Perfect Notes

by Jaye Peaches

  I experienced Stefan in full-on dominance. No time for me to think or question, I gave him my body, and he gifted back intense orgasms and extraordinary pleasure. I worked hard to pay him back, sucking him out of his post-orgasm stupor into another stiff erection as he lay on the sofa with me curled up between his knees.

  At some point we ate in the nude with candles on the table and no other lights. His glowing face flickered and shadows danced across his broad chest. I squirmed in my seat, leaking, probably, and picked at my dish of cold meats and cheese. When I tore off a hunk of bread, I offered him a piece and he put it between my teeth and chewed on it until our lips met in a kiss.

  Later, at some ridiculous hour in the middle of the night, we crashed into bed and slept, arms entwined about each other.

  * * * *

  In the morning, I woke late and was surprised to see that Stefan hadn’t roused. I lay there, sore, probably a little bruised in places, and quite content. I stared around the unusual room and up at the open roof space with its exposed pine beams. This stylish house was going to be my new home. A cozy, lovely feeling centered me until one thought drifted into my foggy mind—moving. I had no car, Stefan’s had no space in the boot for anything large, and I had a heap of things to bring with me—clothes, books, personal objects hoarded over time and too sentimental to throw away, especially the photo albums of my father.

  “Shit,” I muttered.

  “What’s that?” he murmured, stirring under the duvet.

  I chewed my lip. “Do you know somebody with a big car?”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  We spent Saturday doing mundane, ordinary things like shopping for groceries, a visit to the bank for Stefan and copious amounts of coffee drunk in comfortable seats in a snug café.

  My problem about moving he’d dismissed with a simple, “Don’t worry, I’ll sort something out.”

  I’d opened my mouth to query him but he’d already changed the subject to freeing up storage space for me in the bedroom.

  He exuded excitement. I could hear it in his rapid speech and the way he darted about with ideas. I smiled a few times, stirred my coffee and nodded agreeably. My own excitement ranged from downright nervous about giving up my safe haven from him to dizzy-headed thrilled to bits. Opposite me with his toes kissing mine under the table was this heavenly man with his flamboyant hair and neat goatee, oozing sexual allure. Yes, he could be dangerous, but he was my fox and I was going to tame him.

  After a rather relaxed, low-key night, where we’d concentrated on petting and caressing, rather than rampant sex, we headed out to visit my mother.

  Stefan pulled out all the charm stops for her. However, unlike Micah, who’d ingratiated and flattered with half-truths and platitudes, Stefan stuck to being courteous, helpful with setting the table, and listening dutifully to my mum’s lengthy descriptions of her grandson at play.

  I seemed to hold my breath for the duration of Sunday lunch, waiting for an ominous frown from my mother, or an ill-at-ease, curt remark to slip out of her mouth. My embarrassed daughter mode hadn’t needed to be activated. She’d held me in high esteem for all my impromptu visits, rescuing her from mini crises.

  I remembered two hushed statements from my mother. One spoken to me over the kitchen sink before the meal.

  “He’s rather good-looking, isn’t he?”

  I’d practically choked on the raw carrot I’d stolen to chew upon.

  The second, again in Stefan’s absence, offered to me as she’d followed me into the hallway.

  “Don’t let this one go, will you, darling? He has real brains.”

  I’d gaped at her. She always judged men by their conversational ability, not by any academic grades. I’d nodded at her, rather stunned by her sage-like comment.

  Driving home, Stefan gruffly announced that he quite liked my mum and that he could probably manage a visit from time to time. I pursed my lips, unsure of his verdict, but when I sneaked a glance at him, he was grinning merrily. I punched his arm.

  We parted company on Sunday evening, and I bounded into my own bedroom, eyeing the contents, ready to chuck away what I no longer viewed as essential to my life. The next two days, I spent my time working or packing, while Stefan continued to catch up with his missed lessons.

  The orchestra practice on Wednesday continued the vein of covert eye contact and smiles, and I stole into his car at the end of the rehearsal.

