Perfect Notes

by Jaye Peaches

  I didn’t have an English–German dictionary to translate Stefan’s elusive description of himself. Fortunately, Talia spoke a little German. I asked her, when she turned up at teatime and we bumped into each other in the kitchen.

  “In German, what does gefarlish fucks mean?” His precise pronunciation slipped my mind.

  Talia giggled. “Fucks. I think you know that word.”

  I poured hot water into my mug of coffee. “Fuxs, then.” I stirred the instant powder and watched it swirl into the milk.

  “Who said it to you? Why not ask them?” She opened a cupboard door then rooted around.

  “I don’t think he wants me to know.”

  “He?” She pirouetted on the tips of her toes to face me. “Tell, Callie. You have a new man in your life. Tell.”

  I groaned. She wouldn’t rest until she’d found out more. “Stefan. He’s the conductor of our sinfonia. Taken over from Felix, who’s really sick. Stefan is half German.”

  “Ah.” She covered a grin with a hand. “Sorry. He called you a dangerous fox.”

  Dangerous fox. “No… He meant… It doesn’t matter.” I stumbled over my words. He’d called me his mouse. His little mouse. Yet, he thought of himself as my predator—a dangerous, cunning carnivore who hunted at night. No wonder he hadn’t translated it.

  Talia shrugged. A slow smile opened up on her usually stiff face. “Conductor. You’ve only been back two weeks and you’ve ended up in his bed. Impressive moves.”

  I flushed and slammed the teaspoon on the worktop with a clatter. “How do you know?” I daren’t pick up the mug, fearful that I might spill it with my shaking hands.

  “You are all…” She fumbled.

  I waited for her to translate from Polish to English.

  “Embarrassed. Yes? Pink cheeks.” She pointed at my face.

  Damn her. She looked so indifferent and I sometimes underestimated her intuition. I hunched over my mug.

  “What is wrong?” Her voice softened and she reached out to touch my sleeve.

  “Nothing.”

  “I don’t believe you.” She gently squeezed my arm. “Um?”

  “We fucked all day yesterday,” I blurted.

  She let go and gave me a little applause. “Wow, lucky girl.”

  I rounded on her, exasperated by her lack of understanding. “I know next to nothing about him, then he tells me he’s this dangerous fox. It’s a warning. I know it is. Yet, I can’t stop bloody thinking about him—wanting him.” I buried my face in the palm of my hand. The previous day had emotionally drained me. Even after a day’s work, I remained edgy and friable, like a delicate piece of china.

  “Oh goodness,” Talia said. “You have been bitten.”

  Bitten. Chomped. Chewed. Was I going to be spewed out too? Foxes didn’t play nicely with their prey.

  * * * *

  He texted me on Tuesday while I manned the shop. A quick ‘how’s my little mouse?’ message. I worked the miniature keyboard with my thumbs and I hesitated, wondering if I should reveal my translation. He’d told me to look it up.

  Gr8. How’s Mr. Fox?

  I trimmed a multitude of stems waiting for him to text. I’d made a mistake. He hadn’t wanted me to know. I’d frightened him away. He’d scared me too, just a little. I’d lain awake in bed the previous night, fretting over my lack of knowledge about the new man in my life. Sometime after midnight, I’d drifted off into a troubled sleep.

  My mobile bleeped. After putting the scissors down, I picked the phone up. Bridget was stocktaking in the storeroom.

  Missing you. Don’t read too much into Mr. Fox. Just words.

  I ruminated. Overthinking things was my specialty. I guessed he might dismiss it as unimportant. I had to believe him.

  Sure. See you tomorrow. xxxx.

  Kisses. I’d blown him digital kisses. The truth—I wanted more than those kisses. Three days of separation and he occupied my every waking moment. Several times Bridget had nudged my arm to break me out of a daydream. Back at home, a cup of coffee went cold in my hands as I sat like a statue in front of the television, watching a blank screen. I saw his eyes peering out of the walls at me. Those little tufts of dark hair on his chest made me smile as I pictured his naked body. Shutting my eyes, I imagined running my fingers through them. Best of all, his cock. I fantasized about that piece of his anatomy constantly.

