Song of Seduction

by Carrie Lofty

  A mixed wave of relief and stupid, persistent curiosity thawed the ice freezing her heart. “Then you must refrain from revealing to me your age. Ever.”

  “Perhaps I am twenty and you are my older woman.” He kissed her collarbone and the receptive notch at the base of her throat. Her pulse fluttered in response.

  “On one hand, you try and reassure me,” she said, half-serious. “On the other hand, you mock my jealousy.”

  “You said before…I have talented hands.”

  “No, I mean you are honest and a tease, both. I cannot keep pace.”

  Arie raised his head from her collarbone, just when she had been certain his mouth’s next destination was the tip of one impatient breast. “Tilda, I tease about trivia.”

  She indulged in a sulk. “The number of lovers you have taken is hardly trivial.”

  “It is when I have you.”

  His lips silenced any further indignant protests, claiming her with a kiss that shattered her understanding of language and time. Only the delicious, warm pressure of his mouth existed. His tongue glided past her half-formed rebuttal. Mathilda’s body clambered nearer to the source of that heady seduction. Poised above and around, Arie answered with a rhythm she wanted to learn. Lust like pagan drums beat hard and staccato beneath her skin. Ligaments and muscles dissolved into molten pools.

  A heartbeat later, Arie ended their intimate dance. He whispered against the responsive curves of her lips. “Now, where were we?”

  “Good question.”

  “Ah, yes. You have trouble…counting.” He wiggled his eyebrows like a ninny. Mathilda laughed. The tension he had created eased away from its precipice. It remained, yes, but quiet and waiting. “Do you think every man is aroused by the same sights? The same touches?”

  She grinned and ran a hand across the solid curve of his shoulder. “My experience in comparing lovers is relatively new, you know.”

  “Consider it.”

  He petted the underside of her breasts, his fingers never stroking the peaks that begged for his touch. Mathilda inhaled deeply. Her expanding lungs lifted and displayed her nude bosom. With a rush of feminine awareness, she watched Arie’s eyes widen.

  “Jürgen was not…talkative about these matters.”

  “Let us overlook your departed for a moment.” He plucked a taut nipple between his thumb and forefinger, twisting and pulling with delicate precision. Mathilda gasped as a flood of pleasure thickened her blood. When Arie did not release her from that tender, decadent torture, she met his frank stare. “For example,” he said, “I like biting.”

  She squeaked. “Biting? You or me?”

  “You. On me. Do not draw blood, my dear—at least not where anyone will see.”

  “You cannot be serious.”

  “Oh, I am,” he whispered. “I am hard just thinking about your teeth on me.”

  He dragged her fingers to his groin before she could object. Reflexively, boldly, she clutched his rigid heat to test its firm resilience. Arie hissed. Now he was the captive.

  “May I?” Her grin felt as wicked as any Arie might have conjured.

  “Please,” he whispered.

  He begged for her after all.

  The urgent pulse of Arie’s blood surged beneath her hand. The surprising size of him, the vigor and hard potency, told of her inexperience. Despite the differences between her two lovers, Mathilda had not thought they would be so varied everywhere. Her innocence made her blush—an innocence she abandoned by squeezing him again, focusing on his straining pleasure. There, captured by her grip, she suspected that he would agree to anything she asked.

  She wanted to eat him alive.

  That agonizing thought had plagued her throughout the evening, every time she observed the square set of his shoulders, recognized the restless way his eyes hunted for hers, or acknowledged the magnetism of their attraction. She had imagined teeth on bare skin, and now, Arie begged for it.

  Oblivious to the fears that had stolen her desire, Mathilda released his erection and smiled at the whimper of protest lodging in his throat. A rush of power assailed her unlike any she had ever experienced. No other thrill rivaled the adventure of arousing, teasing, unsettling this remarkable man.

  Pushing his shoulders, urging him to lie flat on the mattress again, Mathilda became an explorer. Arie’s body became her wild territory—his neck, his chest, his taut stomach and its tempting streak of sand-colored hair. She reveled in the taste of his sinewy physique, using her tongue to discover the places that made him clench or laugh or sigh.

  When the stubborn barrier of uncomfortable shyness receded, she replaced her tongue with her teeth. Tiny welts appeared where she bit and grazed and tortured. The barest sheen of sweat slicked his torso, urging her to taste yet again. Voracious for those biting caresses, Arie threaded fingers through the loose tendrils of her hair, pulling her closer still. His breath became an endless chorus of hisses and heavy exhales.

  With a jagged curse, the meaning of which was plain despite the foreign syllables, Arie flung her back. Dazed, suddenly beneath him, she caught sight of his wide and wild eyes.

  Breathing at an unhealthy pace, Arie said, “Stop now.”

  “Too much?” She touched a crescent-shaped mark on his biceps.

  “I have resolve, schatje. But unless you want that only I am pleasured, you must stop.”