  “I’ve arranged for a friend to come drive your stuff over,” he announced on the way back to my house.

  “Oh, good. How kind of them. Who?” I rubbed my hands up and down my trousers.

  “Magda.”

  I tensed, bent my fingers into talons and tried hard not to scratch my legs. “Magda?”

  “Look, don’t get all antsy about this. She drives a Range Rover, Discovery, whatever. Heaps of space and she’s willing to help out.”

  “Willing,” I repeated. “And in return—?”

  “Callie!” he snapped. “She’s a friend, okay? I’m not turning my back on people because of your sensibilities about my previous relationships.”

  I fumed inside, burning to tell him no way was she coming near him, or me. “Just to help shift stuff?” I snarled.

  “Yes. I thought you two were…cordial to each other? According to Magda, you ended your little meeting on good terms.”

  “I ended our meeting in a state of anxiety about us. You, in particular, and your sexual habits. I didn’t care to think about her.” I folded my arms across my chest.

  “Fine. I understand. Let’s keep it civil, shall we?” He tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel.

  I didn’t invite him in and he didn’t ask to stay. In the morning, when I explained to Talia about my moving arrangements on Friday, she listened to me gripe about Magda’s role.

  “Callie, how many exes would help out their lovers without expecting anything in return? Best he doesn’t make enemies. You don’t want her skulking in the background. She’ll be like…a bedsore—unpleasant and hard to get rid of.”

  I laughed at her analogy and realized I was being childish. I sent a text to Stefan apologizing for my outburst.

  No, I should have discussed it with you first before arranging. I will ask you next time.

  The reply filled me with hope. He could change, see my perspective.

  * * * *

  Early Friday evening, a glossy black Range Rover pulled up outside my house next to Stefan’s BMW. Magda emerged from the driver’s seat wearing two-inch heels, a pencil-thin skirt and a silk blouse. She tottered on the curbside, handbag in hand, and attempted a smile in my direction. An infectious greeting, and I found my own lips responded in kind.

  She helped carry a few lightweight items, but it was Stefan and I who did the legwork, trotting back and forth between the car and house with bags, boxes and bin liners stuffed with bedding. She arranged them neatly in the boot of her vehicle and on the passenger seats. She and Stefan hardly exchanged a word, other than his display of gratitude, which I duly repeated to her. Then, on one return trip, I glanced over my shoulder at them as they loaded the car.

  She winked at him, and he grinned. My heart thumped. She said something and he replied. I stomped into the house to pick up the last few things.

  Saying goodbye to Talia proved tough. She was moving out the next day, ready to hand over the keys to the new tenants. We hugged, exchanged a few words of kindness, and I trudged outside.

  Stefan waited by his car, Magda in hers, their little exchange finished. She intended to follow us to his house.

  The unloading repeated much of the features of loading. Magda contributed a token gesture in her heels and glamorous gear, while I charged in and out of the house, making sure I didn’t leave her alone with Stefan for one second. We dumped the bags and boxes in the middle of the living space, cluttering it up quickly. With the last box deposited, I panted, with my hands on hips, and Magda hovered, swinging her handbag.

  Stefan stepped u
p to her and gave his thanks, on behalf of us both. Magda, with the height afforded by her heels, pecked Stefan on his cheek. He turned pink, bowing his head.

  “Take care of yourself, my young Dom,” she murmured before clicking her heels in the direction of the car. “Good luck, you two,” she shouted over her shoulder as she opened the driver’s door. “Oh, Callie, do come to the salon. Discount rate for styling, pedicures, anything you fancy.”

  I waved, smiling, happy to see her go.

  Back in the house, surrounded by my piles of possessions, I wondered where it would all go. Stefan pounced. He threw himself at me, kissed my lips frantically and stuffed a hand up my T-shirt. If I’d had any fears about where his loyalties lay, he dispelled them briskly. Magda might have looked the glamorous part, but it was me Stefan wanted.

