by Bargo, Holly
He’d be damned if he ever let his muse go.
Chapter 7
The boys arrived mid-morning, bearing instrument cases containing their practice instruments and raucous repartee. (The concert instruments would be delivered to the concert venue and set up by their experienced and efficient road crew.) Mick dragged stools and chairs to the back patio, glancing occasionally at the cottage next door. Davis pulled out a compact set of electronic drums that served for practice purposes, as the concert drums were simply too bulky and cumbersome to drag everywhere.
“Where’s the missus?” Jack asked as he plugged in the keyboard. His fingers danced over the keys. A ripple of sound hung in the air. He adjusted the tone and volume.
“Next door,” Mick answered tersely.
“She leave your sorry ass already?” Davis joked.
“Ain’t nothin’ sorry about my fine ass,” Mick retorted with a grin. Then he explained her absence, “She rented the cottage next door. Her roommate trashed it. So, she’s supervising the cleaning crew.”
Davis tapped his sticks across the drums, testing their feel and sound.
“Jay mentioned you’ve got some new stuff,” Angelo prompted as he stroked his hand down the sinuous curve of the tenor saxophone like he was stroking a woman’s hip.
“Yeah,” Mick said. “It’s a bit different from our usual stuff.”
“It’s good to mix things up a little. We don’t want to get pigeonholed,” Davis voiced his approval.
He hoisted the guitar into position and strummed absently, then his fingers began picking an intricate melody. The four men listened intently as the delicate music flowed from the lead guitarist’s fingers.
“You been listening to Hozier?” Kristof asked, one eyebrow raised.
“Who?” Davis asked.
“Irish dude,” Kristof replied. “He writes bluesy stuff. He was a recent one-hit wonder.”
“You listen to that?” Davis asked incredulously.
Kristof shrugged nonchalantly, but his cheeks reddened slightly to indicate his embarrassment at enjoying music that wasn’t hard rocking heavy metal. He’d be damned if he admitted to liking sappy love songs.
Mick finished the song and looked up at his bandmates. “Let’s run through it again, pick it up as you can, guys.”
He began again and Jack’s fingers picked a complementary harmony on his keyboard. Davis tapped at the drums, adding a low, throbbing beat. After a moment, Kris picked up the rhythm and played a counter beat that added depth to the intricate melody. Angelo exchanged his saxophone for a flute and the sweet melody repeated high and light.
They ran through the music a few more times, then Jack asked, “You got lyrics to go with that?”
Mick nodded and they began again. Mick’s voice started softly, gathered strength and power as the words intensified. Then his voice softened again and died away with the last trickle of notes of the acoustic guitar accompanied by nothing more than the flute’s airy notes.
“I think a wooden flute might actually sound better,” Kris opined.
“We’ll try that later,” Angelo said. “I don’t have a wooden flute with me.”
They ran through the song a couple more times, locking the lyrics with the music until it flowed seamlessly.
“Here’s another,” Mick said and launched into the song that had poured from his soul the previous day. The music throbbed, pulsed, and beat at them like hard, fast audial sex.
“Now that’s more like it,” Davis enthused.
He picked up the beat and added his own flourishes. Angelo put down the flute and picked up the sax. Kris and Jack chimed in on their instruments.
“You need the electric for that one,” Angelo said when they’d finished the second rehearsal of that tune.
Mick nodded and exchanged the acoustic for the electric guitar.
“I think we should speed it up a little,” Kris suggested, his surprisingly nimble fingers repeating the melody on his bass guitar with amazing accuracy and dexterity.
“Oh, yeah, that’s badass,” Jack approved.
Mick nodded his acceptance and they ran through the song again at the somewhat faster pace. When they finished all five men were sporting erections.
“God, I need a woman,” Kris admitted aloud and adjusted himself.
The corner of Mick’s mouth curled in a half smile. Had Sonia been standing within arm’s reach he would have grabbed and dragged her to the bedroom. The band broke for lunch, leaving the kitchen a mess.
