Rhapsody

by Gould, Judith

  He rolled onto his side and pulled her with him, so that they lay face-to-face on the couch, one of his arms under her, the other free to explore. His mouth sought out hers again as his hand ran up her leg, under her skirt, and over her silken buttocks, pulling her to him, pelvis to pelvis.

  She could feel his hard tumescence riding against her and was enthralled with this potent physical manifestation of the sheer power that together they generated.

  "Oh, Misha," she gasped, "I want you. I want you in me!"

  "Yes," he whispered, peppering her face with kisses. "Yes, my darling." He drew back slightly, looking into her eyes. "Let's go into the bedroom."

  "Yes," she said, "let's go. Now."

  Misha rose to his feet and extended a hand to her. She took it, and he pulled her up to him, taking her into his arms, kissing her passionately once more. Then he put an arm around her waist, and together, they walked into the bedroom, where he began to undress her.

  Slowly and reverently, he gently slid her sweater over her head, dropping it to the floor. Then he unhooked her bra and let it slide from his fingers to join the sweater. He took her breasts in his hands, stroking them softly and gently as his mouth covered hers and he kissed her more ravenously than ever.

  Serena moaned, relishing the touch of his hands on her nakedness, and returned his kisses, anxious for the feel of his hard, muscular bare flesh against her own.

  His hands, moving more forcefully now, began to thrum her small, strawberry nipples between fingertips, exciting them to hardness. He kissed her neck, nibbling and licking, his tongue darting across her flesh, slowly moving down, down, inexorably down, to her breasts, where he kissed and licked with rapacious desire.

  Serena felt the sudden wetness between her thighs and moaned again in exquisite pleasure as her body readied itself for him.

  His hands found the zipper on her leather skirt and pulled it down. With his mouth still at her breasts, he slid her skirt down, over her slim hips, and let it slide to the floor. He went down on one knee, his hands moving to Serena's buttocks, his mouth to her waist, kissing and licking her.

  Serena trembled with almost uncontrollable desire, her hands in his hair, drawing his head to her, but he drew back slightly as his hands slowly slid her panty hose down to her feet. She stepped out of them and her skirt, kicking them away in a single motion.

  Misha looked up at her momentarily, an expression of awe on his face. Then his mouth went to her thighs, kissing and licking in long strokes, slowly moving ever more closely to her raven black mound, until at last he delicately began to kiss and lick there.

  Yet another tremor ran through Serena as she felt his heat on her there, his tongue delicately exploring until it found that glorious treasure between her legs. She gasped aloud, savoring the feel of him, tempted to push his head into her harder, to beg him to go faster, deeper, but letting him take his time, teasing her as he was to excruciating heights of bliss. She almost cried out as his tongue suddenly dove into her, his hands pushing her buttocks hard against his face as he began to devour her in a frenzy.

  "Oh, Misha," she whispered. "I want you in me, Misha. Oh, my God. Now. Please."

  Misha abruptly jerked back, his breath coming in rasps. "Oh, my God," he breathed. "Oh, Serena." He stood up and took her in his arms again, kissing her hard, his tongue plunging into her mouth. Then just as suddenly he drew back and led her to the bed. She sat down, and he stood before her and began taking his clothes off. First, his black turtleneck sweater and undershirt, exposing his strong chest and powerfully muscular arms. Then, after reaching down and pulling off his shoes and socks, he unbuckled his belt and unzipped his trousers, which he quickly pulled off.

  Serena watched, enthralled at the sight of his body, remembering her initial surprise all those years ago that a classical musician would have such a powerfully muscular build, and mesmerized anew by his hard masculinity.

  Misha pulled down his Jockey shorts now, and his tumescence sprang before her in all its glory. He stood there, naked, without a trace of embarrassment, taking pride in his powerful manhood just as he reveled in the sight of her exquisite body in its nakedness. After a few moments, he joined her on the bed, where he guided her with a hand, spreading her out on her back. He bent over her, his knees between her legs, staring into her eyes, his expression feverish with desire. His hands slowly moved to her breasts, and he stroked them softly, gently, teasing her before moving down her slender torso to her thighs and her mound, which he stroked ever so delicately.

