Adoring You

by Vic Tyler

  “But why…” Her voice faded, the question lingering in the air.

  Her face was etched with confusion, and I understood her sentiment. Why would an established conductor she’s never met dedicate a song to her with the hopes she’d sing with him in front of a large audience?

  The moment of truth. My heart drummed into my ribcage as I gazed at the dream in front of me. A part of me wondered whether I was asleep because I could hardly believe that this was real. That she was sitting here, across from me. I took a deep breath, letting the air seep into my chest, and leaned forward.

  “Allow me tell you a story.”

  She raised an eyebrow and then slowly nodded.

  “A little less than a year ago, I came back to New York for a few days after finishing a performance in Berlin,” I started. “Jorge and I went to Alléchant for lunch after a rather tedious meeting. We were nearing the end of our meal when I stepped away to use the restroom. And on my way there, I heard singing in the courtyard.”

  Michele’s eyebrows knitted together. My lips curled up as I remembered the sweet music that drew my attention. A song I replayed in my head over and over again in the past year. Even though I was no singer, I sang it for her quietly.

  “A tinkling piano in the next apartment, those stumbling words that told you what my heart meant. A fairgrounds' painted swing, these foolish things remind me of you.”

  Her eyes widened, flashing with her own memory reeling in her head.

  “It was one of the most beautiful voices I’d heard,” I said, my eyes locked on hers. “Full–bodied, clear, and crooning with such passionate feeling that burst through. There are only a few people I can say I’ve ever heard that can relay such genuine emotion in every note, every word.”

  Her cheeks flushed, and she bit her lip for the briefest second before catching herself and letting go. Watching her, I absentmindedly reached for my wine glass, my finger tracing the glass rim.

  “So I stood there, captivated by the beautiful woman singing to herself in an empty courtyard,” I continued. “She almost looked out of place in that fancy French restaurant with her modest wardrobe, but with a voice like that, any restaurant worth its pretty dime would’ve begged her to grace their presence.

  “There were two little boys who ran in, yelling and playing, when one of them tripped. His little treat – a cupcake or something – smashed into her coat, and he sat there with a skinned knee, bawling his eyes out. And instead of getting mad, the woman hoisted the boy up to his feet and wiped his tears with her sleeve. Then she spotted me and asked whether I could grab some supplies – bandages, napkins, and a glass of water.”

  Michele leaned back in her chair, her eyes wide and her mouth slack. I chuckled at the stunned look.

  “I could see how she mistook me for a member of the waitstaff, aimlessly wandering around in my suit, but I did as she asked, and when I came back, she was already singing and parading around the courtyard with the two rascals. The coat, unfortunately, was beyond cleaning with the dab of a wet napkin. But without any concern, this woman just took out a box of chocolates from her pocket. She took a truffle out and handed the entire box to the boys, telling them to share it.

  “Not everyone would give out a brand new box of Debauve and Gallais to children who probably never even heard the name before. And instead of having her first taste of the delicacy, she handed it to me. I didn’t even have time to refuse when she was called away to join her party. She just shoved it in my hands, insisting I take it for my troubles although I hardly did anything.”

  I raised my wine glass to my lips, unable to keep a smile off my face. “It was the sweetest piece of chocolate I’ve ever tasted.”

  I still remembered the rich, bitter truffle melting on my tongue as I watched her convene with her group. An expensive chocolate, a priceless memory.

  Michele’s mouth dropped slightly. She snapped it shut before opening it to say something and then closing it again. I leaned across the table and and gently took her hand, raising it to my face. My lips brushed against her warm, velvet smooth skin. A brush of excitement swept through my flesh, her warmth tingling through me down to my toes.

  “I was already resolved to find out who she was. Maybe fate played a hand, and lucky for me, I recognized the people she was with. And with Jorge’s help, I found out her name. A relatively unknown singer due to debut at the Metropolitan Opera House.”

  I kissed the first knuckle of her soft hand, her warmth seeping into my lips.

  “I had to see her again,” I murmured.

  I kissed the second.

  “No matter what.”

  Then the third.

  “Because of my schedule, I was away from New York for a long time,” I said, my thumb stroking against her fingers. “When the opportunity to come back presented itself, I took it without a second thought. Imagine my surprise when I heard she might sing on stage next to me. I thought I could die a happy man.”

  She squeezed my hand, clutching with fervor.

  “Next time” she said, leaning forward with a blaze flashing in her eyes. “I swear there will be no one else they could possibly ask to stand by your side.”

  Her face was resolute. My mind was at ease, my chest thumping warmly. There was no doubt in my mind that it would come true. We looked into each other’s eyes, unspoken promises exchanged in the air between us.

  “It would give me the greatest pleasure to be beside you,” I said softly.

  She beamed, a rosy flush spreading in her cheeks.

  “Likewise.”

  After finishing the most delicious meal of my life – not because of the food but because of the wondrous company that accompanied it – Michele and I continued to linger and talk long after the table was cleared.

  As we lingered later into the night, the restaurant dimmed even more, and the soft music grew a little louder. Couples started making their way to the center of the circular room, where the wide wooden space was cleared out for a dance floor. We watched as people embraced and swayed to the music.

