by Jaye Peaches
“Callie?” Talia tapped on my door. “Are you all right?” Her Polish accent crisply delivered even in the middle of the night.
“Er, fine. Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.” I quietly shut my wardrobe.
“No problem. Just checking.”
I heard her footsteps, then the door to her bedroom closed.
Jeans and a sweatshirt. At a quarter to eleven, wearing the simplest of combinations, I waited in the hallway for the BMW to pull up. It was supposed to be a music session, not a fashion show. So what did it matter what I wore? I didn’t intend to do anything else but play my clarinet and politely eat Stefan’s lunch.
Chapter Three
He didn’t look much different—the same black jeans with a blue polo shirt. We exchanged greetings and once again, there I was in the front seat of his BMW, except this time he drove me out of town to his house. It gave me a sense of evenness. He knew where I lived. Now he was returning the favor.
Words vacated my inquisitive mind. I fell strangely dumb. Staring out of the windshield, I fiddled with a large button on my coat. Its thread had nearly worn through. What was it about Stefan that caused me to flounder? I wanted to be there in his car. At the same time, it would have been easy to ask him to pull over and let me out—run away. I didn’t. The reason why became increasingly apparent. Electric pulses of excitement whipped around my body. I tried to ignore them, but they made their presence known, those shooting waves of tingles.
“So you work at a florist.” He broke the awkward silence. “Not a career as a musician?”
Another example of a blunt Stefan question. It pitched me straight into the deep end of my emotional pool of nerves. “What’s wrong with being a florist?” I bounced back indignantly.
“I wasn’t implying anything was wrong. I’m just surprised you didn’t study music.”
I screwed the button around, nearly snapping the thread. “How do you know I didn’t?”
He cruised down the street, weaving past parked cars. “You have a tone, a sweet sound. I’d assumed you’d been tutored beyond school. Yet… You’re a florist.”
The button flew off. I grabbed at it before it toppled into the footwell. I was destroying my own coat. “But you imply I’ve failed because I’m a florist? And no, I’ve not studied. I left school at eighteen and went to work.”
He lifted his hands off the steering wheel briefly. “Whoa.”
“No, don’t make out it wasn’t your first thought. Just a florist. It takes creativity and a fair amount of knowledge to turn a bunch of flowers into an artistic presentation. Bridget has won awards, given talks at garden centers. I’m proud to work for her.”
“I’m sorry,” he said swiftly. “It was ungracious of me to suggest you didn’t have a career.” He curled his hand around the gear stick, stroking it.
I waited for him to speak. Things had not gotten off to a good start. How would I take his criticism when I played my clarinet for him? For him? No, for me. I would keep it selfishly to myself for the time being. Stefan hadn’t won me over yet.
“I should admire somebody who likes artistic presentation. I compose music, you create floral displays.” He gave a shrug of his shoulders.
I judged it a dismissal, conversation done. He’d run a little roughshod over me and I regretted my own abrupt response.
I lost some of my nerves, relaxed into my leather seat. Listening to his voice soothed me in a peculiar way. The crisp pronunciation reminded me of Talia.
“You’re not English. I’m sure I detect a trace of something.”
A tiny flush of pink formed on his left cheek. He chuckled. “Caught. I hide it well, yes? I am British. I’m also German. My father is German, my mum English. I was born in Bavaria, lived my early years there until they divorced. I came back to live with Mum here in England.”
“You’re bilingual. I live with a Polish girl whose boyfriend is Czech. I suppose my ear picks up the nuances.”
He sighed. A mock one with an obvious huff. “There was me thinking I was perfect.”
“I didn’t mean to insult—”
“Nonsense. You’ve not insulted me. You’ve a good ear. I admire it.” He turned his head, peering down a side road, and gave me a brilliant smile. All the tension in the air dissipated.
“Do you think in German?” Languages intrigued me. I spoke nothing but English.
“I live in England. It’s what shapes my thoughts. I speak to my father and brother in German on the phone or by email. Why would I speak German here? I’m not one or the other. I’m both. I don’t think about it.”
