A Dance for Him (31 page)

But now … Now I can’t stop staring at her. She’s playing so perfectly that I’m free to get distracted by her, by the way her shapely, perfect breasts heave when she breathes before a phrase, by the fact that the bodice of her little sundress is both tight and not entirely opaque, so that her nipples are faintly visible through the thin white cotton.

It also doesn’t hurt that the dress rides up slightly whenever she pedals, showing a bit more leg whenever that happens …

I can’t believe I’m sitting here listening to this beautiful young thing play Chopin so gloriously, and all I can think of is that maybe she’ll have a bit of a wardrobe malfunction, maybe show a bit more tit or thigh at some point.

And yes, I know I’m being completely inappropriate.

It’s not like I’ve never looked down some hot soprano’s cleavage as she’s singing, but this is different, they were colleagues, and she’s a student of sorts, for one thing. And my hot sopranos are usually quite a bit older than nineteen, and a lot more aware of what they’re doing.

I doubt very much if this poor innocent girl even has any idea what
she’s
doing, any idea what effect she’s having on me …

An effect that I’ve having to hide by idiotically moving my Mahler score from my desk to my lap, like some stupid schoolboy with an uncontrollable erection, just before the end of the first movement, so that when she turns to me for my opinion, she won’t notice the bulge in my pants.

“It’s very good, Ms. C-, um, Evie,” I say. “You play beautifully.”

She smiles at me, girlish delight suffusing her sweet face for a moment before her old tentativeness reappears.

Not wanting her to notice anything amiss, not to mention the heavy score on my lap, I make a few remarks about bits here and there, nothing huge, just little tweaks, hoping that getting all pedantic and technical will distract me enough to ease my straining erection.

It helps, very slightly perhaps, but not nearly enough.

What definitely
doesn’t
help is the submissive way in which she’s looking at me as I talk to her, her eyes wide, her cheeks slightly flushed, her soft lips slightly parted, so that the only thing I can think about is how they’d feel wrapped around my dick.

I bet she’s never given a blowjob before, and while I’ve never really gone in for the whole deflowering virgins thing, for some reason the idea of potentially being this girl’s first is making me incredibly hard.

Well, that and for some reason I can’t seem to stop thinking about sex around her.

I’m not sure if the thinking about sex is causing me to get hard, or if the fact that I’m getting hard is causing me to think about sex, but in either case, this is all very awkward, to say the least.

It’s positively a relief when, after babbling on for a bit like a fool, I realise that I can plead scheduling error and send her off early.

She’s very sweet and obliging, of course, if perhaps slightly disappointed. I stand up, carefully holding my score in front of me, and offer her my hand to shake as I suggest that she come back tomorrow instead, that she could schedule something with Aurelia downstairs.

Her face lights up as her slender hand slides into mine, making my insides churn with longing.

We’re standing so close to each other I can practically smell the sweet, warm, indefinable scent of her soft skin. I’m holding her hand rather than shaking it, but she doesn’t seem to mind at all.

I’m also staring into her eyes as I talk to her, as I realise halfway through, but then she’s staring back into mine as well …

What’s more, her eyes are dreamy,
longing
almost, her voice soft and low, her lips still temptingly parted as she looks at me. I don’t know what that means, or rather I
do
know what it means, except I keep telling myself that it can’t possibly be. What, she wants me? I’m a bit more than twice her age, old enough to be her father.

God, I know that look so well, know what it means, know that it can only mean one thing.

And yet …

We say our goodbyes, and our mutual gaze lingers before she turns to leave.

I’m barely capable of thought at this point, I must be staring like a fatuous idiot, but I can’t take my eyes off her, and my painfully engorged dick is probably cutting off the blood supply to my brain as well, which would explain why I feel stunned, dazed, as though I’ve just been hit on the head or something.

The moment she shuts the door behind her I drop the score on my desk and practically throw myself on the piano bench, sniffing it like some old perv, hoping for some hint of excitement on her part to confirm my perceptions, as I unzip my pants and free my cock and start whacking off to fantasies of her offering her sweet little pussy up to me for my delectation. The whole thing feels utterly sick and depraved and wrong, and yet I can’t help but think that if I just relieve the tension and get it out of my system, I’ll get over the whole thing, and then I can see her tomorrow without going completely mad …

CHAPTER TWO

I’m not sure what just happened.

I can hardly think, and my legs are trembling as I walk out of the maestro’s study.

That gaze - those huge, dark, wistful eyes! It felt like he was looking into my very soul. I don’t think anyone has ever looked at me like that before.

Or if they have, this is the first time I’ve noticed. Being at a girls’ boarding school for years doesn’t exactly accustom one to be looked at by men, and in the last few months I’ve mostly kept to myself in Milan, going between my apartment and Maestro Alfieri’s studio.

I’ve had men try to pick me up before, and I usually don’t even realise what they’re trying to do until well afterwards - I typically smile blankly and politely, and tell them the time, or say hello, or respond to whatever it is they’re using as an excuse to talk to me, and then wander off. I just don’t notice these things, and in any case I’m usually running through some music in my head whenever I’m walking around, so I’m invariably a bit out of it.