  With obvious relish, Arie pulled one hand and then another above her head, clasping both wrists and pinning her with the weight of his body. The flesh of her breasts stretched and flattened, but her nipples remained eager, reaching toward the source of her satisfaction.

  She should have been scared. Maybe ashamed. Or reluctant. Instead, Mathilda passed the mere preliminaries of arousal. She grew desperate for the feel of him, especially within the hollow of her private, demanding core.

  Arie was only her second lover, but already she recognized the effective simplicity of his technique. In February, he had kissed and sucked her thighs until every facet of her awareness focused on the place he had not yet claimed. Now, he seduced her in all but the same sequence. He played and delayed, driving her to the brink of sanity with his erotic, frank talk and idle touches—until Mathilda could think of nothing but what remained.

  The act itself.

  The anticipation that had doused her excitement was working strong magic, thrilling her with the possibility of completion.

  “Now we know what the Hollander likes,” he said. “Your turn, Tilda.”

  “I touch myself.”

  She clamped her mouth shut, but the words had already flown free. Arie’s almost comical reaction was instantaneous. Despite her mortification, she smiled at his dilated stare, his flared nostrils and the involuntary flex of his pelvis. The hard rod of his erection pressed along the flesh of her belly. The hand holding her prisoner gripped a little tighter, as if his body unconsciously feared an inevitable retreat.

  Maybe that knowledge had propelled Mathilda’s honest words past her embarrassment. She loved Arie De Voss, and this excruciating, renewed initiation to their lovemaking was very necessary. She voiced the forbidden because their intimate conversation urged her on. She was having fun. Watching him melt with a few choice words gave her such an unimaginable thrill. And if those awkward words helped prove her intention to stay, then all the better.

  “I became discouraged, witnessing how satisfied Jürgen was when he…”

  Arie cocked an eyebrow. “…reached number ten?”

  “Exactly. One night after he fell asleep, I just…continued where he stopped.”

  He groaned, a strangled sound. “Tilda, you will do me damage.”

  “I knew I should not have said—”

  “Oh, no. Do not stop. In fact, you may require this.”

  He released her right hand. A tingle of blood returned to the freed limb, accentuating the unreal sensation of Arie’s fingers entwining with hers. Together they explored her damp core. Talking proved far more difficult than doing, she
realized, as practiced reflex overcame her inhibitions. She cupped her mound. Her middle finger worked of its own accord, gathering a touch of aroused liquid before deftly manipulating her most sensitive nub.

  Arie’s breath became tangled and harsh. He removed his hand and raised his hips slightly, allowing her room enough to touch and surge—and permitting him an unobstructed view. He took the tip of a breast into his mouth and, after a gratifying tremor, Mathilda timed the strokes of her fingers to match the sucking, pulsing cadence of his tongue.

  He raised his head and watched the play of her fingers. Whispering against her areola, he said, “Beautiful.”

  “Enjoying the show?”

  “You hurt me, Tilda.”

  She heard him, but his enthralled expression and the compulsive grind of his hips revealed the answer too. She never would have thought herself capable of staging such an unabashed display. But his steady, enthralled gaze drove her higher. She thrived on her need to perform for him.

  “What did you think about on those nights, when you touched yourself?”

  “You,” she whispered.

  “No.”

  “Of course, I did. I remembered you from the concert, how passionate you were for your music. I imagined that passion for me.”

  “Godallemachtig, no wonder you were so skittish.” He turned his attention to her other breast. “Afraid I will not live up to your fantasies?”

  “Silly, wasn’t I?”

  “A little. Flattering. And intimidating.” His teeth grazed her nipple and then tugged. “How am I doing?”

  Mathilda replied with a wordless moan. The pulse of her fingers increased.

  “Goed. Now that we revealed the details of your extensive sexual history—”

  “Arie!”

  “—can we go back to the biting and touching?”

  “I am touching.”

  “I see that, clever girl,” he rasped.

  Parting her legs with his knees, he levered himself between her thighs. Mathilda hardly noticed his new, more aggressive embrace. She focused on the gathering tension and trembling heat emanating from the steady, rhythmic circles she dashed over and over.

  When Arie pressed just the tip of his swollen glans into her welcoming body, she knew how close they were to fulfillment. Both of them. Satisfaction beckoned. Her greedy bundle of engorged nerves jumped and pulsed, demanding more—harder pressure, faster strokes, a more vigorous tempo. She acquiesced mindlessly, reaching.

  With his body braced on a forearm, Arie guided taut, measured thrusts with his other hand, gentling the tip of his shaft in and out. Mathilda craved the solid strength of his body against hers. She needed the full length of his erection, plunging and demanding. She wanted only what he intentionally withheld.

  The maddening anticipation—waiting and wanting—became the key, opening her to the reckless release of a shuddering, gasping climax.