  I encountered phallic symbols everywhere. The cucumber in the bottom of the refrigerator distracted me each time I opened the door to fetch milk. I hid it under a lettuce.

  Pathetic. Needy. Sexually charged and raring to go. The man had cooked me into a state of perpetual lust. Without him, I would overheat and expire.

  Wednesday evening, I stepped out and there was the silver BMW on the curbside. He hadn’t rung the doorbell. He might as well have been a taxi driver. Except, when I joined him in his car, his lips collided with mine in our eagerness to connect—a brisk, hard kiss. I savored him for those two seconds. I glowed warmly under my winter coat.

  He broke off and squeezed my hand before turning the ignition.

  I pursed my lips. “I was thinking. Perhaps, we shouldn’t mention us to anyone in the orchestra.”

  “A wise idea,” he agreed with a nod.

  Phew. We had a bubble of secrecy about us. I didn’t want it to pop quite yet. Not while I had Stefan’s undivided attention. The mysterious conductor had to reveal more of himself before we talked about commitment.

  “Great. I mean, not that I’m ashamed of us, but we’ve only known each other a couple weeks and I don’t want other people to know we’re into each other in a big way.” Shit, what did I mean by that? Of course we were into each other—we’d fucked like crazy on Sunday. “I didn’t explain that well. We are hot for each other, I assume. I mean, I am…” I closed my eyes and shook my head, embarrassed at my stumbling words. Next to me, Stefan chortled softly to himself.

  “Mausi, don’t tie yourself in knots. I get it. Best keep to ourselves.”

  Stefan made things sound easy. When he conducted, he expected instantaneous success. He’d direct, give an instruction—do it this way, like this—and we, his musicians, would respond accordingly as if nothing else mattered. Our own interpretation wasn’t up for discussion. If he made it harder to play—tough. We were all competent performers and the pieces were within our abilities. Now that I was in a relationship with him, I was about to find out if he extended those expectations to his love life too.

  During the practice, we were the epitome of professionalism. Not a stray look or rogue wink passed between us. We ignored each other during the coffee break. I chatted with the other members of the woodwind section. We tried to meet sometimes, a few of us, to play quartets or quintets. Trying to schedule a suitable slot in our combined diaries was nearly impossible.

  Afterward I wandered out to his car, ensuring that he’d left before me. Without making a fuss, I opened the car door and slipped into the passenger seat. Stefan greeted me with a smile.

  “You played really well this evening.”

  “I did, didn’t I?” I’d held it together and hadn’t succumbed to fluffed entries or fumbled the notes.

  “Still… You can improve.”

  I gaped at him, but he grinned back at me.

  “Don’t you want more private tuition?”

  A rhetorical question. Of course I did. I was desperate for his personal touch. We said nothing else. My nerves frayed. Would he ask? Did I invite him? The more time we spent together, the more chances I had at cracking him open. His delay in answering my text bugged me.

  He pulled up by my house and switched off the engine. He twisted in his seat. A deadpan expression covered his face. I flinched slightly, snatched a breath and waited for him to make the move—any move.

  “What’s holding you back?” he asked abruptly.

  “You.”

  He looked surprised by my proclamation. He shifted in his seat. “Me? You don’t want this?”

 
; “I do. A lot. More than you can imagine. Except, you brushed off dangerous fox and still call me your mouse. Why? Are you dangerous?”

  His eyes darkened, filled by his big, black pupils. “No,” he said curtly.

  I recoiled in my seat at the fierceness of his response. “Just— No. Not exactly confidence boosting. What is it you’re not telling me?”

  “Telling you?” He folded his arms across his chest. “I should not have told you that silly expression. That’s what. It’s nothing, Callie. Whatever came to mind is in the past, done.”

  “Your past? I know nothing of you, Stefan. What do you expect me to think?”

  Another shade of darkness swept over his face. I had pushed some angry button. “I’ll go.” I reached for the door handle.

  “No.” He shot his hand out and grabbed my arm. “I’m sorry.” His voice softened. “I’ve been abrasive. You have a right to ask questions.”