  Serena, tantalized to almost unbearable heights of passion, began to writhe with her own desire and reached out with a hand and encircled his cock, stroking its length, then brushed along his balls lightly before returning to his cock. Misha gasped involuntarily, his eyes closing in ecstasy, and he slid his fingers into her, feeling her wetness.

  In a frenzy now, he was unable to wait any longer. He took her hand off his cock and put it back over her head, then brought her other hand there to join it. He held them both with one of his, then spread her thighs with his other hand, before finally lowering himself to her mound, poised to take her, hesitating a brief moment, then entering her, slowly, but deliberately, shoving himself all the way in.

  Serena jerked from side to side at first, almost overwhelmed by his hugeness within her, but wanting it, needing it, loving it, opening herself up to him with all of her might.

  Misha withdrew very slowly, and she whimpered, before he plunged in again, impaling her as she surely never had been before. He could wait no longer, his passion overcoming his restraint, and he began to ride her faster, harder, plunging in and out like a man possessed. He released her hands and placed both of his under her buttocks, lifting them, pushing them hard against him, then relentlessly riding her, intent now on release.

  Serena moved with him, gasping, moaning, crying out as wave after wave of carnal pleasure engulfed her in an ecstasy of timelessness, then thrashed madly as the floodgates of orgasm rolled over her, her cries joining his as he finally plunged in to the hilt and spasmed, jerking wildly as he let out a bellow of release.

  After a moment, he collapsed on top of her, hugging her hard to him, noisily peppering her face and neck and breasts with kisses, his breath coming in loud gasps. "I love you, I love you, I love you," he rasped repeatedly, his body trembling in the aftermath of release. "Oh, Serena, I love you."

  Serena wrapped her arms around him, gasping for air, the flood tide of their pleasure warming her to the very core of her being. She felt as one with this extraordinary man, completely satisfied and content as with no one else, wishing the feeling could go on forever, knowing of course that it could not be sustained, that she could only hope to reexperience it. She grasped him to her harder, squeezing, her breath still coming in deep, noisy rasps, her heart still hammering in her chest. "I love you, too, Misha," she finally managed, returning his kisses. "I love you, too."

  After a few more moments, he lay with his head on her shoulder, both of them still, letting their breathing return to normal, content to hold each other, to plant solemn kisses, he on her shoulder, she on his head.

  Misha finally raised himself on an elbow and stared into her eyes. "That was wonderful," he said. "Unforgettable." He hugged her to him and kissed her on the mouth.

  Serena returned his affection, then said: "I'd forgotten how wonderful it can be. How extraordinary." She squeezed his buttocks. "Misha, there's nobody else like you."

  He began running his hands up and down her body, slowly, savoring its lustrous afterglow, beginning to explore it anew, all the time looking into her hazel eyes, a look of adoration on his features. Then his mouth went back to her breasts, where he began to lick and suck, the heat of his passion flaming up again, not quite spent by their first coupling.

  He had remained inside her, inert but large, and now Serena could feel him growing, his tumescence engorging once more, his hands and mouth exploring with renewed vigor, his pace gradually increasing. She moaned
aloud when he mounted her again, her passion rekindled, and fell into the rhythm of their lovemaking with a natural ease.

  They were slower this time but once again came together in a frenzy of release, after which they lay side by side on the bed, arms entwined, unable to part.

  "I don't know what I've done without you all these years," Misha said, looking at her. "I really don't."

  Serena smiled. "I feel the same way," she said, returning his look. "Exactly the same way."

  "Nothing else has compared with this," he went on, "and now I wonder how I can live without it. Without you."

