by Jaye Peaches
“Not enough?” he chortled.
“Meanie,” I snapped back at him.
“Now, now,” he chastised. “This is my turn. My cock wants to sample all of you, a leisurely indulgence.”
I buried my head in my arms, raising my bottom higher and shuffling my knees as far apart as the vest allowed.
“Teasing me? Tsk. What do you really want, Mausi?” he asked, leaning over me.
I wanted to shout presto, or even prestissimo. The fastest speed on a metronome—the one where the hand whizzed back and forth and sent pangs of anxiety into a musician’s heart. How could anyone play that fast?
“Allegro, vivace, I don’t know… Please, Stefan,” I implored.
“A lively pace. Very well, Mausi. You asked, so you will receive.” He edged his voice with a delicious tone, making it deeper and richer.
I glanced over my shoulder. He’d whisked his pants farther down and pulled up his shirt. Now I’d feel his skin touch mine, his warmth against me. I whipped my head back around and grasped hold of the edge of the life jacket—I’d need it to cling onto.
He gripped my hips, hooking his fingers under the bony part. He took a breath.
He delivered a pounding, energizing, heart-stopping fuck. My breasts shook, swinging about, my hair lashed my face, whipping into my eyes and behind, his hips smashed into my bottom. I felt the surge of my juices as he fucked me in time to his newfound rhythm. I imagined the metronome, ticking away, beating time with his thrusts.
“Uh,” I grunted with each stab of his cock. If my knees hurt, or my elbows, I didn’t notice. I forgot where we were. The strange surroundings and the water lapping about the posts of the jetty blurred into the periphery of my senses.
I took pleasure in his hands, because he used them so sensually. The talon-like grip on my fleshy buttocks, the way he dug his fingernails into me, making me mewl, and the tender strokes across my back. He judged me perfectly, never hurting me or taking me out of my limited depths of experience.
I battled the niggling voices buried in the back of my head. The ones that told me this was not lovemaking, this was raw, sexual energy with little romance and no accompanying tender words. He might pause to snatch a kiss on the nape of my neck, to cup a breast and pinch the nipple or to fasten a grip on my shoulders. However, none of these flirtatious intervals spoke of love. What fired us both into a state of passion-driven hunger was when he looped my hair around his hand and held it tightly. My scalp prickled and my nipples stiffened with excitement. I adored the way he kept me in place, unable to escape his clutches or avoid the inevitable climax—another superlative orgasm.
Stefan came with a cry. His thrusts turned from pummels to gentle knocks as at first he waned then stilled. He remained buried deep inside me, ensuring that every drop of his essence spilled out and filled me.
He had to coax me to get dressed. He retrieved tissues from the rucksack to help clean my leakage, but otherwise, we could do little about my ravished state until we’d made the brief journey back to the house. Fumbling with buttons and shoelaces, I loitered on some other plane of existence. I’d characterize it as an almost drunken stupor. I watched him lock up the boathouse, grinning inanely at him every time he glanced in my direction, to which he would reply with a charming, if condescending, shake of his head. I was quite chilled and relaxed, just as he’d intended. He’d bounced back from his sexual exploits with vigorous energy.
“Come on.” He snatched my hand.
I dragged my dopey feet back up the track.
“I have to go fetch my father.”
“Oh.” I’d forgotten his filial duties. The reminder snapped me out of my dreamy state.
He opened the car door for me. “You can stay at the house. I’m not sure how long it will take.”
Alone again. Today was our last day together. Until when?
Chapter Nineteen
“Will you be okay on your own?” Stefan asked before he left to collect his father.
I pecked his cheek. “Sure.”
“Have a swim.”
“Mmm, maybe.” I pictured me alone in the pool and naked. An unusual way to spend a Sunday afternoon.
I watched from the front door as Stefan reversed the car out of the garage. He waved through the windshield and I gave him one back, then he was gone.