But then they’re not
him …

I don’t even know normally how to make eye contact with a guy. But he,
he
somehow caught my gaze and then it was like I was trapped, unable to look away, as time seemed to stop around us and nothing else mattered, for those seconds, perhaps for that minute …

I could have quite happily lost myself in those eyes forever. And how he was smiling - how pink and
happy
he looked!

I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone look so happy just talking to me. And it wasn’t even like we were talking about anything naughty, it was all very proper, what we were saying, although he
was
holding my hand rather oddly - so gently, so softly - as he stared into my eyes and leaned in, so close that I could smell that intoxicating blend of expensive cologne and his masculine scent …

But it can’t be, it can’t possibly be. He’s so gorgeous, the most handsome man I’ve ever met, with his sculpted features and luxuriant dark hair - oh, what wouldn’t I give to run my hands through that hair!

And he’s well-built too - tall, with deliciously manly, broad shoulders and powerful forearms, accentuated by his impeccably cut, probably bespoke shirt …

I wonder what he looks like with his shirt off. It’s hard to look at him and not wonder how it would feel to be crushed by those powerful arms.

But it’s his eyes that are the most arresting - soft and wistful at times, darkly blazing at others, with long lashes and an eyebrow semi-permanently cocked as though appraising what he’s seeing, which is particularly hot when it seems like he’s appraising
me
…

And not only is he a total dreamboat, he is who he is, Maestro Lorenzo Moretti, world-famous conductor, and an absolutely brilliant, brilliant musician.

Grizzled men way older than he is fall silent in awe and pay attention when he bounds onto the podium in his débonair, masterful way, which doesn’t surprise me - it’s true he looks somewhat younger than his forty-one years, but his relatively youthful looks are easily balanced out by his aura of dominance and self-assurance, which no doubt accounts at least in part for the ease with which he imposes his will on the group as a whole.

As for the women …

Well, he probably has the same effect on them that he just had on me. I mean, my panties were soaked when I left - I didn’t even realise how wet I’d gotten until I stood up and felt my juices gushing out of me.

I didn’t even think anyone could ever have had that effect on me. Of course, I’ve experienced getting wet before, when reading naughty books or looking at naughty videos online, when I close my eyes and imagine unspeakable scenarios as I touch myself.

But for an actual person in real life to cause that reaction, to the extent that he did, without doing anything more than staring at me and holding my hand …
wow
.

And now I can’t think about anything but how much I’d like him to take me.

If he’d tried to touch more than just my hand, if he’d kissed me roughly and felt me up and ordered me to take off my clothes and bend over his desk, I’d have yielded quite happily to his demands. Or even if all he’d demanded was a blowjob … oh God I’d love to have sucked him off. There’s a part of me that can’t help but wonder what his cock looks like, what it tastes like - and there’s also the part of me that longs for the exquisite pleasure of submission, of submitting to a handsome, intelligent, dominant alpha male, such as he obviously is.

It’s weird in a way - here I am, a nineteen-year-old virgin with absolutely no real-life experience with men, and in less than an hour after I’ve met this guy all I can think of is how much I want to service him, how much I want to be his dirty little slut to play with, how much I want him to use me for his pleasure …

Of course, he’s always been known to be a bit of a ladies’ man, so I probably shouldn’t take any of this
too
seriously. There’s no way he’s singling me out or anything. He probably does this with everyone, and I’m probably just blowing it up in my mind because I’m so excited to even be interacting with him in the first place. That personal assistant of his is intimidatingly beautiful, I bet she isn’t just an employee.

Lucky girl.

I’ve had a crush on him for like forever - it sounds odd, but in a way his recordings have influenced me more than those of the great pianists, even though it’s a completely different rep.

Part of why I wanted to study with Maestro Alfieri was that I knew he’d taught Maestro Moretti, back when he hadn’t embarked on a conducting career yet. Of course, when he casually suggested sending me to Moretti, I was just ecstatic - ecstatic and terrified. He’s known to be quite exacting and a bit of a perfectionist - definitely not just a pretty face (although oh my God he
is
gorgeous, utterly gorgeous, more gorgeous in person than I’d ever imagined just from looking at pictures of him over the years).

I was so afraid he’d listen to me and then tell me that no, I had it all wrong, that I had no talent. Thank goodness he didn’t do that! …

Oh, I’m so glad I did this.

It’s also lucky that I’m now nineteen and don’t have any guardians to answer to any more, because I’m pretty sure gramps would
not
have approved of this trip. I don’t think he really approves of all this music business anyway.

I think he’d have liked it much better if I’d gone to college and met some rich boy and become a society hostess - which would probably have bored me to death. So no, I didn’t tell him about Maestro Moretti at all, just said I was going to Venice to visit with a friend’s family.

I know it sounds odd, it’s not exactly like I’m doing anything particularly controversial, but it just felt like it wouldn’t be a good idea to say anything to him. For some reason gramps was always a bit weird whenever I mentioned Moretti’s name back when I was a silly young girl with a crush (though arguably I
am
still a silly young girl with a crush, given today!). He and grandma would go all silent and everything would be quite uncomfortable until somebody changed the subject.