck, oh God!” I screamed.

  He grabbed me around the waist, keeping me upright as I shook in his arms, my entire body awash in wave after wave of orgasmic warmth and bliss. I heaved, my climax still sending shots of pleasure up my spine, my breath ragged.

  “Damn, I can feel how hot you are,” he said, gruffly. “I want you to feel me inside you. I’m going to fuck you now.”

  Without a second’s hesitation, he tore off his shirt, and then his trousers. His throbbing, bouncing erection came into view, and I was immediately mesmerized. He was hungry for me… it was hungry for me.

  Sitting back down, he pulled me up onto his lap, straddling him. I held his heated cock in my hand and guided it up to my sex. Him groaning, I slowly let him into me, an inch at a time. The sensation was… amazing—overwhelming.

  His cock pulled my lips open, filling me to the brim. Together, we moaned as I began to rock my hips against him, slowly riding his thick, long shaft. Pressing my lips up to his, I tangled my tongue with his as he gripped my hips and began bouncing me against his dick, upping the pace.

  My second orgasm came fast, and hard. The intense pleasure blowing me apart.

  Crying, I shuddered against him, biting his shoulder as my body shivered with unadulterated ecstasy. The squeezing spasms of my inner walls around his erection sent him over the edge and I felt him fill me. He called my name, burying his face in his neck as I felt him paint my insides, claiming me as his. There was nothing, nothing but us.

  “Good morning, beautiful,” he said. “Let’s go to bed.”

  Aubrey

  “Can we stay like this?” I asked Paul lazily.

  “You want me inside you the rest of the day?” he asked with amusement in his voice. “It’ll make it hard to show you Prague.”

  He called for our breakfast, and hastily dressed before waiting on the covered balcony across the hall from the bedroom for our meal to arrive. There were heaters in the corners, and the sun that had come after the night’s rain also made us warm and comfortable. We sat down in the cushioned metal chairs across from each other, at a cloth-draped table filled with breakfast quiches, crepes, fresh cut fruit, and yogurt. Paul excused himself to return urgent phone calls. Just sitting across from him reminded me how godlike a man he was—but in his bed, he worshiped me.

  I tried everything more than once.

  “I love that you have a good appetite,” Paul commented after putting down his phone.

  I grinned at him and filled my plate again. “I need refueling. I don’t know if I fell asleep or passed out from exhaustion.”

  Paul laughed heartily, and my own heart accompanied the joy radiating from him. He also took my humor in stride. “You didn’t this morning. You didn’t even want to stop for breakfast.”

  I touched the smile on my lips. I hadn’t. I’d have let him start all over again. I already missed him inside me.

  “Look at you, you’re insatiable,” he said, grinning. “You’re making me regret the plans I had for us today. I’ve booked tickets to see the Prague Symphony’s Best of Beethoven and Dvořák.”

  “I’d jump at the chance, although sometimes I feel full of envy. It was my dream most of my life to be a part of a symphony,” I said, and finished my mimosa. “Our lives changed a lot after my father’s sudden death. Some people never give up. I’m not like that.”

  “I disagree,” he said after finishing his crepe. “That’s not the Aubrey I know. You fight every day for everything. While others might settle, you strive to make a sound better. You didn’t give up at that meeting. People return to music all the time. You can, too.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve changed,” I said, holding my glass steady while he refilled it. “I don’t know if just playing the violin would sustain me now. You’ve shown me new possibilities.”

  “If I’ve taken you away from the violin, I’d call that a travesty,” he said. “You’re gifted. But it’s good to diversify your work. I’d like to teach. I’ve done it for my stepmom’s charity. Her program involves spending a week teaching music to children.”

  “That sounds like fun for a week,” I said. “That’s about all the patience I have with children.”

  He grinned. “They’re not all that bad.”

  “Maybe if they’re your own,” I said. “My mom used to say she couldn’t wait until I turned eighteen.”

  “I wouldn’t call it easy,” he said. “I had Darling for a weekend when she was two. I think I said ‘no’ a million times. My mom gave me total freedom growing up, and somehow I turned out to be the sit-still guy.” He shook his head. “What are we talking about? We have sex and we talk about children? Only with you would sex lead to these weird conversations.”

  “How should we talk?” I said laughing. “It’s too late to go back to normal.”