With little else to do, the pool house became my destination. Armed with a towel, a book I’d found—an English translation of Grimm’s Fairy Tales—I traipsed across the lawn into the annex. The warm air hit me, almost tropical in intensity. The combination of blue skies and an efficient heating system had transformed the space into a mini paradise.
I stripped off, peering over my shoulder as if a secret audience lurked in the corners, then I slid into the pool. My skin prickled with goosebumps, an initial reaction to the tepid water, which quickly dissipated once I began my lengths of breaststroke.
My confidence grew and I held my breath before dipping my head in the water. I managed several strokes before coming up for air. My eyes stung and my hair curled around my face. Otherwise, I was pleased with my progress. When my arms ached, I climbed out and quickly wrapped a towel about my body, hiding my nudity from imaginary spectators.
I lounged on a sunbed reading my chosen book. I selected a few familiar tales to start, then some lesser ones I’d never heard of, including The Strange Musician. A story about a musician who, when walking through the woods, attracted the attention of various animals—a wolf, a fox and a hare—whom he ensnared with trickery. Continuing on his way, the musician met a woodcutter. When the animals escaped and came for revenge, the woodcutter used his axe to scare them away and the musician wrote him a song in gratitude.
I pictured Stefan as the musician trapping the animals, playing tricks on them. He had captured me earlier in the boathouse. I could have run out, but I didn’t. Or was it the other way around? Had I ensnared him, my fox? An enchantress, who held his heart hostage? Were we both guilty of trickery, hiding our true natures and desires to ensure that we stayed together? My desire for a meaningful relationship and his craving for control and sexual excitement—would those traits sustain us?
Who would be our woodcutter? The person to scare away the doubts and fears, because I truly liked the idea of the song at the end, written in gratitude. I wanted that commitment from him, and the companionship.
I closed the book, scowling at my ability to take a simple fairy tale and weave my own life into it. I suspected that Stefan’s approach to things was more pragmatic and less analytical.
Sleep crept over me as I basked in the waning light of the afternoon until I woke with a jerk. The spring sun was close to touching the horizon and the pool house had gone dim. I shivered and quickly dressed, collected my things and left the rather delightful swimming pool to its solitary state. Such a shame it was rarely used.
Returning to the house, I entered the darkening kitchen. Still no sign of Stefan or his father. I changed into the only decent set of clothes I’d brought with me—a dress with a gypsy-style skirt. I wanted to look smart for Stefan’s father. As I combed out the knots in my hair, my mobile bleeped from the bedside table. I dashed over, wondering if it was Stefan. It wasn’t. It was my mother.
I perched on the bed, my finger hovering over the screen. The temptation to ignore it was strong. I told myself I was being silly. She couldn’t demand that I return. The message turned out to be a lengthy description of my nephew’s latest exploits. At the end, she had added a sentence, almost like an afterthought.
I assume you’ll be back on Monday. We can chat then and you can tell me all about him.
I flopped back on the bed, stared up at the ceiling, and thumped a hand on the mattress. Why did she make me feel like a delinquent sixteen-year-old who hid naughty secrets from Mummy? I decided to dismiss the impending inquisition from my thoughts and not let it spoil my remaining time with Stefan. Whatever guesswork my mother was formulating, no doubt with my conniving sister, at least she
’d kept it to herself—for the time being, at least.
I sprang off the bed and went in search of some form of occupation. One room beckoned to me.
In the music room, spread about the grand piano, I found manuscript paper. On each sheet were scrawled a few notes. I assumed it to be Stefan’s handiwork. I couldn’t see a clef or determine for what instrument he’d written the piece. He’d penned a few themes, scribbled out others and added words in German. Something for his father, perhaps.
A car pulled up outside the house and I went to open the front door.
Stefan held the passenger door as his father slowly rose out of the car. A tall figure, like his son, but slightly hunched. His gray hair had thinned to the point where he had a pronounced bald patch on top. He shrugged away Stefan’s helping hand and walked into his house unaided.
“Callie, a pleasure to meet you.” He shook my hand with a strength I’d not expected. “Please call me Franz.”