  I turned back in my seat and let go of the door. “Yes. I do. You’ve fucked me, an intimate act, and I’m entitled to know more about you. You mentioned your past. I don’t even know how old you are.”

  “I’m twenty-seven.”

  Crikey. I’d thought him older, in his early thirties. Why had I assumed that? His appearance put him in a younger bracket. Behavior. The difference confidence made to his personality was obvious. I put him older, because he naturally exuded affable assurance, nothing contrived. A pang of envy briefly hampered my thoughts. I brushed it aside. “You studied music?”

  “Yes. Composition and the piano. I don’t like performing.”

  I was on a roll. The darkness had lifted from his face, his shoulders relaxed, drooping. What questions had he thought I was going to ask? He seemed almost pleased that they were mundane and superficial.

  “In England? You studied here?”

  “At Cambridge. I stayed on afterward. My dad built the house for me.”

  A few droplets of rain landed on the windshield. “He paid for it?”

  Stefan puffed out his lips. “He’s a brilliant designer and owns a building business. Successful. I have a trust fund. It takes the pressure off me finding work. Although, it won’t last forever. He calls me lazy. I should be composing, creating those symphonies, concertos. Unfortunately, my father’s rather pragmatic approach to architecture doesn’t apply to composing. He’s given projects. I have to fill an empty void from scratch. My inspiration has been lacking.”

  He looked down at his hands. I sensed the burden his father had placed on his shoulders—parental disappointment. I understood how that felt.

  The pattering on the roof grew louder, forcing me to raise my voice. “Where does your musical inclination come from—your mother?”

  His face lit up as he raised his head. “Yes, very much so. She’s not a teacher or anything. She worked as an interior designer when she met my father. She sings beautifully. I’ve written a few songs for her.”

  “She lives in Cambridge?”

  “No. Devon. She moves about a lot, doing odd jobs. When she lived with my dad, she preferred to keep house. At least he was generous in the divorce settlement.” Another grating pass of resentment at his father played out in his voice.

  “There, see? Not difficult, is it? Talking about yourself. Nothing dangerous about you, Stefan. Sad, perhaps.”

  “Sad? Maybe. A sad fox. Doesn’t have quite the same ring about it.”

  I tingled, a satisfactory sensation. He’d given me something. I had to give back. I let my hand wander across the middle of the car, over the dividing line of the handbrake, and plant itself on his thigh. “Why don’t you come in and show me a little danger?” I held my breath and stared as hard as I could with a confidence I rarely displayed.

  He curled his lips upward. A telltale sign of acceptance, delight even.

  “Sure. Work tomorrow?”

  “No rose delivery. Eight o’clock start.”

  With his head bowed as the rain hammered down, he followed me into the house, carrying my music stand in its torn bag. We bypassed the downstairs and went straight to my bedroom. No king-size bed. My standard double took up a large amount of floor space. Adding in the wardrobe and chest of drawers, you could barely swing a cat. He didn’t comment. I unburdened him of the stand and dropped it and the bag into the ottoman at the base of my bed.

  I ran a trembling hand through my hair. “Shall I take your coat?”

  He wordlessly slipped it off his shoulders and handed it to me. A few raindrops dripped onto the carpet. I hung it on the coat hook attached to the back of the door, along with my own damp coat, then succumbed to another bout of silly hair twirling. He took a small step toward me and his lofty advantage cast a shadow over me.

  The butterflies went berserk in my tummy. Where the fuck did they come from? How did adrenaline do it? Like a flurry—no, a stampede—of nerve endings, all excited and with no purpose whatsoever other than to make my knees go weak and my brain mushy. Flight or fight. Or, in my case, fuck.

  “I have to pee.” I ducked out of the impending onslaught of his masculinity with the easiest option. Before he could comment, I dashed out of the door and down the hallway to the bathroom. I leaned on the door, bolting it.

  Sitting on the toilet, I curled my toes up and jiggled my legs up and down. I twirled the paper roll around, and before I knew it, I’d unraveled a dozen sheets. My attempt to wind them back on left the roll a mess.

