by Amanda Faye
It’s so fucking peaceful, with our feet entwined at the bottom of the tub, and the music flowing in from the speaker system.
Her breathing changes, and I realize she’s falling asleep, right here in the bathtub.
“When do you have to be home?” I whisper, knowing this can’t last forever.
She lazily opens her eyes, before snuggling into my arms.
“I have class Monday at ten. I need enough time to grab a new set of clothes before then.”
Hmmm, it’s a shame, thinking of her in clothing again. Still, I’ve got time.
“Monday it is.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ELI
I know it's her the minute I hear the doorbell. How, you ask? Because I told the doorman if he let my red-headed goddess into the building, I'd personally break his fingers.
So, of course, Natalie is outside my door less than three hours later.
"Eli, I know you're here. Mr. Andrews from downstairs let me in. Are you sick? What's going on?"
She knocks on my door while speaking through the buzzer.
I lay my cello on the ground and pad barefoot over to the door, debating the wisdom of doing this now.
I won't have to tell her at school, which is the main reason I called out sick today—because I'm a fucking coward. However, I don't think doing it in my living room is any better.
I spent an hour today merely staring at the piano, wondering, if I sniffed it, would it still smell like her? If I licked it, would I be able to taste the sweat from her skin?
Less than a week. Five days. That’s all the time I got to revel in the feel of her arms around me before life as I knew it came tumbling down around me.
My stomach roils, and bile burns at the back of my throat. Maybe I am sick after all.
After another round of banging, I pull open the door.
"Natalie, come on in." I try to sound polite. I fail.
She's staring at me like she's trying to figure out a puzzle. I have to force my shoulders back, strengthen my spine. After all, I’m the unfeeling bastard of this duo. Better if I look the part.
I shut the door behind her, doing my best to ignore her presence. I sense her take her coat off, line her shoes up by the door, then I turn from her entirely and move to my cello, lifting it from the floor and placing it in its stand.
"You didn't come to school today. You didn't call me back or answer my texts. I was worried about you."
I bring my hands up to my head, scrubbing them roughly through my hair.
This is what's best. It's the best thing I can do for her.
Why, then, does it hurt so bad?
"I got an email last night. It threw me off my game."
"Ahh, poor, Eli. Tell me about it." Her tone is half amused, half concerned. As if I’m simply moody and overreacting.
She thinks she knows me so well.
She tries to close the distance between us, hands reaching for my face, but I grab her wrists in my hands and bring them down between us.
"Paul quit. No notice, of course. Took a job in California."
"Oh," is all she says, heavy on a puff of air.
I step back away from her, putting some much-needed space between us.
"I uh—" My voice breaks, and I clear the emotion from it roughly.
I want to punch something, to break something. My muscles scream with the anxiety coursing through my veins. I run my hands through my hair again, pulling at the strands this time.
"I know we were only, um, spending time together to keep that asshole away from you. Motherfucker didn't even have the decency to finish out the semester. God, I hate him.”
If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be in this position in the first place. I don’t know if I hate him more because of it, or because without him, I’d have never had what little time with Natalie I did.
“Anyway, it's good news for you. You're free." I try to force a smile into my voice. "Since you don't need me anymore, I guess this is goodbye."
She makes a sound, and I finally turn to face her. Her eyes are pools of liquid, tears slowly dripping down her face.
I go to her then, drawn like a magnet. I push her hair behind her ears, using my thumbs to wipe away the moisture from her eyes. I need to feel her against me, so I dip my head and rub the scruff of my cheek against the satin of her smooth one.
"Baby girl, please don't cry. I can't bear to see you cry. This is a good thing. You're free of him. Free of me."
My voice is soft, tender in a way that only happens for her.
"But," she sniffles, and I feel it deep in my gut, "I don't want to be free of you. I know you weren't, really, my boyfriend." She makes a rough sound deep in her throat. "God, what a stupid word that is."
Her sniffles pick up force. I suddenly have an overwhelming urge to lick the tears from her face, like a cat would its mate. "I know my love isn't like the love you had before. But it felt so real to me."
Mirabel? Is she referring to fucking Mirabel? Compared to Natalie’s warmth and loving smile, my time with Mirabel was more like a bad highlight reel of somebody else’s life. When I’m in Natalie’s arms, I feel like heaven and hell and everything in between.
Her crying starts in earnest, and it breaks something inside me to see her this way. I pick her up, and her legs wrap around me automatically. I place her on the piano, so different from the last time we were in this position. We're face to face now, and I kiss her with everything I possess.
Everything I am is hers, I try to tell her, even if that amounts to nothing.
I cup her face in my palms, holding back all that glorious hair from blocking my view of her.
I overheard a teacher once say when he first met Natalie that he thought her coloring would stop her from getting jobs. Then he heard her sing. Now he can close his eyes and picture her on any stage in the world.
"Oh, baby girl. It is real. It's so real it hurts. But you are the sun and the stars, and I am not worthy of cleaning your floors, let alone of being your lover."
"How can you say that?" she asks me, sincerity lacing her voice. When she looks me in the eye, adoration blooms in my belly.
