Her Two Lovers

by HELEN HARDT

  * * *

  Thank God she and Ryan had exchanged cell phone numbers. The next day, Jane stood outside Chandler’s private piano studio, address provided by Ryan. She’d spent a sleepless night worrying about Lenny, not to mention the audition for Lisa Taylor, which was mere hours away now. The few times she drifted off to sleep, she’d awakened in a sweat, images of Chandler Hamilton haunting her. He’d left so abruptly the day before and she hadn’t had the chance to get his contact information.

  His friend Ryan was nice, much nicer than Chandler. “He’ll most likely be at his studio practicing,” he’d said.

  “He has his own studio?” she’d asked, before realizing what a stupid question it was. Of course he had his own studio. He was Chandler Hamilton the third.

  Nothing about the small studio screamed out the Hamilton name, however. It was a modest little building in a secluded part of town bordering on rural. She’d tried calling Chandler first, number also provided by Ryan, but he hadn’t answered. She’d left a voicemail, but couldn’t rely on him to call back. So here she stood outside the little studio. She breathed in and knocked on the door.

  No response.

  If he was rehearsing, he no doubt wouldn’t hear the knock anyway. Boldly she turned the knob. To her surprise, and to her relief, the door opened. She entered a small reception area. No one sat at the mahogany desk or on the adjacent sofa and chairs. A coffee pot and paper cups sat on a little table next to the desk. Brown liquid filled the pot, but there was no brisk aroma of fresh brew. She touched the glass. Cold.

  “For God’s sake, this is ridiculous,” she said aloud. Did he never empty the pot? It would grow mold for sure. She picked up the pot and wandered down the small hallway to the right of the reception area. Restroom. That would work. She entered and poured the rancid coffee into the sink, rinsed out the pot, and pushed open the doorway.

  She readied to walk back to the reception area when a chord of notes trickled to her ears. They were soft yet angry, as though they were being pounded through a wool blanket. Of course! A wooden door stood next to the restroom. Chandler’s studio would be soundproof. The fact that the notes met her ears proved he was playing very loud.

  She didn’t bother knocking. He wouldn’t hear her anyway. Normally she wasn’t so rude, but the music called to her. His anger, his passion, called to her. Still holding the pot, she stood, mouth agape, as Chandler pounded out disharmonic chords on his nine-foot black lacquer grand.

  Disharmonic, yes, but they made a certain musical sense. Discordant in a harmonic way.

  Sweat covered his brow, and a drop hit an ivory key. He didn’t stop to wipe away the perspiration. He punished the keys, ground out eerie yet beautiful music in his raw madness. His fingers danced, his facial muscles tensed, his full pink lips pursed.

  Another drop of sweat hit a key as he slowed the tempo, softened his strokes, and then from piano to forte again as he trilled two notes and boomed through the lower keys.

  Jane’s heart thudded in time with Chandler’s now increasing tempo. As he crescendoed, so did she, her breath coming in rapid puffs, her breasts heaving against her chest. His playing conjured images in her mind of a bullfighter twirling a red cape. Vivid reds and oranges swirled through her head.

  More chords. Louder, faster…banging, clashing…

  Then silence.

  His eyes closed and his chest dropped, as though he were only now cognizant of the fact that he required breath. More drips of moisture emerged on his corded neck and rivered down his chest through the few blond hairs that peeked out of his black button down. The stark onyx contrasted against his fair skin in a beautiful way.

  Jane’s breath caught. She stood, still holding the empty coffee pot. Should she applaud?

  Her hands were occupied, and applause seemed inappropriate anyway. This hadn’t been a performance. No, this had been a catharsis, a purging of negativity, a ritual cleansing. This had been solely about Chandler. Pure, raw emotion not meant for an audience.

  Regret flooded her. She shouldn’t be here.

  She turned as quietly as she could, hoping to sneak out before he became aware of her presence. Her hand hovered above the doorknob.

  “Don’t tell me.” Chandler’s voice.

  She turned.

  “Ryan, right?”

  She sighed. “Yes. I didn’t know how to reach you about tonight.”

  He didn’t reply, simply closed his eyes and inhaled a visible deep breath.

