“You really don’t have to do this, you know,” you said, for the fiftieth time in as many seconds, it seemed. Your sentence drew me back to reality as I plucked the string again. It was as close to perfect as it could possibly get, and—with a sigh—I tried the next.
“My name is in the program book. People bought tickets with my name on it. My name is above the little box office window. I sort of have to.” That string was just fine…What about the next?
I was paying no attention to you, in reality, I admit. And I’m sorry to admit it. There was half an hour before that tapestry of a curtain would rise and my violin would have to speak in tongues. Brow furrowed, I plucked another string. I was thinking of the crowd. I was thinking of those tickets—my name spelled in blocky text. I was thinking of us, of my memories of us. My memories of those fingers. I was thinking of everything and nothing. I was thinking of nothing.
I hadn’t noticed you rise, just like a curtain. I hadn’t noticed you walking toward me—until your hand touched mine, dulling the sharp yelp of the string into a silence the room had not yet embraced.
“I can always relax you,” you said. And your grin had fire behind it.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I smiled tightly with frustration. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”
With gentle fingers, you pried the violin from my grasp and set it quietly on my stool. My tenseness melted as you embraced me. I felt like I wanted to cry, but that lasted only a heartbeat—until your kiss.
The concert hall seated two thousand. I had never played at such a big venue. For a week, I had had that number drawn in crayon posted on my refrigerator. It was sobering. It made me lose my appetite. It had made me lose my lunch, occasionally. Chagrined, I felt those self-same fingers that had scribbled the number in crayon tracing up my back. You were more excited than I was when you heard. You had laughed and danced and made love to me in celebration—because all my dreams were coming true.
I hadn’t told you they already had. I was too shy to say it.
Now, you pushed me against the wall—against a wall that had stood for one hundred years, supporting other lovers and other loves, enclosing the passions of artists who would dance and sing and play their way into an audience’s heart. Just like you played your way into mine.
You wanted me. I knew that as you broke from me and left a trail of hot kisses down my neck, down to the gentle dip in my blouse. I knew you wanted me as you lifted my skirt, turning my hose into a waterfall of heat as I lifted a leg and hooked it around your hips. The hose were black—they matched my skirt, the barrette nestled within my golden mane. You’d called it that—you, a poet. You’d called me your poetry, each and every night—after you made me scream.
Now, I would not be able to raise my voice in honor of your touch. I whimpered and shut my eyes, digging long fingers into your shoulders as you dug long fingers into my panties—pressing against them—encouraged by the wetness you found, shining through the satin.
It drove you on, harder and faster, making you lift my blouse, wrestle with my bra—cursing it as I breathed out, waiting impatiently, pouting while you undid the closures and found a nipple with your lips. You bit it. You only bite when you want me badly.
You pushed me against the wall, my garter belt stretching against the angle of my thighs as you lifted my leg higher and higher—stretching me wider and wider—spreading my legs until all I could do was whimper your name and clutch your tousled head to my breast.
You bit me and you licked me, hardening me as my aching legs begged to be wider, spread harder… As my wetness grew, you stopped touching me there—there, where I wanted it most. I licked my lips and begged, breathing your name as you scratched my thighs with moist fingers.
You sank to your knees, then, and pushed up my skirt. My thigh-highs were shaming, black without a trace of lace… I bit my lip as you nibbled where the hose stopped and my skin began. You licked up, tasting my skin as I so wished to taste you. Then, you were at my panties again—but this time, betraying fingers cupped my ass as your mouth went forward, tasting me through the satin, prolonging the moment of my desire until I could not bear it. You pushed me to you—you buried your lips into my crotch, and I ground my teeth, pressing myself harder and harder against you, breathing and panting like something wild you had not been able to tame. I wanted it. And I wanted it now.
You chuckled, then, a hot little chuckle that raced through me, feathering this passion you had inspired. I was halfway angry at you for making me spread against a dressing-room wall. For wanting when my violin needed. But you pulled back those accursed panties—at least they had lace!—and ran your tongue across what was throbbing…and all thoughts of violins shattered.
