Chapter Seven
Morgan
The ballet was amazing, and watching Clinton absorb every moment was a gift unto itself. He’s always gruff and anxious and I never feel like he’s fully let down his guard. He hides behind his fists, his hair, his cello.
Tonight, though, he wore a tuxedo that was cut to fit the specific lines of his body. His eyes watched the dancers’ every move. His hand was warm, wrapped tight in mine. Once during intermission he leaned over, kissing me so gently, so carefully, that when the lights lowered I wondered if it even happened.
He hails a taxi on the road and when we return to The Nead we both enter the house quietly. I suppose there’s an understanding during this exercise--The Five Days of Christmas or whatever we’re calling it--that we are not to be bothered during our allotted time, but I don’t want to risk it. Clinton dropped his guard for the slightest of moments out on the street. He wants to show me something. I want to learn what that is.
He leads me to his room, shutting the door behind me and taking my coat. Upon entering his room I find myself in a familiar position. Two chairs facing one another—one for me and one for Clinton. His cello rests in the stand nearby.
“I, uh,” he begins, stammering adorably. “I’d like to play you a song.”
“That would be lovely,” I reply and take the seat he gestures to. It’s an incredibly intimate moment and I understand immediately what’s happening. He’s revealing himself, in the only way he knows how.
Clinton removes his jacket and sits, reaching for the cello. I’ve seen him play countless times now, but each one is an experience. Apprehension lingers in the back of my mind, recalling what happened with Xavier at the club, but then I think of Sam and the way he worked me through my anxiety. My cheeks redden at the memory. Clinton notices, like he notices everything.
He fidgets with the bow for a moment, then adjusts the strings and pushes his hair behind his ear. Finally he seems settled, releasing a long breath. The cello stretches between his legs, the place I long to be, and he draws out the first echo of a tune.
As the music overtakes the room, filling every corner and space, I can’t take my eyes off of Clinton. I’m riveted—like always. There’s something about the way he moves, the tensing of his muscles, the furrowing of his brow. My fingers curl into my palms, forcing myself to stay in my seat, to let him play, but it’s a challenge.
His eyes lift to mine and we stare at one another—we’ve done this before—had this connection. This time, in the safety of his studio, I don’t feel the unnerving anxiety that something bad could happen. Here—now—it doesn’t matter if I lose control. I allow myself to feel warmth. Electricity. Desire.
The song is haunting, the melody lifting to the ceiling before dropping back down. His fingers slide up and down the neck, moving with a precision and skill that reminds me of how he moves against my skin. In my body. I feel the vibration ripple across my body, building up tension at my core. Overcome, I lean back into my seat and my legs part, relaxing into the song. Clinton’s eyes dart down and I rest my hands on my knees, spreading them a little wider.
I raise an eyebrow, wondering how far he wants me to go. He doesn’t flinch but his eyes are locked on mine like a predator with its prey. I know Clinton has a bit of voyeurism in him. He certainly liked watching Sam get me off at the last concert. I imagine it comes from the days of sitting high in the tree tops—watching and waiting. I’ve watched him perform enough times now that maybe it’s time I return the favor.
I ease down just a bit more and the fabric of my dress rides up a little higher. His fingers never miss a beat, the bow never wavers as I slip my hands up my dress and tug my black panties down. The only variation on his face is when he looks down at the scrap of fabric at my feet. I start to kick off the gold, sparkled heels but that’s when he does move, the slightest shake of his head.
Oh.
For the second day in a row I do something new. These men build my confidence to a level I never knew existed. Personally, physically, and sexually. I take a deep breath and widen my legs, hiking my skirt up at the sides. The cool air hits the warmth between my legs and I reach down, feeling the slick heat. Clinton never stops, the strains of his music bouncing off my skin, guiding me in my moves.
When I look at him I see his mouth part and his tongue dart out quickly. I mimic his move with my hand, rolling the pads of my fingers over the most sensitive parts. He shifts in his seat—the first sign of a break—and I imagine how big his cock is right now. It’s hidden behind the instrument but I’ve seen it before. Felt it. Tasted it. The thought elicits a deep moan and the moisture between my legs grows.