  “I’m sorry I interrupted you.” Jane cleared her throat. “But it was brilliant. Truly. You’re incredible.”

  His eyes popped open. “It’s an elementary composition. I played it in concert when I was eleven.”

  Jane shook her head. Couldn’t the man take a compliment? “Well, I’ve never heard it before. Of course I’m not educated in the classics as you are. I thought it was amazing. What is it?”

  “Danza del Fuego.”

  “Sorry, I don’t speak Italian.”

  He smiled. Actually smiled! Those gorgeous lips parted to reveal perfect white teeth. “It’s Spanish, not Italian. It translates to Ritual Fire Dance. It was written in 1915 by Manuel de Falla.”

  “I’ve never heard of him.” She inched forward slightly, drawn in by his smile, which hadn’t yet faded. “But I should have known it was Spanish. It reminded me of a bullfight. I kept imagining reds and oranges.”

  “That would be the fire.” His smile broadened. “It’s from a ballet called El Amor Brujo, Love the Magician. In this piece, a girl is haunted by her dead husband’s ghost, so she performs the fire dance. The ghost appears and dances with her and is drawn into the fire. Then she’s free of him.”

  A purging. A ritual cleansing. Oh, yes, she’d been on the right track. Chandler was trying to let go of something.

  Well, of course he was. Ryan had said he’d just been dumped. He must have really loved her.

  An anvil hit Jane in the stomach. She had been nothing more than a salve to ease his heartache yesterday. He hadn’t wanted her. He’d just wanted to get laid. Anyone would have sufficed.

  She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. What did she care, anyway? He obviously detested her music. He probably detested her, as well. She was nothing more than a warm body.

  She shrugged her shoulders in an attempt to dislodge the yearning invading her. Despite the fact that his smile made her blaze inside, he was nothing more than a warm body to her as well. But he was a warm body who could play the keyboard for her tonight.

  She cleared her throat again. “I’m really sorry I interrupted. I just stopped by to finalize the plans for tonight.”

  “Tonight?”

  She let out a huff. “Yes, tonight. You’re playing keyboard for my band, remember?”

  He smirked. Damn him, he was still gorgeous when he smirked!

  “I don’t recall agreeing to that.”

  “I don’t recall giving you choice. You owe me, remember?”

  He stood and rolled his clear green eyes upward. “Baby, if there’s one thing I’m certain of, it’s that I don’t owe you, or anyone like you, a goddamn thing.”

  Jane’s skin prickled as anger surged through her. “You’re not letting me down, damn it. Play for me tonight, I get an agent, and I’m out of your hair forever.”

  He inched toward her. She trembled, nearly dropping the glass coffee pot.

  “What if I don’t want you out of my hair, Jane Rock? What if I want to fuck your brains out right on top of my Steinway?”

  She widened her eyes. Her heart riveted. “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  Oh she’d heard him all right. Though she longed to fling herself into his muscular arms, words emerged on her lips. “Are you crazy? That Steinway must have cost a hundred grand!”

  His lips curved into a lopsided grin. “Closer to two hundred, but it’s a little plain, don’t you think? Could use some ornamentation. Your naked body would look rather nice draped over
it.”

  Flutters raced through her tummy and settled between her legs. Why did he do this? Act like he hated her one minute and then come on to her the next? And why didn’t she possess more strength against his charms? Which really weren’t charms at all. He wasn’t a nice man. “I…”

  “At a loss for words, Janie?” He inched forward again, slowly, until only a foot separated him. Heat radiated from him.

  Or was it from her own body? “No…it’s just…” She shook her head to clear it. “You know I need a keyboardist tonight—”

  “Pianist.”

  “Yes, pianist. Whatever. Fuck.” She sighed. Maybe it was better not to keep telling him he owed her, even though he did. That seemed to piss him off. “I don’t just need a keyboardist. Or a pianist. I need you, Chandler. The audience loved you. You’re amazing. Please?”

  He closed the gap between them, took the empty coffee pot from her hands, and set it on the floor. “Maybe we can make a deal.”

  “What do you want?”

  His eyes blazed. “I thought I already made that clear. I want to fuck you on my Steinway.”

