"Listen carefully," he said, "This won't be easy for you to hear..." he leaned over and tucked the violin case along side the worn club chair.
"I'm married you know." He walked over to the bank of windows facing the lake. He said it as though it would make a difference or remind himself not to get attached.
"Oh, right." All I could muster, nodding at his right hand. He was the one that suggested we come out here. His smoothness aroused my curiosity.
He raised the heavy wooden blinds and cranked the first of seven windows open. A loud chorus from cicadas flooded the musty room with lustful tones.
I took this as my clue to do the same and hurried to crank open the furthest window on the opposite side of the old sofa bed.
The evening air still, hung heady in the cottage. He turned and pulled me into his large frame. His large brown eyes danced across my face and lit on my swollen upper lip. Boldly he bent over and kissed it. Warmly, his tongue carressed the circle left from my mouth piece. Tonights rehearsal had left my upper lip huge as usual. His free hand slipped into the top of my pants and he pulled me forward as he eased himself down into the enormous leather chair spreading his legs wide apart.
"More practice will firm that lip up." He pulled me down on his knee. "Your tonguing however," he leaned in and sucked my lips open enough for his tongue to dance with mine.
Like so many before myself, I wondered? Convenient little practice space he kept.
An antique music stand stood next to us with several scores clothes-pinned to the spokes. Chopin Etiude in E major was on top. There were several notes all over the page.
"Do you make love like you play that horn?" He pulled off his ring and placed it on the music stand, pulled open the top button of his jeans and smiled.
"It all depends Dr." I teased and slid to my knees.
"On what?" He lifted his hips to make his pants slide off easier. The smell of Olibanum, Ginger and leather evoked a mature hunger in me as I slid them off.
"On whether you'll play for me."
"If you practice hard..." he laid his head back against the chair and pushed mine down to meet his thrust.
The cacophonous practice lasted for hours that spring evening.
Afterwards, he rose off the sofa and slid the violin case out. He was right. Practice does make for perfection. Standing naked in front of the window, he played Tristesse like I'd never heard (or seen) before.
And probably never will again.
2012 © tgwithin