  We fucked over bin liners stuffed with duvets and pillows. Quite a comfortable nest, except the plastic proved noisy and it left my naked skin covered in a sweaty sheen. My inner thighs dripped with his semen and I giggled at my state. Stefan, panting, eased off me and lay across a bag of clothes. After a while, I calmed and pulled out a duvet, wrapping it around my shivering body. He remained on his side, resting on a bag, watching me with his gray eyes.

  “I’ve been such a fool,” I said. “You and Magda. I got a little jealous.”

  “Understandable. We have a long history. She knows me well. She is happy for me, for us. She admires you, I think.” He leaned over and took my hand. “Welcome to your new home, Mausi.”

  * * * *

  “We’ll split the bills, yes?” I announced over our first meal together. “I absolutely insist. I’m saving on rent. I shall contribute toward the food and heating.”

  “I work at home, so you don’t have to pay for me to keep my feet warm.”

  “The matter is closed.” I glared.

  He rolled his eyes in defeat.

  He had to teach, and, foolishly, I’d assumed he did it while I worked. However, his pupils were at school in the day, or working. Fortunately, five of seven students came after their school day finished and I was either working, or I crept into the house and hid in the mezzanine study. It afforded me the opportunity to observe him at work. The youngsters—his budding protégés—came with a parent in tow. A requirement, even though Stefan had had all the necessary criminal record checks done on him. He preferred that they stayed and ensured his young charges knew exactly what he expected of them as witnessed by their paying parent. After all, Stefan wasn’t cheap.

  I listened from above, pretending to read a book. He was the same hard taskmaster persona I knew from conducting. Four of his pupils were training to be singers. The other three he taught the piano. He coaxed them, not bullied. With a snap of his fingers, he stopped them in their tracks when they fluffed the notes or lost the rhythm, correcting each little mistake with a word or two of gentle criticism. Once the music flowed unhindered, he let them perform without interruption. I admired his ability to judge when to intervene and when to let his pupil find his or her own way.

  The two adults he taught on Tuesday evenings, one after the other. Again, I sneaked out of sight, not wanting to distract Stefan or his paying clients—a baritone and a soprano. I could hear the raw talent in their voices, waiting to be tamed and turned into professional quality. Just like his younger pupils, Stefan worked them hard and each lesson they progressed.

  I tingled when Stefan spoke to them. He used that delicious voice of his, which told them exactly what they had to do with courtesy and German-style directness. By the second lesson, I envied those two, especially when he sang duets with them. My eyes prickled with emotional tears, which I shuttered and kept unshed.

  When his last student left, I itched to play Nettie, as if some contagion lurked in the air, telling me to play. I assembled her and Stefan joined me without comment. Now I had my whole repertoire of music to hand, Stefan could accompany me on the piano. I played for pleasure, not to be critiqued, and Stefan demonstrated little interference. If I went wrong, we’d stop and pick up again. He neither tutored me nor played the role of a benign accompanist.

  I needed more, but I couldn’t tell him. Living with a fellow musician—watching Stefan play the piano with his eyes closed and a serene expression—had fully awoken the dormant musician in me. With Wi-Fi access, I browsed freely and without constraint. I revisited the websites of colleges and conservatoires, drawn to the syllabuses and entry requirements. The same itch that made me play Nettie now made me want to recapture my forgotten dreams. What had started as a faint idea on a train in Germany took greater shape.

  “What are you looking at?” he’d asked one evening.

  I’d adopted his iPad as my own.

  “Just music courses.” I’d tapped on the screen and kept my gaze on the website.

  He’d snorted. “Good.”

  That had been it. Nothing else. No curiosity about which, or whether I intended to apply. A dismissive comment with no substance. If my reading material pleased him, he kept it well hidden. He should have been delighted, egging me on, suggesting the best. I glanced across to where he sat, and he buried his face in a book, fidgeting with the pages.