You licked me and you teased me, using teeth and tongue to spread me gently, then harshly, taking me in and sucking me until I was too weak for it all. You were Business as you buried your mouth against me, and I clutched your head—your long, thick braid of red—as I willed the weakness out of my knees, asking for a reprieve, wanting to stand until paradise became found.
You took me then. You pulled me from that wall and pushed me against the floor. You were on top of me, between my legs, your hips against my hips, your jeans grinding against my satin-covered pussy… I moaned—a quiet, low moan—as you took my arms and held them against the floor above my head, kissing me fiercely with a mouth that tasted of sex.
Then, you were in me again—this time, fingers—questing, seeking, as I spread myself as wide as I could for you, whimpering as a thumb followed, deeper inside me, becoming as wet as I was.
You came into me—and out—as often as I breathed, and my breath came quickly, a pant I could not control as wave after wave of it all covered me. Again, your mouth found my breast—my right breast—the one you had bitten, and you bit it again, rolling my nipple with your tongue as you bit it harder and harder, using your other hand to pinch my rump, making me grind my hips against yours again—thrusting myself against you, wanting you…
You came down on me once more, forcing my legs up with your shoulders, pressing them back as you spread me wider, filling your face with my wetness, your mouth with my heat. I shuddered as you stuck your tongue inside me—tasting me—tracing it up and up to my throbbing clit. You took it between your teeth and sucked on it mercilessly as I clutched your head, crying out.
I came, then, washing waves of bliss covering us both as I bucked my hips against your head, pressing your face against me as I went and went—six, seven times—a pulse much more beautiful than a heartbeat. I breathed out, and you allowed my legs down as I twined your hair about my fingers, pulling you up now gently to kiss me. I was so delicate—too delicate, too sensitive. You ground your hips against me and I cried out as the last wave covered and held me. You smiled, then, as you did the same. All I had strength to do was breathe.
You smelled wet—I loved it. I breathed you, willing my heart to stop pounding, willing my entire body to stop throbbing. You held me until I had strength to rise, and then you helped me up, straightening my hose and panties, skirt and blouse—once more, all business. But now, Miss Business had a twinkle in her eyes—and a cat-who-ate-the-canary smile. All I could do was grin, a little chagrined, and hope to high heaven that I didn’t smell like sex.
There was no help for my hair—once grandly pulled back in a stunning formation, now having to settle for a quick braid. I deftly pulled it back and tied it as you crossed your arms and looked at me, smiling. I laughed—a little—then gathered my violin and bow, glancing at the clock. It was five minutes to.
“You’re on in five,” a bodiless voice called from the shut door. That was good—that was nice. I plucked each string in turn, remembering to breathe—having to breathe—I was so out of breath. And you—just standing there, smiling.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” I finally asked, holding my violin beneath an arm, brandishing the bow like a sword. Your eyes were sparkling, and I was still flushed—blushing, I realized.
“That’s not the point. It was beautiful—it was poetry…just like you said.” I paused, hand on door, ready to go out and face the masses with a painted smile on my face. You’d painted it. You had, actually, painted me. I felt like your masterpiece…
“No…” You shrugged, breaking the moment with an evil grin. “You’re poetry. That was stress relief. I think I’m going to become a doctor.” You came up, then, and placed your hand over mine on the door. Damn you, anyway! You—the artist—turning poetry to comedy… and everything back again. It was your gift.
You kissed me. You tasted so good, pressing your mouth against mine—reaching inside me to hold my heart, like you had done so many countless times before.
“That was funny,” I finally said when you broke away, grinning like a Cheshire cat. Like a sex-obsessed adolescent.
“No. That was sex,” you reminded me, and opened the door.
I must admit—I was pretty relaxed.
(And… my violin was jealous.)
Covet Thy Neighbor
Renée Strider
Morgan had been lusting after her neighbor ever since
Morgan’s lover left her and the house they’d shared for five years. It wasn’t a bitter breakup, more a culmination of weariness. Though she’d become a bit of a player after the separation, she
reserved her real lust for her neighbor, Isabel. Who unfortunately was straight. Yes, she knew better, but she couldn’t help it. Isabel had a mouth to die for—full lips, naturally red and almost blurry, as if
she’d just been making love for hours. And Isabel’s hands were large, with long, elegant fingers. It was so easy to imagine them stroking
her.