“You got lyrics for that one, too?” Davis asked as he finished a Coke.
“Yeah,” Mick answered and sang sans accompaniment.
Jack nodded and hummed along, chiming in on the refrain. Then they ran through the song four more times to perfect it.
Mick rose to fetch his violin. When he returned, he said, “This is something that came to me this morning. I think it’s best if we go all acoustic on this one.”
He pulled the bow across the strings and wild, dreamy music filled the air. Angelo put his sax back up to his mouth and the instrument’s throaty wail added creamy dimension to anchor the melody. Davis kept his touch on the drums light, accenting the music. Kristof and Jack agreed that particular song did not need either keyboard or bass guitar.
“I think that one needs Jack as the vocalist,” Angelo said.
Jack shrugged and said, “I’ll give it a whirl. Do you have the lyrics?”
“Not yet,” Mick said.
“We’ll work on that tonight,” Jack promised.
“Mick?” Sonia’s voice called sweetly from the kitchen. His ears pricked like a dog and he rose to answer her call. The other men snickered and exchanged amused glances at his obedience to his wife’s call.
“What is it, Sonia?” he asked as he walked into the cottage, thinking that she must have entered from the front door.
She stood in the kitchen, practically fuming. But she gave him a saccharine smile, gestured toward the mess, and said, “Who’s going to clean this mess? I’m not.”
Mick looked at the empty cans, crumbs, wrappers, uncapped jars, used paper towels, dirty silverware, and condiments strewn over the countertops.
Sonia’s expression turned flinty and added in a cold tone, “I’m not the maid, Mick.”
“We’ll clean it up, babe,” he said, bowing to the inevitable. “We’re just caught up in the music, sweetheart. We didn’t mean anything by this.” His gesture mimicked hers.
She walked to him and wrapped her arms around his waist and looked up at him. That time she gave him a real smile and he was surprised at the difference. “I don’t want us to get started off on incorrect assumptions, Mick.”
“Right,” he said, leaning down to kiss her. “You cook, I clean.”
Her arms tightened around him and she giggled. “You are so damned sexy like this.”
He ground his hips into her, letting her feel the erection that bulged behind his zipper. He kissed her again and reluctantly pulled away. There was no time for that now, especially since there were five nosy men watching them with very interested expressions.
“Do you think you could do supper tonight?”
“Sure,” she answered. “I’ll run into town for some groceries. Any food allergies I should know about?”
“I think Jack’s allergic to shellfish, but that’s about it. No one’s on any sort of diet.”
“Okay. Any preferences?”
Mick’s smile turned lascivious and Sonia blushed.
“Um, no, me naked isn’t a dietary preference,” she whispered.
“I could eat you out now and make you scream otherwise,” he taunted.
Sonia felt heat pool and she pressed her thighs together. “Food, Mick. Think food.”
He grinned and pulled her into his arms. “Whatever you make will be outstanding, I know it.”
“All right. You get back to your band and I’ll hit the supermarket.”
Before letting her depart, Mick melted a few of he
r brain cells with a sizzling kiss that drew hoots and cheers from their audience. She stood there a few seconds, blinking dumbly before gathering up her purse and finding her way to her rental car. Mick’s own steps back to the patio were none too steady either.
“Man, you got it bad,” Davis commented, his amused smile brilliant white against his chocolate skin.
Mick just smiled fatuously.
“Come on, you heard the lady,” Jack said lightly. “We made the mess, we clean it.” And he ran hot water to wash dishes. The other four men made quick work of cleaning the kitchen.
“So, Sonia’s going to cook for us tonight?” Angelo prompted.
“Yep, but I’m not sure what she’s going to make.”
The shorter man grinned and shook his head. “You’re really in love with her, aren’t you?”
Mick went still as he absorbed Angelo’s words and he answered slowly, “Yes. Yes, I am.”
“Never thought I’d see the day when Mick Hendriksen would put on the ball and chain,” Jack joked.