  Red heat scorched through her. Was she angry? Or turned-on? Both, it seemed. “I’m not a whore,” she said, willing her voice not to crack. “I won’t barter my sexual favors for your time tonight.”

  His grin broadened. “Don’t think of it as any kind of payment. It’s more like you scratch my back and I scratch yours. It’ll be an enjoyable little interlude for both of us. And you will enjoy it, trust me.”

  Of that she had no doubt. He was clearly a master of seduction. She’d learned that yesterday.

  “The fact is, I want you,” he continued. “I don’t want to want you, but I do. I haven’t stopped thinking about you.” One long finger slowly trailed up her forearm. “You’re not my type at all0”—he shook his head—“but damned if I can get you out of my head.”

  His soft touch in the crease of her elbow made her shudder. Just a graze, yet wetness dripped into her panties. “So if I…sleep with you—”

  He let out a harsh sigh. “I hate euphemisms, baby. This isn’t sleeping together. This isn’t making love. This is a fuck, pure and simple. You’re hot. I want to fuck you.”

  How did he do that? Make her feel desired and wanted one minute, and then like a common slut the next? She didn’t have much, but she did have her pride. She swallowed. “Sorry. Thank you for the compliment—I think—but I’m not interested in a fuck right now.” Though her wet pussy begged to differ. “I’m interested in a keyboardist—sorry, pianist—for my band tonight. But I’m not willing to sell my body for it.”

  Chandler closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. “God. That only makes me want you more. You’re killing me.” He opened his eyes and pierced her with their smoky jade beauty. “Fine. I’ll play for you whether you fuck me or not. But I hope you’ll fuck me. I want you so badly. You have the sweetest cunt I’ve ever tasted, you know that?”

  Cunt. Had she ever heard the word spoken aloud? Not in this lifetime. But it was dirty, nasty. And God she liked it.

  “You get so wet, so juicy,” he continued. “And your asshole is so cute and pink and tight. Fuck.” He shook his head. “If I can’t have you at least once I think I’ll go insane.” He gripped her shoulders.

  His touch singed her. If not for his grip she’d be a mass of jelly on the floor, she was sure of it.

  “Are you attracted to me at all, Janie?”

  Had he really just asked that question? She’d nearly fallen into bed with him twenty-four hours earlier. She opened her mouth, but no words emerged.

  “I think you are.” He stroked her cheek. “I think you want me as much as I want you. That’s what you said before. You responded to me yesterday. You got so fucking wet for me.”

  “I…” She couldn’t think. His hand on her face was so hot, and yet so gentle.

  Who was he? Was he the arrogant ass who wanted a quick fuck from a hot woman? Or was he the heartbroken man who made her feel wanted and desired?

  “I want your juices pooling on the lid of my piano.” His already deep voice lowered. “I want to pin you down, shove my hard cock in your sweet little pussy. Tell me you want that too, Janie. Tell me, and I’ll give you the best fuck of your life.”

  Rational thought fled her brain. She wanted him. How could she deny it? He was gorgeous, talented, and he ate pussy like a champion. “Yes, Chandler, I want you.”

  He crushed his lips down on hers in a frenzy of raw passion. The kiss was hard, even painful at times as his teeth gnashed against hers. Their tongues dueled, their lips meshed, muffled grunts escaped both their throats. Chandler paused, drew a ragged breath against her lips, and set about devouring her again. Was it possible he deepened the pressure of his strong mouth? Yes, he did. More passion, more primal need flowed from him to her, and she returned it with equal ardor.

  Her arms crept upward and she grasped his sculpted shoulders, warm beneath the black cotton of his shirt. Animal instinct took over. She trailed her fingers to his collar and ripped the shirt open. Buttons hit the hardwood floor with several small pings.

  The curve of his lips smashed against hers. He was smiling. She could feel it. One strong arm moved downward and a hand plunged inside the waistband of her jeans.

  He broke the kiss and trailed his moist lips to her ear. “Are you wet for me, baby?”

  She whimpered as he sifted through her curls and reached her sodden core.

  “God yes”—his voice was husky—“so wet for me.”