  Serena remained silent, a wisp of a smile on her face. A smile of satiation, of contentment. She didn't want to point out the obvious to him: he didn't have to live without it. Without her. That she was there for him.

  Misha kissed her lips again, chastely, then her eyes, her nose, her cheekbones, her forehead and chin. Heaving a sigh, he hugged her to him. "I can't let you go again, Serena," he said. "I can't lose you again."

  She wanted to believe him, and as far as she was concerned, she certainly didn't want to give him up. She was not a fool, however. She knew that their situation was a very difficult one at best. "I don't want to lose you, either, Misha," she finally said. "I want to be with you." She looked into those black eyes of his. "But what do you want to do? What can we do?"

  He was thoughtful for a few moments, gently running a hand up and down her spine, her arm, over her buttocks. "We can go on seeing each other," he said. "That's all I know to do. Just go on seeing each other as much as we can manage." He looked at her.

  "I want to," Serena said quietly. "But what about Vera and your family?"

  "Vera," he repeated. He sighed. "I don't know, Serena," he said. "I just don't know what will happen." He squeezed her hand and stared into her eyes again.

  "I can't promise you anything. Right now I just know that I want to see you more than anything else in the world. I can't lose you again."

  Serena ran a hand through his tousled hair. "I know," she said. "I know you can't make any promises, and I don't expect you to right now." She paused a moment before continuing. "As much as I detest all the furtive- ness, all the lying and cheating"—she looked at him with a serious expression—"and that's what seeing you would entail. Make no mistake about that. But I don't want to give you up either, Misha. And, if we can work it out, somehow or other . . ."

  He pulled her to him, covering her mouth with his, kissing her passionately again. When he pulled back, he said: "We will work it out, Serena. Somehow. I know we will. I just know it." His hands were all over her again, his mouth devouring hers, and once again they feasted on each other, as if starved for the drug that they were to each other, until they finally lay spent once again, reveling in the rediscovery of their great passion, delighting in its pleasures.

  Misha finally began disentangling himself from Serena. "Oh, God," he said with a sigh. "I wish I could stay here like this forever."

  "But you can't," Serena said.

  He rose from the bed to dress with the greatest reluctance.

  "Do you want to shower?" Serena asked from the bed, where she watched him pick up his clothes.

  He sat back down on the bed next to her. "No," he said in a whisper, looking into her eyes, then kissing her. "I want to smell you on me tonight."

  Then he got to his feet again and began to dress. He would have to hurry now because he was expected back at the Palais Schwarzenberg in time to change into black tie for a formal dinner at eight. He quickly donned his clothes, and Serena stood up to walk him to the suite's door.

  He turned to her at the door and took her into his arms again. "Oh, God," he said, "I've never hated to leave a place so much in my life. I really don't want to go."

  "You've got to," she said, slipping him a note. "You've got all my telephone numbers now, and my schedule, so call as soon as you can."

  "It won't be long," Misha said. "We'll see each other again soon."

  "I hope so," Serena said. "Now go, before you're late."

  Misha kissed her once more, then turned and left.

  Serena returned to the bedroom and spread out, happier than she had been in years. Her happiness was tempered, however, with the trepidation she felt over this clandestine affair. She hoped against hope that it would evolve into something that was positive and life-enhancing for them both. Then it suddenly occurred to her that she might be counting her chickens before they hatched.

  What if Misha didn't call her? What if he didn't really want to see her again? What if this was just a one-night stand for him, despite what he said?

  She shivered and began rubbing herself with her arms. Then she remembered the things he'd said and the way he'd said them. She remembered his extraordinary passion in bed.

  I don't think he was faking it, she told herself. No. I think Misha truly loves me, as I truly love him.

  Misha hailed a taxi and gave the driver instructions. "Palais Schwarzenberg," he said. He leaned back into the seat, his mind spinning with their encounter. He no longer felt the self-conscious embarrassment he had experienced when he realized that he still loved Serena. He didn't think, in fact, that he'd ever felt this satisfied, this contented in his life. Their meeting had been destined, he believed, a gift that the Fates had for some reason given both of them.