I shrank in my seat at his bluntness. I’d offended him. He tightened his fingers around the steering wheel, turning the knuckles white. I’d touched on something he didn’t like. Not language. It was a statement of identity. He’d reacted as if I’d asked who he was, as if he lacked a sense of belonging.
“Sorry. I wasn’t digging into your personal life—”
“Callie. It’s okay. I like that you speak your mind. I ask direct questions, so I shouldn’t expect anything else from you. Here. This is where I live.”
The landscape had remained familiar, urban, but as we drove farther out of Cambridge, the houses had more space around them. Grander properties than my own cheap area of the city. I lived among students.
I gazed out of the window at the property. Stefan’s studio. I’d not expected this. A modern structure clad in a light wood with skylights in the roof. There was symmetry to the house—two wings with roofs juxtaposed to the main body. It looked like a two-story house at the back, but the frontage had a lower height.
“It’s, wow, different.” I couldn’t find the right words.
Stefan switched the engine off. “My dad is a builder. He designed it. All sustainable materials. Rainwater is collected to flush the toilets. Solar panels at either end.” He pointed out the various features with obvious pride. It suited him. Though perhaps it out of place among its brick-faced neighbors.
He carried my music while I brought in Nettie. No stand this time—I assumed, rightly or wrongly, that he had his own. I entered the house with trepidation and copied Stefan as he slipped off his shoes, leaving them on the doormat.
A small anteroom led into a magnificent open-planned accommodation. I needed a few minutes to take it all in. The center of the house wasn’t a lounge or other functional room, but a vast open space, and smack in the middle of the floor, a black grand piano. To the left of the musical arena, in one of the wings of the building, was the kitchen and dining area, and in the opposite wing, the living space with a leather sofa and armchairs and an LCD TV fixed to the wall. The piano took center stage of the studio and before it a wall of glass looking out over a garden. Not an green English lawn in sight. Instead, neatly positioned pots and beds surrounded by gravel. The space had the same immaculate symmetry as the house.
Where was the bedroom? On either side of the house, in the two wings, was an upper floor mezzanine. Each had its own wrought iron spiral staircase with one leading up to an open-plan study complete with bookcases and a desk. In the other wing, a wall partition hid the room. Stefan followed my eyes, observing me with a soft smile as I explored his splendid domain.
“Bedroom and en suite. There’s a small bathroom behind the kitchen. If you need it.” He grinned.
I didn’t need a pee, I didn’t think I was that nervous, but I held the excitement in check.
“It’s beautiful, Stefan. I bet the acoustics are fantastic.”
“Yes.” He nodded. “It was a requirement of the design. The high ceiling at the back, the wooden floors and glass. It makes for an excellent little concert hall. I’ll fetch you a stand. Would you like a drink?”
I opted for a simple glass of water, slipped out of my coat then placed it on an armchair. My hands quivered as I opened my clarinet case. Would I be able to pull it together and not pollute the setting with my modest playing?
“Relax,” said Stefan, putting the glass down on a small
coffee table. He positioned the stand to one side of the piano, facing the piano stool. Unlike my creaking contraption, his stand was a permanent lectern made from brass and very sturdy. I lay out my music—the Capriccio Espagnole—and licked my reed. A new one, especially brought out for today. I lined it up on the mouthpiece and screwed it into place.
Stefan slid onto the piano stool and opened a binder of music. He was going to accompany me?
“I have the score here. I will pick out relevant parts to accompany you.”
Impressive. To be able to dance about a complex score, picking out different instruments and transposing them onto the piano spontaneously, took skill and natural ability.
My breathing refused to regulate. I panted out the first few notes, unable to hold my breath for more than a few notes, a ridiculous lack of control for somebody of my standard. I fumed at my ineptitude and raised a hand to stop. “Let me warm up a bit.”