The lack of formality came as a relief. “Welcome home.” I stood to one side and watched as he looked about the hallway, as if to check that everything was correct.
Stefan came in carrying a suitcase. “I’ll put this in your bedroom, Papi.”
Franz nodded and headed into the kitchen. I followed, trying to avoid the sensation that I was a useless appendage. He opened a cupboard door and his hand trembled as he reached in for a glass. I stepped in with a smile and took it from him, filling it with water.
“Thank you,” he said. “You must excuse me. It has been many years since I spoke English.”
“It is very good English,” I complimented.
He perched on a stool and I sat opposite. I saw Stefan in him—the same cheekbones and bright eyes—although his appearance was a little more gaunt and paler than his son’s. He sipped on his drink, his lips visibly dry. He’d cut himself shaving, a tiny scab on his chin. The man was clearly unwell and had much healing to do.
Stefan bounded into the room and immediately took charge. He rustled up one of his father’s soups from the freezer, defrosted it in the microwave, and heated it in a pan. I made a pretense of helping him, but he shooed me back to my seat. Franz tried to engage me in conversation using his hesitant English. I told him about my job in the florist. He smiled without enthusiasm and relied on Stefan to translate from time to time. The subject of my parents arose and he sympathetically consoled me for my father’s demise. When I spoke of my clarinet, his face lit up and he asked about my favorite pieces. He was far better informed about classical music than I’d imagined, since I’d assumed Stefan’s mother had been the sole source of her son’s talents.
As the meal progressed—Stefan eating with gusto while his father sipped on the tip of his spoon—Franz faltered in his speech and yawned a few times. The two of them conversed in German, and Stefan occasionally translated. Most of the conversation appeared to be about the nurse and Franz’s lack of enthusiasm for having a resident caregiver.
“Dad wants the current domestic to do the cooking and not have a nurse,” explained Stefan between mouthfuls of minestrone.
I gave Franz a sympathetic smile and instinctively patted the back of his hand, just as I had done my father when he had lain pathetically in hospital. “I would love to have somebody take care of me,” I told him. “Somebody who will keep me company.”
Franz scowled but didn’t withdraw his hand. “We will give her two weeks. Then, she can go.”
Stefan rolled his eyes to the ceiling and shook his head. “Papi, two weeks is nothing. You heard the doctor. This could take many weeks.”
Franz slipped his hand away and waved a dismissive gesture at his son. “I am tired. I go to bed.”
“Let me help you.” Stefan sprang to his feet. The sight of him taking such care of his father touched me greatly. It came as no surprise to me that Franz was less than keen to have his son fuss over him, nor that Stefan ignored his protests and followed Franz out of the room, hands poised, ready to catch his father if he should fall.
I tidied up the kitchen. It was time to deal with my own issues. I had a flight to book. A few days earlier, I’d arrived in Germany in a state of emotional turmoil and confused intentions. My reasons for coming could not keep me here. Stefan needed to settle his father back home without me distracting him. I could no longer take advantage of Bridget’s generosity.
I went in search of the laptop I’d seen lying about. I found it in a small study and booted it up, hoping it wasn’t password locked. Success! It went straight in and connected to the Wi-Fi. I called up various travel agents and began the laborious process of comparing costs.
“There you are,” announced Stefan. He came and stood behind my chair. “You’re going.” The tone of his voice was clearly deflated.
“I can’t stay any longer. We’ve kissed and made up. More than kissed,” I smirked over my shoulder at him.
He greeted me with a sullen expression.
“I have a job, Stefan. I’ve taken advantage of Bridget long enough, and not everyone has a trust fund to live off of,” I added and immediately regretted the implication. I’d watched Micah fritter away his allowance, not Stefan. I’d seen very little extravagance from him beyond his sports car. However, I didn’t apologize for my blunt outburst.
He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. “Let me help.” He directed me to another website and, making use of his familiarity with flights from Europe, found me a far better deal than Bridget had done on my flight over. “I should reimburse you for these tickets.”
