by Jaye Peaches
“And if you don’t like them?” I quizzed.
He shifted, readjusting his position. “We’ll discuss them, okay?”
“Sure.” The conversation seemed awkward, as if Stefan didn’t like the direction it was taking. I noted he didn’t address my indecisive qualities, but referred to me being impulsive. I’d always considered myself a procrastinator. Could you be both—delaying decisions and rushing at them recklessly? I didn’t want to talk about personality traits, all that mumbo-jumbo of terminology. Jargon worked in music theory, but people?
Silence descended. I returned to caressing his fuzzy chest, and Stefan’s breathing became regular again. So it came as a surprise when I let my hand rove southward, to find that he had an erection. There in the dark, a full-on arousal. He’d not mentioned it, or even hinted at it. What had brought it on? The warmth of our bodies pressed together, or speaking of his dominating tendencies? Did he fantasize, conjure up images in his head about magical sex and nubile females?
As his cock twitched, I recoiled, swiftly removing my hand.
“What’s wrong?” he asked softly.
“Just. This.” I stroked his erection.
“Ah. It has a mind of its own sometimes.”
I heard the faint trace of a snigger.
“I have to think about sex or see something to make me hot,” I confessed.
“See what?”
“You.” My face prickled with a gush of blood. Why had that made me blush?
“Understandable.”
I laughed at his arrogance and he joined in.
“Think?” He picked up on my other stimulant.
“You know, naughty thoughts,” I disclosed. Damn. One of those reckless moments again when my mouth engaged before my brain.
“Tell me.”
I shook my head against his arm. “No,” I squeaked. “It’s embarrassing.”
“Mausi, fantasies are fine. It doesn’t mean you want to do them. They fire up your passions and make you receptive, but that doesn’t mean you consent to having your wild dreams come alive.”
“Tell me one of yours, then.” I poked his belly.
He paused. Inhaled deeply. “This is just as hard for me as it is for you.”
I waited in the darkness.
“I like anal sex.”
I went rigid and moved fractionally away from him. Memories of his little poking session took on a new meaning. “I’m not sure…”
“Callie, it’s my fantasy, not yours. This is what I mean. Thinking of anal sex turns me on. I like butts. Breasts, too, I hasten to add. I would never do it to you if it was something you didn’t want.”
“I don’t,” I said quickly. Perhaps too quickly, because I remembered the orgasm that had gone with his probing. “Not until I’m ready. If ever,” I cautioned.
“That’s fine. That’s how it should be. So tell me one of yours.”
I gulped. I had plenty. Silly ones, like having sex in nothing but stockings and high heels. I’d done that with Micah, but more by accident than design—we’d been to a prom ball and he’d spilled wine on my dress. The sex was an apology. He’d found me stuffing the frock in the washing machine and taken advantage.
I chewed on my lip, wishing I could see Stefan’s expression. Would he mock me, laugh at my dark secrets? I’d let Micah take me, because deep down, I liked those impromptu sex sessions, the ones where you don’t expect them to happen. “I…like rough sex. Not violent—”
“Never. Aggression has no place,” agreed Stefan.
“I don’t want to feel afraid,” I added.
“Fear, no. Trepidation can heighten sexual desire.”
Why was this so goddamn hard? “I like to be surprised.”
“Surprised?”
“Kind of pounced on, unexpectedly.” I cringed at my audacity. Now he probably thought my morals were warped. “It’s daft. Forget it.”
“Unplanned and spontaneous sex. That’s what you’re describing, Callie. That’s about you being available and unhindered by negative thoughts.”
“Available?”
“Let’s say we’re at home together. A horny Callie wants sex. She puts on a short dress and no underwear. You tell me, say something like, ‘I’m such a naughty girl today and what are you going to do about it?’ It’s a signal. The start of a game. At some point, I pounce as you say and have my wicked way, and you come, because you’re wet and ready for it.”