"You are perfect, Eli. Perfect.
"I'm an asshole," I reply, and shocked laughter bubbles from her surface and crashes over me in waves.
She shrugs, and I wonder if that’s a habit she’s picked up from me?
"I'm nice enough for the both of us," she replies. At least she doesn’t try to deny it.
Natalie's hands have left my shoulders to find the hem of my shirt. Her hands slip underneath, and a shudder runs the length of my spine as her tiny fingers flatten against my back.
She tilts her head, laying tiny kisses up and down my throat. Starting from my ear, she nibbles down to my neckline, only to start the path again. My fingers tighten where they’re resting on her thighs.
"I warned you once before, baby girl. Once I start this, I'm not sure I'll be able to stop. You’d be better off leaving and never looking back."
She ignores me, continuing her trail from earlobe to collarbone.
"Natalie," I say, trying to put a little more force into my voice. "I'm not a very nice man."
She shrugs her shoulders again. Like it means nothing to her. One hand has found its way into the waistband of my jeans, creepy crawling its way onto my ass. The other is digging hot rivers of yearning up and down my back with her nails.
"You're nice to me," she says against my Adam's apple.
“You may be the only person in the world I honestly like,” I mumble against her hair.
“Wait till I tell LaMarcus. You’re going to break his heart.”
I huff out a laugh.
“This isn’t very fair,” I grump out, trying to retain my concentration. She’s brought her teeth into the game, and she’s lightly scraping them up and down my collar bone.
“I’m a very goal orientated person, Eli. I thought you knew that by now.”
She doesn’t take her l
ips from my skin when she talks, and goosebumps break out over my body. I feel her smile against my breastbone, and I tilt my head to the side to give her more access.
“Do you love me?” she asks, and I know she can feel the way my heart speeds up at the question. She pauses against me, breath held in anticipation.
I give her hair a tug, and she resumes sucking on my neck.
“The issue here isn’t how much I love you. The issue is that—”
She takes my bottom lip between her teeth, pulling it until it’s just this side of painful. My moan is guttural in response. The pop of its freedom is audible in the room.
She looks me in the eye, all trace of playfulness gone.
“Do. You. Love. Me?”
“Yes,” I say, and her smile is wider than the New York skyline.
"Then take me to bed," she says, looking me in the eye.
Will there ever come a time when I can tell her no?
I gather her in my arms, savoring the way she folds herself around me, and walk into my bedroom.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
NATALIE
This time when he lowers me to the mattress, I make sure he comes with me. My arms are locked around his back, pulling at his shirt, and my lips tangle up with his. He's on his knees between my thighs, supporting himself one-handed. The other cradles my face, thumb caressing my throat.
His mouth slides from mine, trailing kisses down my jaw, and I feel, more than hear, him whisper, "Never see you cry again."
My heart lurches in my chest, but his lips quickly soothe the pain away.
I want to put both hands in the air, screaming YES at the top of my lungs. I want to abandon Eli on this bed to do a happy dance in celebration. I want to call my momma and tell her that I have won a king among men.
Instead, I wrap my legs around his waist, running my palms up and down his spine. I need to feel him underneath my hands.
He scared me so very badly. For a minute there, I honestly thought I'd lost him.
He rises to his knees, reaching over his shoulders and pulling his shirt off over his head. He drops it to the floor, not paying any attention to its location. Today's reads, Cellist, because Violinists need hero's too.
I push back with my hands, scooting to a sitting position, and follow his action, dropping my shirt to the carpet. I reach for his pants, popping the button and lowering his zipper. I've never been a fan of men's underwear before, but maybe that's because I'd never seen Eli wear them.
Either way, it all needs to go. I place my hands in his boxer briefs at his hips and slide my palms downward as I shove his bottoms down his legs. I don't get very far, seeing as how he's standing on his knees, but the coarseness of his body hair sends tingles up from my fingertips.
He springs free as soon as I have his pants low enough, and I admire the length of steel jutting up from between his legs. It might be more impressive today than the last time I saw it, maybe because I have more of my wits for this encounter.
I give up on his pants and take him in my hand. Thick and hard, he's coated in the finest velvet. His balls are large and tight against his body, and I wonder if I can put them both in my mouth.
I lean forward, intending to try to do just that, but Eli stops me with a hand on my shoulder.
"What do you think you're doing, baby girl?"
"I want to feel you in my mouth," I reply, only mildly embarrassed at the timid and breathy way it comes out.
"Oh, no, baby girl. Not right now."
"Why not?" I ask, worry coloring my voice.
"Because, the first time I come tonight, I want to be so deep inside you, you still feel me tomorrow."
His voice is deep and gravelly, masculine possession all wrapped in Eli's honeyed tone. It pulls things tight inside me.
"But you're supposed to be a good teacher," I say, and his chin drops to his chest. He's praying again, I think. Funny, for a man who doesn't believe in God, he sure does talk to him a lot.
"You're killing me, Natalie, killing me. Later, if you want. After I've had my way with you."
"Promise?" I ask, and his responding chuckle is low and dark, filled with hidden possibilities.
"Promise," he says, with a smile I can't quite interpret.