  She pulled his shirt out from the waistband of his jeans and pushed the fabric off his shoulders. He freed one arm, but the shirt hung on the other as he continued to rub the lips of her wet pussy.

  “Too many clothes,” she said against his golden neck. She kissed him, nibbled him.

  His chuckle rumbled against her cheek. “We can take care of that. But I have to stop touching you.”

  Stop touching her? She might die! “No. Touch me. Put your finger in my pussy. Please.”

  “Oh, baby, I’ll be happy to. But let’s get naked first and I can do it so much better.”

  Yes, naked. That’s what she was after. She forced her lips from his flesh and moved backward, dislodging his hand from her inside her pants. Quickly she started to pull her T-shirt over her head.

  “No. Let me.” Chandler reached beneath her shirt and caressed her bare belly. “I want to unwrap you.”

  “But that’ll take too long.”

  He let out a short laugh. “Yes, I can see you’re in a hurry.” He brushed the remaining sleeve of his shirt off his arm. It fell to the floor in a heap. “But I want to savor you, Janie. Let me undress you.” He fingers stroked her skin as he pulled the shirt off her slowly.

  “This is madness,” she said, her voice breathy.

  “Well, we’re a little mad, aren’t we?” He pulled the shirt over her head, tossed it to the floor, leaned down, and buried his face in her cleavage and kissed the tops of her breasts. “Isn’t that what a good fuck is? What passion is? A little bit of madness?”

  Yes. He made perfect sense. “Like the piece you were playing.”

  When he nodded, strands of golden hair tickled her.

  “That piece is pure madness. But it’s not what I’m feeling now. Right now I’m mad for you. Mad with passion, not anger or regret. If I can’t have you, I’ll go even madder with lust.” He growled against her throat as his deft fingers unhooked her bra and discarded it.

  Her ample breasts fell gently against her chest.

  “You’re fucking beautiful. They’re perfect.” His lips closed around one hard nipple.

  She groaned as his touch set her afire. Danza del Fuego. Ritual Fire Dance. The chords rang her in head as he tugged on her tight bud and then licked it. First bite, and then soothe, and each sensation traveled at light speed straight to her clit.

  Ah, yes, there existed more than one meaning to the cleansing fire dance. Chandler was getting over a woman. And Jane
? Well, she hadn’t had sex in a long time. This was pure fantasy for her. A pure dance of fire and passion. Perfect.

  He moved to the other nipple and kissed it, worshiped it, as he continued to knead the first between his thumb and forefinger. “Gorgeous breasts, Janie,” he rasped against her areola. “Perfect.”

  She sighed. She couldn’t stand much longer. Surely she would melt soon.

  As though he’d read her mind, her nudged her backward, toward the piano, until her bottom hit the smooth wood. Good, at least it was something to lean against. He bent and took her mouth again in a possessive kiss. His bare chest felt like heaven against her breasts, and his hard cock nudged against her bellybutton through the barrier of his jeans.

  Why hadn’t he gotten naked yet? She tried to say as much, but her words were muffled by his kisses. He rained tiny pecks on her cheeks, her eyelids, her forehead.

  When he reached her ear, he whispered, “I can’t get enough of you. Your scent, your touch. You drive me crazy!”

  Crazy. Mad. Those same words again. They described her feelings as well. “Take off your pants, Chandler,” she said boldly. “I want to touch your cock.”

  “Oh baby,” he rasped against her neck, “I will, and you won’t be disappointed. But good things come to those who wait. First I’m going to rid you of the rest of your clothes, set you on top of that piano, and eat your juicy pussy till I’m ready to burst.”

  Moisture gushed from her. Her panties were already saturated. Now her jeans themselves were no doubt wet. Chandler worked at the snap and then the zipper. He fell to the ground and tugged off her sandals. Soon her jeans joined his shirt and hers on the floor.

  He lifted her—what strong arms!—and carried her to the piano’s shiny keyboard. With a discordant plunk, he set her onto the keys. Their coldness shocked her, but only for a millisecond. Her body heated through.

  Chandler pulled up the black bench and sat, his giant erection apparent beneath his jeans. He stared at her pussy—simply stared—until Jane was sure she would burst open.