“I’m happy, Jack. Someday, maybe you’ll find what I have.”
“There is no way I will tie myself to one woman.” He shuddered dramatically.
Mick grinned with evil glee and said, “When you do, I will laugh and laugh and laugh.”
“And then jump aside, because lightning will probably strike,” Kristof said dryly. “Twice, just to make sure.”
Flinging friendly insults back and forth, the men returned to the back patio and resumed practice.
Time flew by as it generally did when they played together. They reviewed their popular favorites and worked out the song list for their set, which would include Mick’s two new tunes. They repeated the new songs, finessing the lyrics until the entire group was pleased with the results.
“You’re going to have women throwing their panties at you,” Angelo predicted with smirk when they put the love song to bed.
“So, what’s different about that?” Mick retorted as he shrugged. When Iron Falcon had begun to gather a fan base, the thought of girls throwing panties at him had been exciting, titillating. Now, it mostly bored him. Although he’d availed himself more than he cared to admit of the freely offered pussy over the past several years, he found himself wondering just where those women had been. Sticking his dick into a pussy that had been well used by who knew how many others engendered a faint sense of disgust. Yes, he knew that he upheld a despicable double standard in that he appreciated and valued Sonia’s limited experience when he’d been guilty of exactly what he condemned all those other nameless, faceless women for.
He was just glad that Sonia did not condemn him for having been a male slut.
The smells of something delicious wafted through the open windows. Five men lifted their noses and inhaled deeply.
“Didn’t you say that Sonia was a chef?” Davis asked as his mouth watered.
“Yep.”
“Whatever she’s making smells incredible,” Angelo complimented. “If it tastes as good as it smells, I’ll ask her to marry me.”
“She’s already married, doofus. To me.”
“I’m prettier than you are,” Angelo said with a grin.
“Looks fade. My dick’s bigger and that’s what really counts.”
Angelo threw him a look of disgust as Sonia walked through the back door carrying a tray of appetizers.
“Don’t bother whipping them out, boys. I don’t need to compare,” she said dryly as she set tray on the patio table. The five men immediately dove into the food with the enthusiasm of starving wolves.
Kristof moaned as he bit down into a slice of bruschetta. When he had swallowed the mouthful, he said, “It’s not fair Mick gets a woman who cooks like this and we don’t. Let’s kill him and hide the body if he won’t share her.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Jack quipped around a mouthful of fried ravioli.
“Find your own women,” Mick said and popped a garlic stuffed olive in his mouth.
Inside the kitchen, Sonia just smiled and shook her head at their macho silliness. But it soothed her heart to know that the band members’ attitudes toward her were improving. Perhaps the way to a man’s heart truly was through his stomach.
She set out plates, glasses, flatware, and napkins. Since the dinette set in the cottage simply wasn’t large enough to accommodate a gathering of six people, she set out the food on the counter for everyone to serve himself buffet-style.
“Supper’s ready,” she called. “Take a plate and serve yourselves.”
The five men obediently responded. Jack and Angelo both paused to kiss her cheek as they passed by before each grabbing a plate to fill. Masculine bantering and musical discussion crashed to a halt, buried under moans and exclamations of sincere appreciation as they gobbled down their supper.
“Are you sure you won’t leave that overgrown fool and marry me?” Angelo pleaded. “I’ll treat you like a queen if only you’d cook for me.”
Sonia laughed and replied, “I’m very happy with Mick, but thank you anyway.”
Twenty minutes later, the men shared the burden of clearing the detritus of their feast, washing dishes, and cleaning the kitchen. She looked with amazement over the lonely crumbs that were all that remained of the appetizers, entree, side dishes, and dessert.
“How do you guys eat like that and stay thin?” she wondered.
“We burn off the calories,” Mick answered as he came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her. She leaned happily against him, content in his embrace. “And we’re going to start burning off those all those calories in about five minutes.”