  I didn’t want to leave him. Three years of study away from Cambridge and we’d just started our life together. I couldn’t bear the thought of being apart from him. The alternative—I opted for private tuition and took a diploma examination, which involved a recital and a written submission—came with issues. I’d need a good teacher to help me prepare and I had one, sitting right opposite me. Why was it so damn hard to ask? Because I’d told him to back off and my pride kept my lips pressed together.

  Another time, another day. When I was ready to have a new armchair critic, I would ask. Maybe.

  * * * *

  I woke the night before the concert in a suddenly anxious state. I blinked in the darkness, reached out to touch Stefan, but he wasn’t there next to me. I switched on a light then slipped on my robe.

  It had been over two weeks since I’d moved in with him and I’d adapted to my new life, the routines built around my work at the florist and his lessons. Occasionally, he’d withdraw from me, sit staring at the garden, tapping a finger on an armrest or humming to himself.

  We had sex almost daily. A joint thirst, which we never seemed to quench. I’d learned to be his, to give myself to him willingly. I had donned my miniskirts and removed my underwear, flashed my cleft whenever I bent over near him. He liked my signals, the swagger of my hips when I’d brush next to him.

  His dominance in the bedroom had remained steadfast and unyielding, but in other areas of life, he’d remained strangely mute and tight-lipped. If I’d asked for his opinion, he’d provided one, but otherwise, he hadn’t mentioned my career or future plans.

  From the top of the staircase, I spied him at the piano, playing silently. His fingers caressed the keys without pressing them down. I stood still, watching him as he noted things on a sheet of manuscript paper. Composing in the dead of night? Why? I didn’t want to disturb him and went back to bed.

  I lay for a while thinking about the concert. A sell-out. We would be performing in Great St. Mary’s church in the heart of the city, plenty of room for an orchestra by the choir and the audience in the nave. The program contained sufficiently popular pieces to draw in the crowds. I’d promised myself not to be nervous. It was proving to be a challenge.

  Perhaps because of my obvious nerves—the constant pacing and loss of appetite—on the Saturday morning, the day of the concert, Stefan insisted that I run through all my pieces one more time—in the nude. I resisted at first, but succumbed to the idea when he persuaded me it would finish off those last-minute concerns.

  It did me good and stripped away the residuals of my performance anxiety During the concert, I played to perfection, focusing on my part, those about me and Stefan’s baton. I bowed with others at the end, proud of my achievement and Stefan’s too. He’d worked wonders with us in such a short space of time.

>   After the concert, a large number of the orchestra met in a pub for drinks and toasted our success. We’d brought in a fine chunk of money, both for the orchestra’s own funds and for the nominated charity. The temptation to walk up to Stefan and kiss him had remained strong, but I’d held back. That evening wasn’t about personal revelations. I yearned to express myself to somebody, break out of our secrecy and divulge something of our relationship.

  When Fiona invited me out for drinks at a small wine bar, I snapped at the chance. We arranged to meet on the Tuesday evening after the concert, while Stefan taught, giving him privacy. She asked about him and, in my desperation to share with somebody, I motored on about him, indulgently.

  I might have spoken a great deal about sex.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “You’re obviously smitten with him,” Fiona pointed out.

  “Yeah.” I sniggered, fingering my half-drunk wine glass. “Can’t help it.”

  “And he is with you, like in love?” She pushed her drink to one side. She wasn’t smiling at my tittering.

  A coldness descended over me, wiping the grin off my face. “What are you trying to say?”

  “You’ve regaled me with this great sex life, Callie. But… Don’t you see? It’s Micah, all over again. Where’s the love? The sense of belonging?”

  I sat back in my chair, trying hard not to frown, angry with her for bursting my nice bubble. The last few weeks replayed in my mind and it was a reel of sexual images. Laughter, yes, good conversations, musical interludes, all these dispersed among sex. Boy, had we fucked a lot. I saw it now—what was missing had been Stefan affirming his love. He’d complimented me, spoken adoringly about my body and blossoming sexual skills, but love? Heck, I’d skimmed around it just as much as he had. I didn’t want to be suckered into another one-sided affair.