  I turned to her, watching as her eyes glazed over the couples.

  “May I have the honor of this dance?” I asked, the side of my lips quirking up.

  She looked at me, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin, as she gave a confident smile and nodded. “Yes, I’d love to.”

  I stood and offered my hand to her, and she gingerly took it. Without letting go, I led her to the middle of the room, the dim light illuminating a romantic glow with gentle music filling the air around us.

  Shifting our hands to clasp together, palm to palm, I placed my other one tentatively on the side of her waist, the thin fabric of her dress hardly hiding the soft fullness of her body. She rested her hand on my shoulder and leaned in close to me.

  Her full breasts grazed against my front, and the generous dip in her cleavage did nothing to help the sinful thoughts that flooded my mind and the desire stirring in my loins. But I resolved myself to keep my eyes up, focusing on the round contours of her heart–shaped face. Her ivory skin practically glowed against the lush midnight locks that strayed mischievously from her meticulous updo.

  Her round eyes glittered in the sparse lighting, looking like pools of fondue chocolate. Even when she blinked, her eyes hooded seductively. And those plush scarlet lips. Looking at her face didn’t help to calm my base instincts. The woman oozed sex appeal.

  Just like the first time I’d held her in my arms, I was enraptured. The rest of the room faded away, and only her and the music remained. I couldn’t tear my eyes away.

  And just like the first time, a twinge of fear struck through me. My mind burst out with logical reasoning to try to rein in the unfamiliar flood of emotions.

  As much as I wanted to ravish her divinely tantalizing body, I was afraid of marring my intentions for her. The sharp intellect of her mind, her witty humor, her unapologetic honesty, the generosity of her kindness, and her unwavering confidence, and the pride in her dedicati
on to her work. I wanted all of her, the whole package.

  And the fact remained that I had to leave in a week. Even beyond that, our schedules would likely clash, and there was no stability or consistency promised in our future.

  But my heart was already irrevocably tethered to her. This wasn’t a casual fling or a one night stand. And I didn’t want to leave her doubting and questioning the reason why I came back. That I came back to her. For her.

  More so, the fear that clouded my heart was the foreign feeling of how I felt towards her. There had never been any other person who made me feel this way, and it kindled anxiety and hopelessness like throwing gasoline onto a roaring fire.

  This was nothing like the dedication and practice I put into my work. Music was constant, shaped and molded by my own hands, stubborn but cooperative. It wasn’t sentimental or sentient. It was always there for me, and it always would be.

  But this passion that blazed in me for another person – one that thought and felt and made their own decisions outside of me – was frightening. I’d never tried to sustain a relationship. Not only did I have to worry about the other person, but if I committed myself to this, I couldn’t be unreliable. My longing for this woman was fiery and burned hot, and the thought that maybe one day it’d fizzle out crossed my mind more than once. Was I capable of actually loving her?

  Michele looked worriedly at me as though she could sense the sudden rush of fear and doubt that crashed into me. Her eyes searched mine. Her hand slid from my shoulder to my face as she brushed her soft, warm thumb across my cheek.

  “Peter?” her soft voice shattered my thoughts.

  Inexplicably, all my apprehension dissolved. Well, for the most part.

  I took a deep breath, letting the air push my doubt out of the way.

  The future was uncertain, and there was nothing I could do about that. But it had to mean something if I never felt like this about another person before. Even though I trusted my judgment in my music and career, I had to trust my own judgment when it came to the choices my heart made. That made Michele all the more special. She was worth fighting for.

  I slid my hand further around her waist until it rested on her back, and I pulled her body starkly into mine.

  “Michele,” I murmured.

  My own voice sounded foreign to me, her name softly rolling on my tongue with adoration.

  Her eyes widened in surprise, but she melted against me. She fit so right and perfectly like a puzzle piece I never knew was missing. Her body was soft and warm, and she held my gaze with confident affection.

  Wordless knowledge passed between us in the comfortable silence. We didn’t need to say anything. We had talked all night. And like now, there were times when words failed to capture the things we wanted to convey.

  Maybe we knew it the moment we met. That our eyes and faces could speak for us, that a touch would bind us.

  The feeling rested comfortably deep inside my chest, that there would be more words and more silence that would fill our future. Hopefully for a very long time. And if it were up to me, for the rest of our lives.

  We swayed in each other’s embrace for what seemed too short a time. Eventually, the clock struck midnight, and we were ushered out of the restaurant. Considering how late it was, I reluctantly admitted that it would be best if we parted for the night. So I drove us back to her apartment building, and then I saw her home, walking her to her door.

  After unlocking her door, she paused, lingering outside the threshold of her apartment.

  “Will I see you tomorrow?” she asked.

  Her brown eyes were round and wide, filled expectantly with hope like they had been the night before.

  This time, I didn’t hesitate to give her an answer.

  “I don’t think you can keep me away,” I chuckled.

  My fingers brushed against her cheek, tucking a loose strand of dark hair out of her face. Her eyelashes fluttered at the contact, and her chest rose and dropped with a quick breath that seemed to echo in my ears.