His hand splayed across her abdomen in a blatantly possessive gesture as he raised his head and said loudly, “Get out of here, guys. I need some alone time with my wife.”
With good-natured jesting and suggestive comments, Davis, Angelo, Jack, and Kristof departed. Sonia didn’t actually see them leave. Mick was already walking her into the bedroom, grinding himself against her with every step.
They were burning off those calories in less than five minutes.
The band members arrived mid-morning the next day. Sonia headed off to the supermarket for ingredients for another day’s lunch and supper to feed them. When she returned, music made the cottage’s wall vibrate. By lunchtime, she thought she knew by heart every single one of their songs. Then after lunch, Jack and Mick worked on the lyrics to the newest song. Mick’s voice was good, very good, and a just a little rough. But Jack’s voice was pure, sensual velvet, dark and lush and full of sinful promise.
If she were forced to compare Mick and Jack, she would have said their voices had a contrast similar to Carole King’s and Barbra Streisand’s voices. But that comparison paled.
Still, she listened. Without donning earplugs, she had to listen. The developing lyrics plucked at her heartstrings and made her womb clench, especially when Mick’s voice sang them. And then her mind would flit back to the previous night when he’d reduced her to a sweating, panting, boneless pile of quivering heat. And again that morning when he’d loved her so deeply she thought he’d taken up permanent residence—and she liked it.
Kristof glanced through the window to see Sonia gazing dreamily into space, swaying gracefully to the music. He leaned his head toward Mick, gestured toward the cottage, and said, “I think she likes this one.”
Mick looked back at his wife, saw her expression, and felt his body respond. Eagerly. He set the violin and bow down. The band members looked questioningly at him.
“I have to go fuck my wife,” he grated through clenched jaws as he rose to his feet. Four knowing smiles watched him stalk into the cottage.
Sonia uttered a surprised exclamation when Mick grabbed her from behind, twirling her around so that he could crush his mouth to hers. He ground his groin against her as his tongue speared into her mouth.
“Bedroom,” he growled in the slight pause that enabled her to take a breath. Music pounded at them, the hard, throbbing chords and bl
atantly sexual lyrics, Kristof substituting as lead guitar and Jack’s voice luring unsuspecting women into losing their panties, the drums pulsing a heady beat and the wailing cry of a clarinet adding piquancy.
Sonia’s mind swirled, dizzy with the abrupt onslaught of passion. She hardly knew how she ended up in the bedroom, lying on the bed, naked and spread like a pagan sacrifice as Mick kicked the bedroom door closed. His hands seemed to be everywhere, and then they were there. He growled again as she undulated her body, back bowing, hips tilting, knees bending, toes curling. She reached down to grab hold of his hair as he licked and sucked and nipped between her legs. She heard a high keening sound and realized it came from her own throat. Mick’s long tongue speared inside her and she ground herself against his face. He growled again, the vibrations potent against her swollen, delicate tissues. His tongue curled, collected her cream. Then his mouth moved to suckle at her clit even as his long finger pushed into her body and slowly withdrew. She trembled and mewled. A second finger joined the first, withdrew, then was joined by a third as he pumped her with his hand.
“Mick, please,” she moaned breathily, almost a whine, eyes fluttering shut.
He bit gently down on the swollen bundle of nerves and she shrieked.
A moment later, he gently lapped at her as the orgasmic spasms quieted. She opened her eyes and realized that her husband was still dressed.
“You’re not naked,” she accused, her breath hitching because he still fucked her with his hand. The sensual drag of his fingers inside her hot, wet flesh steadily worked to build her up to a second orgasm which, from the tremble of her thighs, would shatter over her sooner rather than later.
“Let go of my hair,” he said, eyes glinting.
Sonia’s surprise that she still clutched at his head amused him. Her fingers reluctantly released him. He withdrew his hand long enough to rip his shirt over his head and shuck his pants. Then his hand returned to the heat of her body while the other hand cupped a breast and toyed with the hard nipple.