I stared out of the window. The frost still hung about on the tips of the evergreens, a white dusting reminding me of the cold winter. Indoors, my feet rested on underfloor heating—deliciously warm and calming. I drew in a lungful of air and picked an easy scale and I flew up and down without difficulty. My fingers unstiffened. My lungs emptied and my head lightened with the loss of oxygen. Nettie and I became one again.
“I’m ready.” I turned back to Stefan, grateful for his patience. He lifted his fingers above the keys and gave me an introductory passage. Our eyes met, he gave me a tiny nod, my cue, and I blew out the first note of the solo.
For an hour, I reveled in the gorgeous acoustics of Stefan’s studio. Nothing like my dire little house and its brick walls. My vibrato tone sang out, finding a new depth and quality. Each time we repeated the piece, my confidence grew and I imagined the orchestra around me, making me complete. We broke off every few bars, and Stefan offered me advice on my tonguing or dynamics. Little words of encouragement or reminders to articulate the melody, bring it out. I had to compete with a whole orchestra.
“Well done,” said Stefan. He eased back from the keyboard and cocked his head to one side. “I still think you can do better.”
I sank down on my heels. What? I had given my all. It had to be the best I’d ever done.
“You have a natural embouchure. I can see your facial muscles working about your mouth. Kind of cute.”
I flinched at the cute. Dad had called me pretty.
My hands went clammy. A sudden reaction to the way Stefan sat at his piano. He supported his elbow on the shelf above the keyboard, leaning slightly to one side. About his face, the brace of curls hugged. Shorter hair would suit him. I wanted to reach out and run my fingers through his tousled locks, pull them a little straighter and away from his eyes. His magical eyes glinted in the bright halogens above our head.
“Cute?” I murmured.
“Yes. I’ve been watching you breathe. It’s what is letting you down. Your breathing.” He sat up straighter and pressed his hands to his stomach. “You need to do it from here, not here.” He touched his shoulders. “Diaphragm.”
I knew about breathing from the diaphragm, but I had a tendency to play the clarinet sitting down, not standing up, constraining the movement of my tummy muscles.
He taught singing. I remembered. “Who do you teach? Vocal lessons, you said you teach.”
“A few kids. You know, parents think they’re the next X Factor contender. Rather unproductive but pays well. A couple of budding sopranos from local operatic societies and a tenor.”
“You’re a singer?” I fingered Nettie’s keys.
“I had lessons. Sang in a few concerts. Composing is my passion.” He rose. A tall man. Solid but lean.
My lungs were definitely picking up a pace.
He tapped his ribs with the tips of his fingers. “Here.”
I nodded and put the clarinet in my mouth, imagining my diaphragm sinking into my pelvis. I played a long note, trying to keep it pitched perfectly. By the end, my head buzzed and flashing stars appeared before my eyes.
“Play me something you like.”
Another step toward me.
“Close your eyes and relax.”
Play something. I racked my brain. Then the obvious slipped in. Before continuing, I took a sip of water from the glass. I licked my lips, running my tongue around them. He followed the rotation of my tongue with his widening eyes. I showed him my pearly white teeth. My pride. I looked after them well.
He smiled. A radiant Stefan smile. I was learning to recognize them. I slipped the clarinet back in my mouth and closed my eyes. Mozart’s clarinet concerto, second movement. I’d learned it years ago, when it had been far too difficult for me. Now, I thought I’d mastered it. I would never perform at The Proms or a concert hall, but I could carry the melancholy melody and let it soar.
The room’s acoustics were perfect. Truly a pleasure to play in the surroundings. When I had finished, I opened my eyes and he had moved even closer. I hadn’t noticed. He circled me and came to stand behind me. He touched my waist.
“More. More from here.” He rested the palm of his right hand on my belly.
I shivered. Behind me, he radiated heat. A delightful warmth.
He pressed his heavy hand on my navel. “Push it out.”
I sucked in as much air as I could and forced out my stomach, letting my pelvis drop, creating a vacuum in my lungs.
“Better,” he whispered. “This time quicker.” He looped his other hand around me.