  As fragile as it already was, my self–restraint snapped, despite how desperately I had tried to armor it throughout the night.

  My hand slid to the nape of her neck, cupping her as I dipped to place my lips on hers. Finally, I relished in the taste of that sweet, red mouth that taunted my discipline. She threw her arms around my neck and pressed her body into mine, and I groaned as her hips made contact with mine.

  My other hand snaked around her waist, pulling her deeper into me. Our bodies were flush together, as close as it had been only minutes ago when we were dancing yet everything was different. The invitation of her touch fed a shocking greed for more. My hand itched to caress those bare thighs that teased my sight earlier, all the way up to the warmth of her round ass and strip her of the sparkling wrapping that shrouded the perfection that lie underneath. The heat in my groin flared and hardened my awakening member.

  She stole my heart the moment I first met her, and now she was the only addiction my body yearned to fall into. There was nothing more I wanted than to bind my body to hers and become sinfully united. To possessively drive myself into her and make her mine and to become hers. To leave my liquid desires dripping inside her. To have her bear the fruit of our children.

  I yanked myself from her grasp, holding her hips firmly away at arm’s length. The lusty flush of her cheeks, her swollen lips, and the desire hooded eyes nearly made me cave and dive right back into her.

  “I can’t.” My voice was hoarse with need. “Not tonight.”

  “Peter,” she breathed, biting her lip.

  My arms snapped back around her, yanking her body into mine again. Her warm body was intoxicating, fueling every urge to do what animals do best. I rested my forehead against hers and breathed in deeply, the smell of her perfume with the underlying hint of citrus shampoo inflaming my lungs.

  “You’re irresistible,” I whispered, the throaty sound almost a groan. “But I’m serious about this. About you. You’re precious, and even though there’s nothing more I want to do than to take you straight to your bed, I can’t bear the thought that I’m taking you too fast. You deserve more, and I swear I’m going to treasure you every second for the rest of my life.”

  Her body stiffened in my arms, and silence tensed between us. The realization of what I said hit me.

  Shit.

  “Michele —” I stammered, starting to let go.

  She tightened her grip on me and interrupted, “I don’t take kindly to broken promises.”

  Her eyes narrowed, probing fiercely into mine. It was a challenge and a threat. I fought back a smile as I kissed her again. This time, deeply, slowly, and with full intent.

  “I’ll prove to you that I’m a man of my word.”

  chapter five

  That’s Amore – Dean Martin

  Over the next week, Peter and I spent every free second with each other. The time we spent together never felt like enough. He took me to all the fanciest restaurants and clubs, where we’d stick side by side, dancing in our own little world amidst the sea of people around us. Even though he was fully present with me when I was next to him, there were times I glimpsed how out of place he felt around the flashy lights, the flashy dresses, and the flashier people. When other people talked to him – or to my bristling irritation, when other women approached him – he’d have his charming smile on, polite and pleasant.

  I realized those were the times he switched on his autopilot, his business mode, while mentally, he was drifting somewhere else, playing with music and rearranging scores and whatever else he did in his head. So I insisted we go to the places he frequented when he was in New York, the places where he felt most at home.

  At first, he was reluctant, and my heart warmed thinking of how much he was catering to the things and places he thought I liked. And then he finally caved. We went outside the downtown area and climbed up rickety iron staircases up to the roof where the city looked like concrete lily pads.

  Peter
brought along a small telescope, and he could barely hide the excitement in his voice as he pointed out different constellations and galaxies and planets, telling me their stories and how they lived thousands of years and what we saw was a glimpse of their being shining down on us.

  I had never felt so small as I did when I looked up at the vast sky, absorbing everything Peter was saying. But I didn’t feel insignificant. If anything, I felt empowered, knowing that with how infinite our universe seemed, each of our lives was a special miracle. And looking at Peter, my own adoration for him had grown, knowing that what we were sharing was an even rarer miracle.

  He brought me to dive bars and small hole–in–the–wall places that I would’ve never even looked twice at – if I was in the neighborhood at all. We hopped from bars to weathered venues to little clubs where small, local bands played music – everything from jazz to rock to tribute bands playing Queen and Eurythmics with all the band members dressed as David Bowie. Some of the regulars recognized Peter, and it was such a different crowd from the prim and proper people I was acquainted with in the classical world.

  The men and women there were loud and rowdy without a care in the world. They invited us into their groups warmly, poking fun and bantering in good jest. I was even surprised by how much I enjoyed their company. Even though the places were small, dingy, and rundown, they were clean and full of life, each surface, glass, and person affectionately cared for.

  Nowhere felt more comfortable than when Peter was beside me. As each day ended, we lingered longer and longer into the night, not wanting to split ways. We didn’t want to end the day without each other, nor did we want to start the new day without one another. Midnight would pass, and only then would we reluctantly leave.

  Home didn’t feel like home anymore. He’d always walk me back, and I’d stall in the doorway, bursting with the temptation to ask him to stay. And his face showed that he longed to but that he’d say no each time. He didn’t need to prove to me that he was serious about this, but I had the feeling he needed to prove it to himself.