I squirmed next to him. Just hearing him describe my fantasy to perfection made me wet. “Yes, that’s it.”
I grasped the stiff shaft of his cock. “A fantasy, that’s all.”
“Good one, I may add.” He groaned as I tightened my grip. “Keep going.”
I slipped my head under the cover. It didn’t make any difference to the level of darkness. I burrowed down until my mouth reached his cock and I sucked the pre-cum off the end, while he hooked his hand around and frigged my excited clitoris. I came first, clenching my thighs together and trapping his fingers as the gentle waves flew out across my sex. I managed to keep my tongue curled about his erection and worked it hard to keep him on the brink.
“I’m coming,” he growled.
A hot spurt of liquid pooled on my tongue and I swallowed each drop of his cum with gusto—a little meal in the middle of the night. I flopped my head onto his belly, the tip of his dwindling erection still resting on my lips.
I drifted off to sleep in a stew of mixed emotions. Had I done the right thing, telling him my innermost thoughts? And what would he make of them, because what I’d described was a perfect scenario for a Dominant, wasn’t it? Make myself available then let him decide? Choose to strike or hold back and leave me tormented with unrequited lust. What a feast for his controlling ways.
Perhaps, I should have kept my mouth shut.
* * * *
After breakfast, I wandered into the music room. Stefan had gone to check on his father. The manuscript papers I’d seen the previous day were gone. Whatever Stefan was working on, he’d chosen to keep it hidden. I suspected he hadn’t intended to leave it out.
I ran a finger along a shelf of books. A couple of titles caught my eye and I lifted them down. Heavy tomes with faded spines and both written in English. One was a biography of Rimsky-Korsakov, my nightmare composer, and the other a guide to teaching woodwind instruments. I thumbed through pages, passing the chapter on embouchure and tonguing techniques. The references to oral skills made me smile. Part of our fun last night had involved my facial muscles.
“Borrow them.”
I jumped, my heartbeat pounding, and I clutched a hand to my chest. “Stefan! What’s with the ninja stealth mode?”
He stood in the doorway. How long he’d been there, I didn’t know, as I’d had my back to the door.
“How’s your father?”
“Waking up. Not quite ready for springing out of bed.” He approached me and fished the woodwind book out of my hands. “This is invaluable, especially if you’re going to do a teaching diploma, or a performer’s diploma—you’d excel at either.”
I gaped at him, opening and shutting my mouth in another display of fish impersonation. “What are you talking about?”
He continued to examine a page, not giving me his full attention. He glanced up. “Studying music. What else?” He knitted his eyebrows, forming furrows on his forehead.
“Who says I’m going to be studying music?” I snapped.
“Seems to me it’s the obvious thing to do. You love this room, constantly drawn to it since you’ve been here. Doesn’t that mean anything to you? Imagine days spent in a music library, or talking to fellow students about repertoire and technique. You’d love it.” He closed the book, holding it out to me.
“You’re imposing your opinions over me. Your perceptions of this room and your memories of studying music. Let’s be frank, Stefan, you don’t know me that well. One recounting of a fantasy in the middle of the night doesn’t make me an open book. You’ve fucked me to
seventh heaven, but that doesn’t make you an expert on me.” Hot blood filled my face and I clenched my fists, refusing to accept the book back. He returned it to the shelf.
“If this is to do with money—”
“No!” I exclaimed.
“So, you plan to what? Inherit a florist and trim stems until your fingers go raw? I don’t understand why you would throw away an opportunity. You’ve natural talent. Can’t you see that? Why are you being so goddamn stubborn?”
He raised his voice, and I flinched, mortified by his determination.
I gritted my teeth. “I told you. I don’t want to study music. Maybe once, but not now. What if I want to grow old surrounded by roses and chrysanthemums? It’s a job. Unlike you, I like to get paid to stand on my own two feet.” I thrust my face into his and he backed away.
“Whoa—”
“Don’t bloody whoa me!”