Isabel was as tall as Morgan, and she wasn’t used to that. She fantasized about pushing Isabel up against a wall without having to bend down, her mouth on Isabel’s throat, her thigh between Isabel’s thighs, her hands pulling Isabel’s hips into hers. This was her favorite fantasy.
Part of what fueled the fantasies was that Isabel seemed to be fascinated with Morgan. She frequently complimented Morgan, mostly on her body—what good shape she was in, how defined her muscles were—sometimes to the point of embarrassment. Morgan and her lover would joke about it.
On one occasion, when they were both out by the pool, Isabel joined them as she often did. It was hot and still and muggy, the kind of afternoon when the sound of one cicada can be heard for blocks. Morgan was lying on her stomach on a wooden lounger in her bathing suit. She was still dripping and panting slightly from a vigorous swim, eyes closed, head on her arms, drying off in the searing sun.
Suddenly she heard her neighbor’s voice and at the same time felt a hand moving up and down the back of her leg, then up to her shoulder, caressing her. It was Isabel saying what a fine body she had, and such great shoulders. Morgan looked up at her lover, who winked at her and rolled her eyes.
“I work out,” she mumbled, blushing to the roots of her damp black curls.
Now peculiar as that incident might have seemed, even startling, it made some sense since Isabel was a registered physiotherapist. So bodies—and their condition—were her profession. Checking out Morgan’s was for her a natural thing to do. Probably. But still…
During the year after the breakup, Morgan’s recently discovered lust for Isabel waxed and waned. Seeing her at a distance getting out of her car or pruning her roses, both women waving a friendly hello, barely made an impact. Then Isabel would invite her for dinner or a film. One time, in the darkness of the theater, Morgan had leaned over very close to Isabel to whisper a reply. She had smelled her fragrance, felt her heat, and she had almost touched her mouth to the dark auburn tendril lying on the curve of her neck. As Morgan had drawn away, she’d imagined Isabel’s head thrown back, exposing herself to Morgan’s lips and tongue. She’d been aroused for days afterward, and at home, in bed at night, she would touch herself, imagining her neighbor’s face and mouth and hands until the orgasm crashed through her.
This is slowly killing me, Morgan thought more than once. But she could not give up Isabel’s company.
In late February, when a blizzard hit the area, Morgan bundled up and shoveled, making two new hills beside her driveway where it met the road.
This was work. These snowflakes had fallen fat and filled with moisture, and the loads she shoveled were heavy. By the time Morgan finished clearing the driveway, she was red in the face and sweating. Scarf, tuque, and mitts had been tossed in a snowbank, and her down jacket hung open. Dark, damp curls, even more springy than usual, hung in her eyes. But she had enjoyed herself. The exertion felt good after being confined to the house during the snowstorm the day before.
She wasn’t ready to stop yet and looked over at Isabel’s driveway. No cars and no tire tracks in the snow. She decided to shovel the snowbank that blocked it. By the time she had pushed and lifted and thrown enough to make two more huge mounds of snow at the end of the cleared driveway, her coat had joined the other discarded clothes, and she was breathing hard.
It was now midafternoon, but the light hadn’t changed much except to become softer still under the gray-white sky.
Morgan arched her aching back and stretched.
She was just putting the snow shovel on her shoulder and gathering up the tossed clothing to go home when Isabel pulled up, stopped, and rolled down the window. Morgan felt a flutter in her belly as they smiled at each other.
“Hi. You’ve been away,” she said. Oh, very cool. Some opening.
“Visiting Sandy. I meant to come home yesterday but got snowed in. The roads are pretty clear now.” Isabel looked at the driveway, her face lighting up. “Morgan, this is terrific! Thanks! I thought I’d be parked on the road for a while.”
“No problem. I really needed the exercise.”