I glared at him. “No,” I snapped. “It was my decision to come.”
“All the same… It isn’t fair for you. I upset you, made the mistake that brought you out here.”
“I chose, remember? If your dad hadn’t fallen ill, we would have made up eventually, back in England.” I tried to sound confident with my prediction. However, part of me wondered if the trip out, the effort involved, had triggered my need to resolve our differences. After he had left me in the florist shop, I’d been adamant about my unforgiving stance. Would I have held out, refused to see him? Fate had brought us together again. Where would it take us next?
The matter of money didn’t end there because I went to fetch my credit card and by the time I returned, he’d paid for the flight with his own. I stamped my foot. “Stefan!”
“Mausi. This was my choice. Don’t argue. Let’s call it quits. The flight is in the afternoon. After I pick up the nurse from Rosenheim, I shall drive you to the airport. Okay?” He folded his arms across his chest and gave me one of his hard stares. His stern expression placated me immediately. Naturally, I melted on the spot. How could he turn me on so easily when I should be cross with him? Damn him.
I rolled my eyes at him and pouted. “Very well,” I said with exaggerated reluctance.
“Eye rolling,” he commented. “I think that requires a little correction.”
I shot an alarmed glance at him. “Little?”
He stood up. “Or would you like it to be more than a little?”
I backed away, clasping my hands behind my back. “Your father is home.”
He stalked me across the room. “You’ll have to be quiet. No screaming orgasms.”
Damn him. My pussy clenched on cue. I grinned and all the previous tension flew out of me at the thought of sex with Stefan. “You’ll let me come?” As if he could stop me. We both knew it was a game.
“Maybe,” he teased. As he backed me against a wall, he stopped and sniffed the air. “You’ve been swimming.”
“Your suggestion,” I reminded him.
“You haven’t showered properly, have you?”
I added sulkiness to my expression, dropped my chin and shook my head like a naughty child.
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Right. In the shower, and I will ensure you are thoroughly cleaned—inside and out.”
I snapped my heels together and saluted. “Very good, sir.”
He rested his hands on the wall next to my
head, trapping me. “You do know you’re heading for a punishment fuck, don’t you?”
“I thought I’d worn you out in the boathouse,” I whispered.
He shoved his pelvis against me. “Impossible. I’m hot for you all the time.”
I didn’t doubt it. His erection bulged in his pants. I crushed my thighs together, remembering how he had quickly found me out earlier in the day.
“Upstairs,” he hissed in my ear. “And get undressed.”
Chapter Twenty
I ducked under his arm, giggling childishly, scurried out of the study then bounded up the stairs. Arriving in our bedroom, I scrambled out of my clothes, flinging them on the floor in a heap. He wanted to clean me. That meant the bathroom. I scampered into the en suite and switched on the shower. I kept checking over my shoulder as I waited for the water to warm up, half expecting Stefan to burst in.
The cubicle had glass on three sides from floor to ceiling. A mixture of aqua blue and cream mosaic tiles covered the back wall. I opened the door and stepped under the monsoon head, tipping my face up into the warm spray. The heat built, turning the air about me misty and the glass steamed up, hiding the rest of the room.
I went to open the bottle of gel then remembered that Stefan planned to clean me. I turned down the water temperature. I didn’t need the extra heat—my own body had lit its internal fire of lust.
The bathroom door clicked. I peered through foggy glass and saw a shadow—Stefan. I wiped a small porthole in the condensation and gasped. He stripped then he walked across the room toward the cubicle with a purposeful stride. I backed away from the cubicle door, squeezing myself into the corner.
By the time he joined me, the moisture in the air had frizzed his hair into little spikes. He shut the door behind me and stood, head cocked to one side, rubbing his chin. How I loved his goatee, the way it framed his lips and mouth, making them inviting. I focused on his mouth, because, below, his cock had risen up, stiffening with each passing second. I swallowed hard, waiting for him to speak.