  Yes, he decided, that was it. And it was a gift of such powerful love that it could not be denied. God, he thought, I wish I could shout it from the rooftops!

  But of course that was out of the question, the very last thing he could do. No. He would have to keep this love bottled up inside him, sharing it only with Serena.

  He turned and gazed out the taxi's window at the splendid procession of Vienna's pastiche of architectural wonders. It's the perfect setting for the rekindling of our love, he thought. And love it is. True love.

  Oh, yes. An undeniably great love.

  Unfortunately, he reminded himself, there were many other considerations to ponder. Vera, of course. Nicholai. His family. Protecting all of them from the painful truth of reality. A reality of deceit, subterfuge, unfaithfulness.

  I still love Vera, he thought. Undeniably, odd as that might seem to her. He sighed. It would be so much easier if I didn't

  It was a different kind of love from what he felt for Serena. Was it perhaps a more mature form of love? He wasn't really certain. What he did know without any doubts was that he also loved Serena, a love that was almost overwhelming in its intensity of feeling.

  I may be asking for trouble, he thought. His relationship with Serena all those years ago had been an explosive one and had failed miserably. But that, he felt, was partly because they had been too young and had come from such totally different worlds. That was not as true now as it had once been, and they were both a little older.

  Her image, in all its exquisite beauty, flashed before his mind's eye, and he smiled. She had matured so much in the last five years, and he had meant what he'd said: her fame and fortune suited her. She had become more self-assured, more sophisticated and worldly wise, more tolerant and less explosive.

  Still, that inevitable poisonous snake, guilt, had wormed its way into his consciousness. He had everything in the world. A beautiful and devoted wife. A healthy, brilliant, and adoring son. A career that few pianists in history could lay claim to. Fame. Money.

  Last night I played before royalty in Schonbrunn Palace, he thought. No mean feat And now I'm on my way to the Palais Schwarzenberg to dress for a dinner with Prince and Princess von Wallenburg.

  Why endanger all of it? he asked himself. I've been so damned lucky, he thought. So fortunate.

  Life had not always offered so much, had not always been so abundant with its gifts. Life, in fact, could be a lot worse ...had been a lot worse....

  Part Two

  YESTERDAY: 1968-1998

  Brighton Beach, Brooklyn

  The club was one of the tackiest and most depressing places the young man had ever seen. But then, w
hat else should I have expected? he asked himself with smug superiority. At night it looked glitzy, all silver and gold, gleaming black and red, polished steel and brass. At night, too, it was always packed, banquette to banquette, dance floor to orchestra stage, with well-dressed men in custom-made suits or tuxedos, their hair slicked back, and their elaborately coiffed and heavily made-up wives or girlfriends, in jewels, gowns, and, in any but the warmest weather, fur coats.

  Now in daylight, with the lights turned up to their full wattage, he discovered it was but a tawdry, dirty, and gimcrack stage set that could ill afford close inspection. Soiled, sticky carpeting—he almost recoiled at even having to walk on it in his expensive shoes—went with the frayed and befouled upholstering. At night, matte black paint effectively concealed an ugly maze of overhead electrical conduits, water pipes, ductwork, and the cheap light fixtures mounted helter-skelter that were aimed at various areas of the club. In the light, it all looked makeshift and filthy with accumulated grime.

  Two goons, stony-faced behemoths in black mock turtleneck sweaters that matched their black suits, led him down a long hallway to what he knew must be the club's offices. The goons, muscles seemingly about to split the seams of their suits, lumbered along in black lizard-skin cowboy boots.

  Leningrad cowboys! the young man thought. Ridiculous! His eagle eye didn't fail to see that the black paint on the walls was lumpy and peeling, and the carpeting beneath his feet—the color the British referred to, appropriately enough, as mouseback—way like the rest, soiled and worn.