I repeated my inhalation, snatching a lungful. I blew a long note before launching into the Mozart a second time.
Oh, my God. I’d never played with somebody touching me before. When I looked down, the rise and fall of his arm was visible.
“Close your eyes.” He squeezed my sides. “Don’t be nervous.”
Nervous? My legs had gone to jelly. His breathing, which was quicker than mine, landed on my neck. I struggled to hold my breath, to reach the end of the phrase. My eyes flickered as I fought the dizziness. I swayed and he steadied me.
“Keep going.”
I couldn’t stop even if I tried. I leaned backward, almost resting my head on his chest. For a few minutes, I was quite lost, as he trapped me with his roving hands. They slid up and down in time to the tune, stroking me, and I continued to breathe into his gentle embrace.
“That’s good,” he muttered.
I felt him. My bottom slotted between his hips and I had no doubts about the hardness. I rose up on my toes, sliding backward into him. His erection bulged.
The clarinet slipped out of my mouth. My lips parted and I lost the connection with her. Something else had captured me.
He lowered his mouth and kissed the side of my neck, a gentle caress of his lips. He sighed, releasing his breath slowly, like a gentle puff, and the heat bloomed across my heaving chest. He lifted the edge of my sweatshirt and his fingertips made contact with my skin. I snatched a breath. He journeyed up my belly, higher, while he continued to kiss and explore my neck.
I clung to Nettie, fearful that I might drop her. It wasn’t the only part of me clenching. I recognized the familiar sensation. Months had gone by without it. I’d neglected my poor sex, apart from the occasional frantic rub under the bedcovers. I moaned.
I should have been saying no. Perhaps have pushed him away and created space between us. We’d only met a week ago and I’d spent more time in his car than anywhere else.
He reached my breast. He probed with a finger under the elasticated band of my bra, stretching it until the strap popped over my nipple, freeing it. He rolled my nipple between his finger and thumb. It sprang to attention. My little pebble responded on cue to his touch.
“Oh, God.” I drooled, licking the saliva away from my lips.
He hunted under my top with his other hand, finding my covered breast and releasing it from the cup. My bra bounced up onto my chest and hung there loosely.
“Callie,” he whispered. “Tell me to stop and I will. Otherwise, I�
��m going to take you.”
Oh, fuck. Yes. Take me.
I swallowed hard and twisted around, forcing a gap to protect Nettie from being crushed between us. I gazed up at his face. Bright eyes twinkled in my direction. “Is this part of the lesson?” I asked.
He curled his lips upward, an increasingly familiar expression of intent. “Most definitely. My own special tuition.”
“What makes you think I need it?”
“You told me.”
“Me? You’re sure of yourself.”
“Your clarinet told me.”
“Nettie?” I gripped her tighter.
He chuckled. “Nettie? You serenaded me, didn’t you?”
Had I? Was it deliberate, the choice of Mozart, the way I swayed against him? It was all me, though. “Your hands,” I said.
“My hands?”
“They knew what they were doing.”
“They’re well trained. They like the sensual touch. The smooth surface of the piano keys. A bit like your skin. Warm and responsive.”
He had me. There was no going back. “I have to put her down. I don’t want to drop her.”
“Can’t have you doing that.” He took Nettie out of my hands and laid her on the grand piano’s shelf. He turned and came to face me again. This time, when he reached out to touch me, I didn’t think he would stop until he had finished with me.
Chapter Four
My turn.
Why should he have all the fun? I dismissed all those nagging voices in the back of my mind telling me not to do it. I slipped into the realm of unreal, a fantasy dominion where I squished to one side the sensible, rational part of me.
I missed sex. Call me greedy, but it did eat away at me that Micah had awoken this crazy desire in me then failed to let it grow, crushing it in its infancy. Faced with Stefan and his handsome features, I crumbled into a plate of eager mush—shaky legs, racing heartbeat and an excited sex. Whatever doubts were floating in my head, my pussy flexed and opened up in response to his advances.