Isabel’s hazel eyes focused on Morgan, who stood there disheveled and still red-faced, hair and clothing damp from perspiration. She grinned as she looked Morgan up and down.
“You look as if you’re about to collapse. Let’s go in and I’ll make a fire and some hot chocolate and you can recover.”
“Okay, great.” Morgan followed the car up the driveway to the big, gray limestone house, trying to ignore the faint erotic buzz in her guts.
The light from the table lamp by the door threw out an amber glow. Morgan leaned an elbow against the fireplace mantel and looked at Isabel as she moved around the room. She was dressed in soft black wool trousers and a dark green v-neck pullover that exposed the nape of her long neck, her throat, and her delicate collarbones. Morgan’s eyes were drawn to the smooth skin, pale gold in the lamplight. So beautiful and graceful. Like a dancer.
Suddenly she shivered, but it wasn’t a shiver of arousal, at least not altogether.
“I’m cold,” she said, her jaw tense, teeth almost chattering.
Isabel’s eyebrows rose in question as she ran her hands over Morgan’s shoulders and down her arms, then behind and over her back. “No wonder. Your clothes are still damp. First you get extremely overheated, and now both your skin and your sweaty clothes are evaporating and getting cold. Take them off right now.”
“Wha—I, uh…”
“Just take your clothes off.” Isabel smiled at her fondly and squeezed her shoulders. “We’ll hang them on this chair by the fireplace and I’ll get you a nice fuzzy robe. And that hot chocolate I promised. You’ll be warm in no time and feel much better.”
“Thanks, good idea,” Morgan called after Isabel as she left the room. I’ll do anything you say.
The erotic buzz in her belly escalated and she felt a quick jab of arousal even lower down. The shivers continued, now in counterpoint to her quickened heartbeat. All right, calm down. Just think about getting warm. That’s what this is about.
While Isabel was making kitchen sounds in pursuit of hot chocolate, Morgan stripped quickly and hung her damp clothes on the chair near the fireplac
e. Then she snuggled into the soft warmth of the robe Isabel had provided and faced the stove. She sighed with satisfaction as the heat penetrated and soon had to move away because the heat had become too intense.
“That’s better,” Isabel said cheerfully as she entered carrying a tray. “You look very cozy. When you’re completely warm, come over here.”
She’d changed into loose olive green drawstring trousers and a snug-fitting beige T-shirt, through which Morgan could see the shadowed protrusions of her nipples. Her chestnut hair hung almost to her shoulders, red highlights shining in the light from the stove and the table lamp nearby. Morgan’s breath caught in her throat and her eyes blurred. So lovely. Jesus, I want her.
It took only a moment for Morgan to recover and she sat down beside Isabel. “This smells so good.” She lifted the steaming mug of cocoa and brought it to her nose. “And coconut cookies, great.”
They sipped the fragrant hot drinks and munched on the cookies in companionable silence until their eyes met and held. Morgan realized she was holding her breath as a new surge of arousal shot from her stomach to her groin. Oh God, I can’t be this close to her. Don’t look at her mouth. Or her nipples.
Isabel smiled kindly, her hazel eyes crinkling. Long fingers curled gently around Morgan’s arm. She slid her hand over and above the elbow, clasping a solid bicep.
“Still in terrific shape, I see. My God, I’m impressed.” She squeezed again. “You must lift weights.”
Morgan’s heart raced and she hoped fervently that her neighbor wouldn’t see the pulse beating in her throat. This is nuts. How can she not see what’s happening to me? Must be the light in here.
Morgan was becoming desperate. Slowly and nonchalantly, she hoped, she pulled away from Isabel and sat back against the couch again.
“Yeah, I lift weights. I go to the gym on campus three times a week.”
She willed her voice to remain steady, but now she found it impossible to relax. The antique couch wasn’t very comfortable, anyway. That, combined with sexual tension and hours of snow shoveling, had made her neck and shoulders ache. She sat up, grimacing, and moved her neck from side to side, then rolled her shoulders. “I guess I overdid it today, though. I’m a bit sore.”
Stolen Moments Page 11