“I was going to suggest you move in with me, save on rent, but obviously, you’re overwrought—”
I crashed my fist on a nearby shelf and a book toppled over. “Overwrought! How dare you accuse me of being”—I stumbled for words—“sensitive? You’re not thinking about my motivations, but your own squandered career.”
My words bit him. His eyes narrowed into slits as he assimilated my remarks.
“I am a musician. I do teach and conduct. I am not a failure. I simply don’t understand why you won’t reconsider your own choices.”
“Because they’re mine. Not yours. Or anyone else’s. Stop making assumptions and leave me alone.” I turned my back on him, breathing heavily. Behind me, he cursed and muttered in German, his tone aggravated.
“I have to go and fetch the care worker. When I return, we’ll leave for the airport. Be ready. We can discuss this further in the car on the way.”
He slammed the door shut behind him. A few seconds later, I heard the front door treated in a similar fashion. I raced out of the room, charged upstairs and found my holdall. I stuffed it with my unfolded clothes, ramming them in with fisted hands. I gathered up my toiletries from the en suite, threw those on top of my clothing then zipped the case shut. Then I stomped downstairs, deposited the bag by the front door, ready to go, just as he’d requested.
My mini tantrum didn’t improve my mood. How could an innocuous book have caused a cascade of emotions in such a short time span? I’d gone from thinking of cock-sucking to berating Stefan for interfering with my life. The swell of resentment bubbled up effortlessly from where I’d buried it deep. I knew it originated from a time before I met Stefan, but denial kept me from admitting the reason why I refused to talk about my abandoned career.
I kicked the bag, one last physical display of displeasure, before going into the kitchen for a therapeutic coffee.
I nearly sent Franz flying as I walked straight into him. I’d forgotten I wasn’t alone in the house. I grabbed at him, offering him support. He twisted, shaking his arm free, and gave me an indignant look—one of disgust. Another show of negative emotion, the expression so similar to Stefan’s last—the one before I had turned away from him. It was the final straw. I burst into tears.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Callie. Is that your real name?” asked Franz, passing me a tissue box.
We’d sat at the breakfast bar, opposite each other. He’d waited, letting me cry out my tears. The previous expression on his face had gone in a second. The moment he saw my tear-filled eyes and downturned mouth, he’d pointed toward a stool and told me to sit. He’d fussed about, finding the tissues and bringing me a glass of water. His concern humbled me. Perhaps he’d thought I was the caregiver, arriving early, determined to exert her authority over him. Grabbing his arm to offer support, in retrospect, had been a misinterpreted action on his part. He’d apologized as soon as my tears fell.
I dabbed at my tears and blew my nose. Callie was the name everyone used because I never gave them my full name. Even Stefan remained ignorant. “Callista. Nobody calls me by that name. I’ve been Callie since a little girl. Except… Dad sometimes used it when he was making a point or telling me off.” I didn’t want to remember his raised voice or wagging finger. I required my memories of him to bask in a glow of adoration and perfection.
Franz cleared his throat. “Ach so, Callie.”
He placed his hands on the surface of the table, spreading out his fingers. The shape of his hands so similar to Stefan’s—long fingers with filed nails. He looked directly at me and I started slightly. God, he was his son in that moment. An older version staring back at me. Handsome still, beneath the wrinkles and grayness.
“I came down because I heard arguing.” He raised an eyebrow.
“Sorry. Stefan and I were having a rather heated debate about something.” I fobbed off his curiosity.
“What about?”
“My non-existent career as a musician.” I scrunched a sodden tissue up against my eyes and avoided his gaze.
“Arguing is not good. Talking is better, ya? I wish…” He paused and gave a small shrug. “I have not always done what is best for my children. I made mistakes. I believed independence would strengthen my sons. I did not want them to see Amelia and me argue. So I pushed them out of the way. Kept them at arm’s length. Not always successful. They saw things, those young boys, which they should not have.”
I blinked in amazement at his frank words. “I’ve never heard him blame you.”