  I stared at the bedroom cabinet hanging on the wall above the sink. A slow realization dawned on me. Quickly, I yanked up my trousers and flushed the toilet. I searched the cabinet. Toothpaste, razor heads, floss and other toiletries in abundance, but not a single condom. I must have thrown out the lot when Micah left. Talia wouldn’t have any. She took the pill. An avid fan of contraception regardless of whether she was actively dating, she had warned me to stay on the pill.

  She’d wagged a finger. “Who knows what is around corner. Be positive. Tak?”

  I’d ignored her advice. Filled with heartbroken despondency, the last thing I wanted after Micah had been sex.

  I slammed the cabinet shut. My period was due next week. What were the chances? I had to tell him—a joint risk assessment. Perhaps he would just go home, disappointed. Better safe than sorry.

  I unlocked the toilet and went back to my bedroom. The main light was off and he’d switched on the bedside one, a dimmer, low-wattage bulb. My shadow danced across the wall opposite the bed. Inhaling deeply, I opened my mouth to tell him the news.

  My frozen jaw locked in place. I must have looked vacuous with my mouth gaping and eyes popping open. I stumbled backward into the door, shutting it with a slam.

  Lying on my bed, stark naked, was Stefan, and what lay on his belly sent my burgeoning palpitations sky high.

  Chapter Seven

  “Come, Mausi, I think you need to unwind a little.” He rolled onto his side and patted the bed.

  A broad smile formed on his face. I hated to smash it.

  “Er… Stefan. I…” My jaw still refused to work properly and the words wouldn’t form. I wanted to fling my clothes off and envelop that splendid cock. Instead, my dry tongue wandered about my mouth.

  “You need a drink?”

  “No. What I need is…a condom,” I whispered the words.

  “Ah.” He tumbled onto his back and stroked his cock. “Come here.”

  I crept forward. Was he going to pounce on me? I perched on the edge of the bed, squishing my knees together. The closer I got to him, the worse the fluttering in my belly. I needed a fan to cool me down.

  He sat up, his face within a few inches of mine. “Do you trust me?”

  “I think so… Yes, of course.” What a stupid question. He was naked in my bed and I wasn’t screaming out of the window for the police. It had to mean I trusted him.

  “Then let me fuck you…”

  My mouth opened wide, and he shot his finger out, covering my lips and thwarting my negative response.

  “I won’t com
e in you.”

  Now, that would be something I would never have trusted Micah to do. He’d fire off without warning, sometimes after the first plunge of his cock, then he’d mumble an apology before slumping on top of me.

  “I don’t know—”

  He lunged and stoppered my mouth with an indulgent kiss. He pinched the back of my neck, drawing me into his bare arms. I grappled briefly, but I couldn’t resist the lure of his warm mouth and ardent desire. He hauled me onto him as he lay back. His erection sandwiched between us as our lips melted, fusing together.

  My hair tangled in his frantic hands and he combed his fingers through it, tugging and stinging my scalp. I broke off, lifted my head, and his entwined hands traveled with me. I stared down into his stunning face. The goatee had grown into a fuller, darker one with a little point below the chin. It narrowed his face, making him appear dignified and older.

  I brushed my finger along his jawline. “Don’t let it get any longer.”

  “Okay.” He smiled. “You like it?”

  “It suits you. It tickles a little.” I moved up his face and traced his bushy eyebrows, which had slightly thicker hair fibers and were refined at the edges. “Do you trim these?”

  He chuckled. “No. They’re self-limiting.” He wiggled them up and down, making his eyes bigger as he did it.

  I giggled. Between us, his cock, still fully erect, jerked and nudged my belly.

  “Trust me.”

  He slid his hand down my back, under the waistband of my loosely tied linen slacks and down into my panties. With his finger and thumb, he pinched a generous piece of my fleshy buttock. I winced a fraction, and at the same time, my excited clit ratcheted up a notch. There was no way I could switch it off. I needed to come. I shut my eyes. The chances… Slim… I’m regular. If he said he wouldn’t—maybe he had the control Micah lacked. Tomorrow, I would make an appointment at the family planning clinic.

  Then it hit me what I had to do. Why hadn’t I thought of it before? “I’ve a better idea.”