by Primula Bond
I jump off the piano, gyrate around the musicians, running my hands all over myself, up and down my legs, my sides, over my breasts, into my hair. This is a mating dance for Pierre.
The lights go dark, focusing solely on the saxophone player, who steps forward, letting the spot follow him. I take the chance to shoot over to Pierre.
‘You told me you couldn’t do this!’ I take his face in my hands and tug it to face me. ‘You said it would be demeaning for you to “trail after some chick”.’
‘And I’m not! See? I’m part of the band!’ Pierre winds his arm round me and pulls me to sit beside him on the piano stool. ‘You not pleased to see me, Rosie?’
‘Of course I am! I’m over the moon. But why couldn’t you have saved me all this grief and come with me in the first place?’
The straps of the dress slip down my shoulders as I bang my fists on his chest.
He pushes his hand under my dress.
‘I tried being without you for forty-eight hours and I couldn’t bear it. Then I had lots to think about. I had to talk to the maestro.’
‘Antonio? He knew you were coming tonight?’
‘Well, he didn’t have a whole lot of notice, but –’
I grab his hand to stop it going any further. ‘I could fucking kill you!’
Pierre glances at the saxophonist, who has gone into a long solo.
‘That’s the spirit!’ He pulls me over his legs to straddle him. ‘Ever been fucked on stage?’
‘What?’
‘You’ve got the joint jumping like grasshoppers! See? The boys’ll keep playing till I strike the next chord.’ He slides his hand up my legs, squeezes my breasts. ‘I want you so badly, Rosa. And I reckon you’re ready for me.’
My legs are spread over him. His fingers edge into the juicy softness. I shift to part my legs a little more, and stifle a moan as his nails graze me. He knows his way round my body. My breasts strain beneath the satin, nipples burning to be bitten. But he’s kissing me now, sliding his tongue between my lips while his finger does the same between my legs, opening me.
I reach down to get at his zip. My pussy sticks to his trousers as he eases them down, the fabric tugging then releasing the tender skin. I wriggle impatiently, less jazz diva, more spoiled brat.
His cock jumps in my hand. I rise up on my knees and guide it to rest just inside me. The guys are playing slow funk as if they’re falling asleep, the rhythm pulsating through me, regular and deep as a heartbeat.
The audience’s eyes must be getting used to the dark. They’ll see our shapes, moving behind the piano. Antonio will see.
‘How is this going to work?’ I whisper, slicking my tongue across Pierre’s warm mouth. ‘We’ve signed contracts. Antonio won’t let me go.’
‘I begged. He listened. If I didn’t have dodgy legs he’d have made me get down on my knees. So he decided to test me.’ Pierre runs his fingers over my buttocks. ‘You think he’d let just any old pianist wander onto his stage, play a set and fuck his protégée?’
I slide down on to him, holding myself still, my body snatching at him, teasing us both by refusing to go further.
‘You’re going to tour with us?’
‘Come on, girl. Let me in, let me in!’
I press my finger on his mouth. ‘Answer me!’
‘We’re going to New York. You. Me. The band. Antonio, obviously. I’m going to reopen my theatre –’
The words fizz in my ears, making me dizzy. I sink down onto him, flick my head back with the bliss of it all.
The music is louder now, covering our voices. The audience are swaying, waving their bright mobiles in the air. Pierre Levi is entering me, in every single sense.
His mouth opens with delighted shock as we’re joined. His breath is hot, stopping the questions.
‘Oh, yes,’ he laughs, plunging harder inside. ‘I’ve got my Rosie back.’
I grip him with my thighs. He slides in further, I let him all the way in, then back off a little, slide back down. The shaft is slippery with my juice and I’m aching to buck against him. So I go ahead and do it. I dance down to the very base of him, engulfing him so that I’m filled with all those glorious inches of my man’s rock-hard, thrusting cock.
Each time we pull back and slam against each other it becomes more urgent, the piece is about to end, I can feel that gathering rush inside me, the orgasm a note or two away.
‘What about our encore, Rosa?’ someone yells.
I can’t hold on much longer. The band is faltering just a little, tiring, slowing the tempo. Pierre starts to mutter into my neck. His cock stiffens, he grips me hard and bangs me, carrying me with him, and I ride him, moaning as I start to come, and as the climax breaks and his eyes blaze at me and as I bounce on him I topple and accidentally strike the keyboard and, as he strains up against me, his load shoots into me.
The band strikes up the next piece. A really hard, fast version of ‘Ain’t Misbehavin’.’
‘No one to talk to, just by myself …’
And in the dark there we are, arched together in ecstasy. Misbehavin’ big time.
‘Just savin’ my love for you.’
The imposter pianist has his cock rammed up the singer and is fucking her like crazy.
The lights start coming on, one by one, lighting up each member of the band.
We’re the last ones, still in the dark, still concealed from our public by the music stand. My lover drags himself out and the juices trickle onto my thighs.
The light swings round to us, bright and round as a watchtower’s searchlight.
Pierre zips up his trousers with a flourish and the crowd goes wild. I stand up slowly, my knees trembling, holding onto the smooth wooden side of the piano. I fuss my skirt down, shaking my head, grinning to myself. The showman. Ever the showman. What have I taken on? This is all so reckless. So typical of him.
I take the mike off the piano, turn to him, and, as he goes to tuck his white shirt in, I notice an inky blue tattoo on his stomach. Brand-new. A treble clef, etched just to the right of his navel, curling into his trousers.
No. It’s an R, twining round a stem.
FIN
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