We sit across from each other like this, hands moving, bodies straining, until he skips a beat, the bow screeching off the strings. A loud crash follows. Startled, I look up and find the instrument on the floor and Clinton prowling toward me. He’s ripped the tie from his neck, yanking the collar of his shirt until his strong, muscular chest is revealed. His hands move to his belt. His fingers thumb at the button. This time it’s up to me to keep moving, to keep playing, my fingers never stopping as he strips on his way across the room. When he reaches my seat he falls to his knees, rips my hands from between my legs and spreads my thighs wide. I cry when he kisses my core, licking the very spot I’d just been touching. I jut my hips, my knees are lifted higher than normal due to the heels but I’m still desperate for more. He stands, kisses my mouth and in an unbelievably fast move, flips me on the seat until my knees are pressed into the cushion of the chair. He lifts my skirt, pushing it over my hips, my bare ass exposed and cupped in his hands.
He doesn’t speak as he runs his engorged length between my legs. The only sound I make is a whimper and I grip the back of the chair, bracing myself for his everything.
Because that’s what Clinton gives. Everything, or nothing at all.
His hand presses against the small of my back and I arc, pushing my ass against him. He enters me in a smooth, quick stroke, one hand on my hip, the other stroking down my arm. I don’t know what to expect. Fast, slow, hard, easy. Clinton is unreadable—even when I can see his eyes, but for some reason the pace he sets is uniquely him. Strong. Confident and exactly right. He pulls almost all the way out before pushing back in. I feel him with each thrust and miss him with every withdrawal. I find myself whispering his name as his fingers reach between my legs to satisfy my aching want. I’m already on the edge of a heightened, full sensory experience; the echo of Clinton’s music in the air, the feel of him touching my most intimate spots, and then I look to the side and catch sight of us in a long mirror attached to the wall. My back is lean and arched. My hair wild from the cold night. My cheeks are red with desire and I see the spot where we meet, the way Clinton’s focused on my body. On the way his neck strains with every thrust. He’s holding back, waiting, waiting, waiting…
My body slips to the strange place between pleasure and pain. Not that he’s hurting me but I need my release. His fingers tease, his cock pounds, aching desire ripples across my limbs. His ragged breathing turns to grunts and he flicks the nub between my legs, sending shockwaves across my body. He does it again and my elbows bend, losing all ability to hold myself upright. Clinton’s arm slips under my waist, securing me just as the orgasm rockets through my body. I’m barely cognizant when he comes, busting hard with a definitive, final move. I crumble on the seat and he falls with me, peppering my neck and arms and exposed back with kisses.
I turn to face him, body sore and aching already, probably the lingering effects of the night before.
“You’re full of surprises aren’t you,” he says, cupping my chin.
I brush his hair over his ear. “As long as I’m filled with you then I’m happy.”
*
Wrapped in nothing but a fuzzy gray blanket that matches Clinton’s eyes I sit on the floor, eating a cookie and listening to him play the song once again. He told me after we cleaned up that the song was for me—a Christmas gift.
“Holy shit, I masturbated to a song you wrote for me? That’s just wrong,” I said, when he told me.
“My only desire is to evoke emotion with my music.” He leaned over and kissed me. “Looks like I accomplished my goal.”
He plays the final strains, watching me closely. The burning heat that built between us the last time has dissipated a little, making it easier to concentrate. I smile when he rests his bow on the stand.
“That was beautiful,” I say. He joins me on the floor, taking three cookies for himself.
“Thank you. I had an exquisite muse.”
“You boys keep surprising me,” I tell him. “And I haven’t had a chance to get you any gifts—not with this daily pampering.”
“You were born our gift, Morgan. From the second you graced this realm. You owe us nothing.”
I stare at him for a moment, wondering if he’s truly real. I tilt my head. “You guys say things like that knowing what it does to me, don’t you? That your devotion is the fastest way to get my pants off.”
He blinks. “You’re not wearing any pants, sweetheart.”
“Damn.” I laugh and drop the blanket because he’s right, I’m not wearing pants and it doesn’t matter what he says. He’s one of my mates and that’s the best gift I’ve ever been given. I’m happy to prove it over and over again.