A Dance for Him (34 page)

He just looks so flushed and excited and
happy
…

I have no idea why, but it’s almost touching. I mean, flushed and excited I can understand, I saw him glance down more than once at my body, then smile roguishly at me, as though he wanted me to know that he’d just checked me out. I’m not exactly wearing very much, after all, and it must be obvious to him that I want him to look at me.

But
happy
? …

It’s so strange, so distant from my experience up till now. And yet the idea that I could make
him
happy makes me all warm inside …

Ah no, Evie, let’s not get carried away here. It’s a bit of a schoolgirl crush on my part, and yes I’d love nothing more than to have my first time with him, because he’s brilliant and smoking hot and makes my panties wet, but if I start thinking in terms of
love
(dare I even use that word?) I’m going to get my heart broken, no doubt about it.

He’s got absolutely no reason to fall in love with anyone, let alone me. Not when he’s surrounded by beautiful women everywhere he goes, all of whom would no doubt crawl over broken glass for a night with the handsome maestro.

I’d
be lucky to get a whole night with him …

Poor Maestro Alfieri, he probably thinks I am learning a lot right now, while the sad truth is that the only thing I can think of at the moment is how to get Maestro Moretti to relieve me of my virginity …

Oh God, the way he’s looking at me. He’s stood up and is approaching me, and I stand up as well. He seems slightly awkward, I think because he’s holding his copy of the Chopin rather strangely in front of him for some reason as he walks over.

“Well, Evie,” he says, smiling (oh God how I love it when he says my name), “you only got into town the day before yesterday, didn’t you? I don’t suppose you’ve got any social engagements lined up yet?”

“N-no,” I stammer. What, is he going to ask me out? My heart is pounding in my chest, I feel sure my face is as red as a tomato.

“In that case, what do you think of having dinner with me tonight?”

Score!

“I-I’d love to, Maestro.”

He smiles. He’s standing really close to me and looking deep into my eyes, and for a moment I think he might even kiss me, but he doesn’t. Instead he picks up my hand and kisses it. “How about meeting at seven then. There’s a very nice restaurant in the area that I’d love to take you to. I’ll pick you up at six-thirty? Very good. Where do you live?”

I give him my address. It’s not far from his, I’ve been walking all this time. But the only thing I can think of is:
Holy crap, I just gave Lorenzo Moretti my address. I’d better tidy up in case we end up there tonight - I don’t need him to see my half-unpacked suitcase or the shopping bags for the slutty clothes I just bought for his benefit
.

His eyes gleam. “I’m looking forward very much to it, Evie,” he murmurs, his voice caressing, seductive. “Oh, and Evie?” he adds, as he presses a piece of notepaper into my hand, “here’s my cellphone number. It’s my
private
cellphone number, it gets to me directly, no need to go through Aurelia, if you know what I mean? That way you can talk to me anytime.”

I feel a sudden jolt of excitement and anxiety - excitement because he’s giving me his number, because of the meaningful way in which he said the word
private
, anxiety because I wonder if he wants to bypass Aurelia just because he wants me to have a direct line to him, or if it’s because he doesn’t want her to know that he’s hitting on me.

I
really
hope he’s not already involved with her …

On the other hand he seems quite sincere, quite genuine. Seductive, yes, but not in a sleazy, canned, professional ladies’ man sort of way.

I know he has a bit of a reputation for getting around, but he doesn’t seem like the mean, deceptive type, not in the least.

I hope I’m right …

“Thank you, Maestro,” I say aloud, and then add, with a boldness that surprises even myself, “shall I text you so that you have my phone number as well?”

“Please do,” he says, looking absolutely delighted as he takes my hand and kisses it again. “Until this evening, then, dear Evie. I can barely wait.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

What a day! The best I’ve had in a while, I haven’t been
that
exhilarated in a long, long time. And I haven’t even gotten my hands on the lovely Evie yet …

It’s funny, I could probably have made a move on her right there and then.

I’m pretty sure I saw more than a hint of wetness in the crotch of those maddeningly tight little shorts when she stood up, and I swear I could practically smell her excitement when we were standing across from each other after her lesson. And of course
I
was certainly ready to go for it right away, physically speaking - my cock was gallantly standing at attention, all loaded and ready to plunder her sweet little pussy.

And yet I couldn’t bring myself to, even though right after she agreed to go to dinner with me, she was standing so close and looking so delicious in her little barely-there outfit that my hands were almost trembling with the urge to touch her somehow, to feel that soft skin, to press that yielding flesh.

I don’t know why, but the first thing I thought was:
I can’t do that, not just yet anyhow - I don’t want her to think I’m some kind of creep, what if she runs away and never comes back?