When he licks his lips, it dawns on me.
He looks hungry.
I reach around me to unhook my bra, but he smacks my hands away, giving me a withering look.
"Mine," he says.
He crawls to the edge of the bed, slipping to the floor to discard the rest of his clothing. Then, he resumes his position between my legs.
His hands, those rough and massive extensions of his body, reach around my back and delicately flick the clasp of my bra. He slides the material down my arms, and I'm reminded of a sculptor examining his clay. His eyes glaze over, and his face transforms with a look I've already started to associate with Eli wondering how he'll make me come tonight.
He grabs my thighs unexpectedly, and I burst into surprised giggles as he knocks me off balance and pushes my back to the bed.
He reaches for my pants, and I lift my butt off the bed as he wiggles them off my hips and down my thighs. He lifts my knees, pulling my legs straight in the air as he pulls the fabric the rest of the way off my ankles.
My panties are pink and lacy, and I put them on this morning with the sole intention of him taking them off at the end of the night. He groans at the sight of them, then reaches for me with reverence, gliding my underwear down my legs with a tenderness most wouldn't believe he possesses.
Heat burns up my chest at the way he gazes at me. I'm a feast, and he can't decide where to start. Eli lowers to his belly, hands running up the inside of my legs. When he parts my thighs, I throw my head back against the mattress, before rising on my elbows.
"I thought you said none of that?" I ask, already dripping in anticipation. Butterflies, or bees maybe, are buzzing in my bloodstream. My hips are already rocking in anticipation of what he does to me. My fingers flex, aching for something to latch between them.
"I need to taste you, Natalie, it's been too long."
It's been three days. But who's counting? He brought me home with him Friday night, and I didn't leave again until Monday morning. Today is only Wednesday.
His fingers dig into the flesh above my knees, which leaves me a panting mess on the bed.
I'm antsy and tense, my body screaming out for what only he can give me.
His fingers are coarse against my skin, years of holding his cello to his heart leaving permanent imprints on his fingertips. The texture feels divine, the perfect counterpart to the gentleness of his touch.
Last time he was searching, gentle. He was testing me like he would a new instrument. Tonight, he knows what strings to pluck to get the sound he wants.
With a hand on either thigh, testing the boundaries of my flexibility, he buries his head between my legs, drinking me in like a parched man in the desert. His face is scratchy against my core, and I hope when I kiss him after, I can smell myself against his face.
His tongue glides across my clit, flicking and sucking on my most sensitive spots. He licks over his bite marks, all but faded back into oblivion, when I moan, "Please," into the space between us, and he renews his mark on my flesh.
My cry makes him growl against my skin.
The sounds he makes.
Oh, God, the sounds he makes when he's eating my pussy. It's the way he sounds when he plays his cello, all sighs and moans and gasps against my delicate places. He eats my pussy the way he performs, with all his heart and soul. With a skill level that can't be taught but learned from instinct and dedication alone. He eats my pussy with a determination that puts Olympic athletes to shame.
I could come strictly from the sounds he makes when he sucks my pussy between his lips.
I'm building fast. Euphoria and stress from the last hour combine with the pleasure Eli brings me in a lethal combination.
"Not yet, Natalie. Not yet," he growls aga
inst my skin, but if he wanted me to hold back, he shouldn't have spoken at all. That honeyed voice vibrating against my pleasure center, with desperation in his tone, tips me over the edge, and I come in a glorious explosion.
"Fuck," he moans, and I feel it in my core. He leaves my pussy and licks and kisses up my body, using his teeth against my hip while I'm still too blissed out to care about the extra burn.
Before I can leave the warmth of my afterglow, he's between my legs again. With one arm under my knee, he centers himself on top of me and slowly sheaths himself to the hilt.
His mouth never stops against my body, licking, tasting, sucking, and kissing. Before Eli, I never knew what it was like to crave another's flesh against your own. Now, I can't concentrate on anything but wanting him. I want to lick him back, to hold the taste of him in my mouth.
But all I can do is lie here and moan, incoherent with the sensation of him feasting on my body.
I sob against him, almost delirious with the feeling of him settled on top of me. His lips find mine, and he licks into my mouth, twirling with, then sucking on my tongue.
When he lowers his weight onto his elbows, his chest pressing me into the mattress, I have to close my eyes at the vision of him mere inches above me. It's too much. It overloads my senses.
His muscles are hard and strained, the curve and arc of them vibrating under my hands. His thrusts are slow and tortuous, ringing me dry of every scrap of sensation I can give him. I'm quivering under his touch, breath coming in mewling gasps, and still, he never speeds his pace.
He dips, pushing until my bones grind against his own, then pulls, until I'm almost bereft of the feel of him. Over and over again, until I'm whimpering underneath him.
"Please, please, please," I beg, desperate to be freed from the prison of pleasure he's locked me in.
"Mi ami, Bambina?" he asks, and the waves of my passion build at the desperation in his voice.
His weight is pressing against me, and my arms entwine around his shoulders. He reaches behind him, caressing my leg as he goes, settling my legs higher on his back, and it deepens his angle, curling me up into his touch.
