Stolen Moments (14 page)

I feel Michelle’s hands tighten on my hips, then one of them snakes up to fondle my neglected breasts and I realize my orgasm is speeding toward me. My breath catches in my throat and all of a sudden, I’m hyperconscious of where we are. Is there a cleaning crew? Might some poor, unsuspecting custodian find him or herself on the receiving end of my embarrassing shouts of pleasure? Before I can worry any further, it envelops me and I clamp my teeth together, allowing only small grunts and whimpers to escape as Michelle makes me come in her mouth. Every muscle in my body tenses. My back arches. My head tilts back and I squeeze my eyes shut as the pleasure rips through me. Michelle rides it out with me, slowing her pace in relation to the sounds I’m making (or trying not to make). Once I feel like I’ve returned to earth and my body begins to relax, I inhale deeply and exhale slowly. She brings her eyes up to meet mine. Our gazes hold for several seconds before she smiles and I chuckle softly. She shakes her head with a grin, her face still only inches from my soaked and throbbing center.

“Not quiet in bed, huh?” she teases.

“Not by a long shot.” I use both hands to brush the hair from her face. “Come up here,” I say.

Her hands play with mine as if she’s debating my request. Then her eyes twinkle with mischief. At the very moment I realize she’s captured both my wrists, she whispers, “Again.”

“Oh my God.” It’s the only coherent thing I can manage to say before she plunges back into me, pushing her tongue deep inside and holding tightly to my wrists so I’m completely and totally her prisoner. She owns me. The thought sends a new rush of arousal coursing through me and it’s only a matter of a few short minutes before she has me riding the crest of a second, more powerful climax. I feel like my body is on fire…that any minute, I’ll just spontaneously combust and Michelle will have to call in that poor custodian to sweep the ash residue off her desk so she can finish working. This time, there’s no noise at all coming from me. It’s all too pure, too intense for sound. There’s only feeling. My body under hers, hers on top of mine, her hands holding me captive, my muscles taut like the string of an archery bow.

I come down more slowly this time, trying to get my breathing under control before I hyperventilate. The second I feel her grip slacken, I reclaim my hands. Pushing her gently away, trying to alter my position using what little energy I have left, I pant, “No. No more. No more. Please. You’re going to kill me.”

She laughs, but relents. As she stands up, her eyes linger on my naked body and she wipes her mouth. “God,” she says with simple amazement. I can feel every inch of my skin flush a deep red and I grin like a schoolgirl. She winks at me, then hands me some of my discarded clothing.

I get dressed, trying not to feel uncomfortable in the silence. As is normal behavior for me, I attempt to fill it. “So,” I say with a grin. “Thank you for a lovely evening, Michelle. Are you this good to all your vendors?”

“Only the sexy ones.”

She’s sitting in one of the chairs, her legs crossed, watching me dress, and I actually feel like her gaze is slowing me down. I feel like I’m trying to get dressed and she’s undressing me with her eyes and therefore, I’m stuck in some kind of limbo. If she told me right now to take my clothes back off and spread my legs for her, I would. In a heartbeat. “How do you do that?” I blurt the question out before I can stop myself.

“Do what?”

“Make me feel like I’m completely powerless.” I have my back to her now and I’m afraid to look at her face, afraid I’m pushing, afraid of making her regret ever touching me. In the next instant she’s standing behind me, much as we were when this whole thing started. Only this time, she fastens the clasp of my bra instead of opening it. She pulls the zipper to my skirt up rather than down.

“I don’t know how to answer that,” she says softly. “We just seem to have chemistry.”

“You think?” I ask derisively and she laughs.

“I’ve had a thing for you for a very long time, Jamie.”

“You have?” I stammer.

“Mmm-hmm. And I’ve seen the way you look at me.”

“You
have
?” I’m horrified at this prospect; I pride myself on my subtlety! Her arms slide around my waist and she hugs me from behind. I feel her nod against my hair.

“It turns me on every time…that look you get in your eyes.”

She flicks her tongue against my ear and my body turns to Jell-o as I lean my head back onto her shoulder and groan. The idea of her knowing what was going on in my mind all those times and finding it arousing is just so sexy. I’m shocked to feel myself becoming wet all over again.

“Michelle.” I shake my head in disbelief. “My God. You’re going to give me a heart attack. I swear.”

“Maybe. But not tonight.” Michelle squeezes me, then lets me go. “What does your schedule look like next Tuesday?”

When I turn to face her, she’s in front of her laptop and apparently looking at her online planner. “Tuesday?”

“Yeah. I have a trade show coming up and I’m going to need some stuff.”

“Oh.” I’m jarred by the sudden leap right back into business, but I manage to find my briefcase and pull out my Day Runner. Trying not to let my hurt show, I say, “I’ve got a lunch appointment and a one thirty, but otherwise I’m open. What time are you thinking?”

“Around six thirty?”

My head snaps up and her eyes are twinkling again. My center tingles at the prospect of another go-around with Michelle Adams and I nod, catching my bottom lip between my teeth. I’m already planning a sneak attack. A quick image of
her
on her back on the desk shoots through my head and I shudder with erotic anticipation. The subject of next Tuesday’s meeting? Role reversal. I toss her a knowing grin.

“Six thirty sounds perfect.”

“I’m nervous. I’ve never done anything like this before.”

I held my violin up for close inspection, willing my hands to stop shaking. I had just tuned her, and the music wasn’t perfect—I wasn’t steady enough. With a deliberate sigh, I tried again, plucking the E string to hear its high-pitched whine. It was just a
little
bit off-key—and that was just
slightly
driving me nuts.

You sat demurely on the love seat, hands folded. It had surprised us both that such a drab dressing room might have a love seat. It was antique looking and well worn, little claw feet pressing into the dirty boards that passed for a floor behind the stage. But behind the
curtain
? Oh, that was another world—well-polished oak and maple, worthy of a master artist’s feet. Music, dance—it was all art.

You had once told me that music was art. You, the artist, the painter who could shape worlds with your hands. You told me that what
I
most treasured was art. I remember feeling different—after you told me. Like I was somehow
making
a difference.

When I first met you, I thought you immortal. What you chose to do with your fingers and soul would forever be regarded by the world. I knew that your bright strokes and dancing curves would make any woman fall to her knees—your art was your spirit, unashamedly bare for all the world to see—there, upon the canvas. You could have won anyone, with your art, you know. You could have charmed the angels with it.

But you did not charm angels. You charmed
me
.

“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…