It’s absurd, nothing about her demeanor suggested that she would be anything but delighted and receptive if I came on to her. Quite on the contrary. And I’ve never been one to hesitate when the opportunity arises.

With hindsight, I’m sure that it wouldn’t have taken very much on my part to seduce her. But I was afraid - so inexplicably afraid that I’d scare her and then she’d run away and I’d never see her again …

It’s rather strange really and doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. I mean, I am
already
planning to make a move tonight, and I’m sure it was obvious to her, given her blushing and the way in which I gave her my cellphone number, that I was asking her out on a date of sorts, so she must know that my intentions aren’t exactly platonic. And to be quite honest, what difference would it have made if I’d fucked her earlier, then taken her out to dinner anyway,
then
fucked her again afterwards?

… I suppose for some reason I wanted to impress her somehow, and I don’t mean just with my dick and general skills in bed.

Although to be sure there’s also a part of me that wants a slow (well, slow-ish) buildup, to seduce her, tease her a bit, rather than just go straight to the fucking.

There are times when bold and forthright is the way to go, and I imagine I’d tend that way if she seemed more experienced, but given her relative innocence this is definitely not one of those times.

Because I want my beautiful beginner to be practically begging for it when it happens.

I’d like to see her looking at me with those big eyes of hers while blushing deeply and asking me to fuck her because she needs to have my huge cock inside her …

Fuck, I’m getting hard again just thinking about it. It’s crazy. I mean, it’s quite possible that I’ll fuck her tonight and then I’ll get over my ridiculous obsession with her, but at the rate things are going, an extended fuckfest is probably on the cards for the summer.

No doubt she’ll move on after she goes back to Milan in the fall, but I want her to always remember what it was like to abandon herself completely to pleasure, to always remember that summer which she spent largely on her back or on her knees, being my submissive, dirty little girl, so that for years to come she’ll lie in bed and think about how it felt to have my monster cock filling her tight, hot pussy, and think about how no man she’s ever had since then has measured up …

Oh, how it makes my cock twitch whenever I think of spoiling her for any other men who might make a pass at her in the future …

If truth be told, the thought of some other man getting his hands on her is almost physically painful for me. This morning I was rather glad to find that her apartment was close by, I didn’t like at all the idea of her being ogled on the way back, which I’m sure she would have been, especially in that outfit she was wearing.

A bit hypocritical, perhaps, given that
I’ve
been ogling her myself, but then at least I can say with reasonable certainty that I was after all her target audience … But wait, my phone’s ringing.

It’s her.

“Hello, Evie,” I say smoothly. “I was just preparing to go pick you up -”

“I’m so sorry, Maestro,” she says, her voice trembling and weepy. “I’ve been having a bit of trouble here, I’m not sure if I can make it out tonight.”

For a terrible moment I think that maybe she’s changed her mind, that maybe she’s thought better of getting involved with me. Which in a way, perhaps, would be understandable, given my reputation. A reputation that might intrigue some, but might put a sweet innocent thing like her off.

Who knows, perhaps she’s been Googling me and came across some gossip about one of my flings and is now appalled by me?

A horrid thought.

And yet - and yet, I think immediately afterwards, what if it’s something else that’s upset her? …

“What’s the matter, my dear girl?” I say aloud. “Do you need any help?”

And, as it turns out, it’s something else after all, thank heavens. Apparently the person whom she sublet from really had no business subletting it, because his lease ran out yesterday. Presumably he was just trying to scam some money from a hapless renter before taking off. The landlord just showed up ten minutes ago to prepare the apartment, having already rented it out to someone else who’s to move in in three days’ time, only to find her there. It seems she’s going to have to find another place, and soon. Perhaps a hotel for the time being. But she has to be packed and ready to leave by tomorrow, and so she’s panicking somewhat, poor little thing.

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, Evie. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything. You’ll be fine, I’ll make sure of it.”

I’m there in about nine minutes, a combination of my haste to get to her and my knowledge of the tiny winding streets that bypass the regular footpaths of the tourist crowds. She buzzes me in, and I bound up the narrow, uneven stone steps to the apartment.

Her door is open before I even reach it.

My heart melts when I see her. The poor girl’s been crying, it’s obvious, even though she’s valiantly dried her eyes and pulled herself together.

“Hello, Evie,” I say, and offer her a hug, which she accepts - so gratefully that it moves me. “Thank you for coming, Maestro,” she says, ever so meekly, I can’t imagine why.

I have the distinct impression that, for all her presumable wealth and privilege, no one has ever taken care of her properly before. It’s incomprehensible, infuriating …

“Now let’s sit down and you can tell me what happened,” I say, partly because the sensation of her soft breasts pressing against my chest is causing my cock to stir inappropriately again, despite the relative innocence of our embrace.