He pursed his lips. “He is a good son.” He reached out, as if he intended to touch me. “Your memories of your father keep you…captured? Held back. Would he not be happy with you, whatever you did?”
How did he know? What magical ability did he possess to read my mind? I couldn’t ignore his accurate appraisal. “Yes, I suppose.” I sniffed. “I had this silly dream, when I was younger and full of ambition, to be a professional musician, and that he would be there at my graduation. I would stand in my gown and mortarboard, and we would have that photograph together and he would beam with pride. That picture never came to be.”
“Not because he died,” said Franz.
I started at his bluntness. It reminded me of Stefan’s tendency to speak directly. I clutched my hands together. “Sorry?” I tried to hide a frown behind my tightly pressed lips.
“The picture is in your head. So, it is always there, even when he is not. That is what dreams are and should always be. Stefan will compose something great one day. I know. I might be gone when it happens, but I know it will happen. Your father had that same vision. Only you have let it go.”
His words hurt. I wanted to tell him he was wrong to say such things about my dad. He’d gone too far with his supposition. However, I kept silent, because buried deep, hidden away, I had let myself down, nobody else. It didn’t alter my opinion that Stefan had criticized me and insisted on promoting his authority over me.
The idea of spending an hour or more in the car with Stefan on the way to the airport didn’t thrill me. He would scrutinize my decisions and possibly keep on at me about my lack of ambition. I couldn’t face the prospect of such a torturous journey. I asked Franz to order me a taxi to the train station. I would make my own way to the airport.
He looked surprised by my request. Sitting back, he scratched his chin. “Have I made things worse?”
I shook my head and squeezed his other hand. “No. I have to think and sometimes Stefan can be pretty…intense.”
His father nodded. “Intense, yes. Always the passionate boy. It is what will make him a great composer one day. You are passionate too. I see the same bright eyes. Don’t let him—how to say?—dance around your nose, ya? He is a good teacher, when he lets his students breathe.”
Dance around my nose? Something seemed lost in the translation but I could guess at its meaning—Stefan’s tendency to trample. “I know. He has to hold back, though. He can be overpowering.”
“That is me in him. I am a businessman, ya? He has his mother’s creativity and my, um, power.”
“Dominance,�
�� I muttered under my breath.
He raised an eyebrow, but I didn’t think he had heard me. I looked at my watch. I didn’t have the time to wait for Stefan’s return, to say goodbye. If I was getting there under my own steam, then I had to leave soon. Yet again, for the second time in a week, I was about to walk away from Stefan without apparent explanation. I knew he wasn’t going to like it.
* * * *
The journey home seemed easier in reverse. I coped at the ticket office at Wolfratshausen train station, something to be repeated in Munich once I arrived. On the train, I watched the changing landscape and pondered my decision to leave. I’d switched off my mobile the moment I sat in the back of the taxi. If Stefan wanted to communicate with me, he’d have to wait until I was back in England. I couldn’t deal with him, not until I’d thought things through.
The train journey was the start of my musings, and they naturally dwelled on my father. Franz’s insights had been painfully accurate, provoking me into facing truths I’d chosen to ignore. The window seat afforded me a good view and it included my own reflection—a faint mirror image of my head resting on the seat. Dad had often sat in a chair, head reclined and eyes shut, listening to me play my clarinet. At the end of my mini recital, he’d applauded, then magically woven gentle criticisms among his compliments. I’d come away with both praise and aspects he had believed I could improve upon.
Those cherished moments had helped me with my exams. I’d been awarded an A grade for my GSCE examination in music at sixteen. All had boded well for the next batch of exams and my entry into music college, then my father had vacated the seat in the living room and I’d no more armchair critic to advise and encourage me. I’d struggled through my A level, passing with a mediocre B grade, procrastinated about applying to college and instead had applied to work at the florist. Mum, too embroiled in her own grief, hadn’t attempted to fill my father’s shoes and had left me to my morose apathy.