  “Yes, we’ve seen each other naked, and I’ve fucked you senseless. There’s no going back,” he teased me.

  “Nope,” I said. “You’re stuck with conversations about how annoying we find children who are not our own, right after blowing my mind with sex.”

  “I blow your mind?” He leaned over and kissed me hard on the lips. “I know I’m good, but damn.”

  “No ego tripping allowed,” I said, and grinned. “I’m excited about seeing Prague.”

  “Have you been abroad before?” he asked.

  “We went on a family vacation to Canada once. My dad took us all for a few competitions I had around the United States and once in England.” He took out loans we couldn’t afford. I stared off and Paul touched my arm bringing my focus back to him.

  “We’ll travel often together,” he said, smiling.

  We ate the rest of our brunch and showered together. He held me in his arms as the water poured down. Not even there would he leave me feeling separated from him.

  Once out, I considered a skirt but settled on fitted jeans and Converse shoes. Paul dressed in a similar way, and we laughed about it.

  He picked up my scarf from the bed and draped it around my neck. My heart skidded as I stared into his eyes. He tugged on the scarf, and I leaned in to plant a kiss on his lips, parting with a large smack. Paul gave me an amused smile, pressing his forehead against mine. “You make it hard to leave, but we have an appointment.”

  “Sounds ominous, care to say more?” I asked.

  He linked his arm with mine. “It’s a surprise.”

  We left the place and headed down to the street where we stopped at a little shop that called for Segway tours.

  “Riding Segways?”

  “We only have a few days, this way we can see a lot of the city,” he said. “Come.”

  After being fitted with helmets by a woman, I took a good fifteen minutes to balance my feet on the two-wheeled scooter, and then we were off. We followed her through the Old Town Square, Strakhov Monastery, St. Vitus Cathedral, and Petrin Park.

  On our stops by bridges, fountains, and statues, never once did I worry or regret being there. I felt alive and free with Paul. We took a ridiculous number of selfies together but spent the greatest part of our day inside Saint Nicholas Church in the Lesser Town. It was number one on my list of places to see before we’d left.

  “This is where they held Mozart’s Requiem mass in his memory,” I said, as if Paul hadn’t been there before. I pleased him with my enthusiasm for everything about the church. It was the apex of Baroque construction. The imposing sculptures were disturbing in their beauty. The Fresno paintings were majestic.

  We walked up the flights of stairs to view the Mozart Piano. “I’m so tempted to touch it,” I said.

  Paul shook his head. “There is no record of Mozart playing this organ. If you want to touch one of Mozart’s pianos, I’ll make sure you do.”

  “You keep ma
king plans as if we will be together,” I said, looking away.

  “That’s what I want,” he said. “Don’t you?”

  I stared down at my feet. “I do.”

  “Then we will be together,” he said, lifting my chin to kiss both my cheeks.

  On our walk back, we passed a person playing jazz music, bringing the New Orleans style to Charles Bridge. Paul and I danced like we were on a second line. He whirled me around and dipped me to a kiss.

  “You’re silly,” I told him, grinning broadly.

  “I’m happy,” he said.

  So was I.

  We walked over to the shops in the Old Town Square and Paul dragged me inside.

  “You need a new suit?” I teased. I knew the shop was for women, and upscale, with designer clothing and shoes.

  “I thought you’d like to go shopping,” he said. “We can start here. Get whatever you want.”

  I looked at the women there who were smiling and waiting to approach at any sign from us.

  My stomach twisted in knots. “No, thank you. I mean, why would you bring me here?” I walked out of the shop and down the street. He caught my arm before I turned the corner.

  “Don’t walk away from me, talk!” he said, and I stopped moving. “Why is it, I can’t do anything for you without you challenging me?” he asked in exasperation. We walked until we found a place where we could stand alone in an archway at the end of the street.

  “I’m easy, Paul just spend time with me,” I said. “You already spoil me. You’ve given me a new job, taken me out places, and introduced me to new music. You brought me here. You wrote me a song, and you played music with me. I can’t tell you how much all that meant. It’s enough. I don’t want you buying me.”

  His jaw tightened. “I’m not buying you. I have so much, and I can’t even share it with you? I want to do more, but you fight me. I can get you a new place to live, a car, money, anything you want. You name it, it’s yours.”