  Arie snatched her hand from between their hips and replaced her palm with the hard power of his shaft. Moderation and restraint disappeared. The maddening bliss of Mathilda’s orgasm throbbed and raced along her nerves as he buried himself within her slick, clenching depths and rode her to a quick, breathless finish. She returned to an awareness beyond her own pleasure just when Arie collapsed on top of her, spent and smiling.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Arie awoke to a paradise resplendent enough for the likes of saints and angels. What was he doing in such a place?

  Enjoying every instant.

  He simply savored the warmth and solace of his lover’s careless, gratified hold. They had fallen asleep together, enclosed in a gentle parody of the last moments of their lovemaking. On his stomach, he stretched along Mathilda’s side with a thigh nestled between hers. She remained prostrate with one leg crooked around his lower back. Her heel nestled in the divot at the top of his buttocks. His left arm had fallen asleep beneath his torso; his right looped her waist. He assessed every limb and angle behind closed lids, marveling at the sensations of peace and softness enveloping him.

  When Arie opened his eyes, darkness obscured their intimate scene. The candles had burned to waxy nubs. He wanted to look at Mathilda, to study her curves and the textures of her skin. He wished to watch her contented sleep. But because shadows refused to relinquish any hint of her appearance, he contented himself with the luscious feel of her.

  Content. Did a more powerful word exist? Not in Dutch, in German or Italian, in French or Magyar, could Arie describe the sensation of awakening with Mathilda. He existed in a moment for which he had no vocabulary. Content would have to suffice, although the word sounded inconsequential when compared to his wonder.

  Fear snaked quickly behind, poisoning his happiness. What right did he have to such bliss when he had achieved his ends through lies and theft? How could he enjoy such an evening and anticipate a lifetime of Mathilda’s love if he yet lived under the specter of his mistakes?

  He needed to tell her the truth.

  No, he needed to hide the truth, lest he watch his career and her regard crumble to naught.

  Choices weighed on him, punishing him for a crime no one else knew he had committed.

  Arie eased from atop Mathilda, pulling free of her unconscious embrace. In darkness, he awkwardly retrieved a nightshirt before exiting the bedroom. He lit a candle from embers in the woodstove and padded on bare feet to the window behind his pianoforte. On Getreidegasse below, no one stirred. An occasional nocturnal creature scurried from shadow to shadow, but otherwise the city slept in the cool comfort of a spring night.

  Restless and far removed from the peace he had enjoyed only moments before, he paced the short breadth of the studio. Back and forth, the single candle flame cast distorted silhouettes of his agitation on the walls.

  His muse, his lover—she had purged the terrors of her heart, freeing herself from the circumstances of her birth and mistakes inspired by fear. She slept satisfied and free of burdens. And although she had not said as much, he was certain of her love.

  Arie could claim no easy certainty about his own feelings. He had fallen in love easily. No experience from his past warned him to proceed otherwise, to stand firm against her allure. She had broken through his reticence, pulling him into a place of sunshine with her music, her regard, her eyes. How could he have resisted that magic when loving her felt like breathing again? Why should he have resisted?

  He understood now.

  He caught sight of the parchment concealing the surface of his worktable, among which lay the composition they had created together. The motif she had dredged from her soul in those diminishing moments of grief remained at the movement’s heart. He had merely provided the structure and accompanying harmonies. The window-dressing, he thought.

  They had engraved every facet of their fresh, untested love in the cryptic symbols of music, yet he could not accept her suggestion. He had worked for tedious months to prove his capacity to write his own symphony. Finally. A large portion of his character took no interest in its eventual reception or success, but he wanted to hear an orchestra perform the blasted thing. He yearned to offer a testament to the talent everyone believed he possessed.

  Frustrated, as violence rose up through his limbs, Arie sagged at the piano bench. He wanted to pound and smash those taunting keys. He wanted a din to erase the melodies he had not created—and the ones for which he took credit. He wanted punishment for the lies echoing through his brain, stealing his happiness.

  What would she think of him if he did not prove to be the composer she believed? What would he feel, seeing her happy confidence and unflagging admiration dim to nothingness? The sloppy, colorless decades he had lived without her stretched into an unimaginable life of regret and loneliness.

  He fingered the keys in a silent performance of “Mathilda’s Movement.” He depressed each sliver of ivory to the point of feeling its hammer touch a corresponding string. No sound. No inspiration. Very little hope.

  “Arie?”

  Math
ilda stood at his side, wrapped in the tangle of bedclothes. Candlelight burnished her bird’s nest of brown tangles. Wordlessly, he made room for her on the bench and, spineless coward that he was, he waited for her to make a move.

  “I did not expect to wake up alone,” she said.

  In a fair world, Mathilda Heidel would never wake up alone. She would begin each conscious moment wrapped in the loving arms of a man who deserved her.

  “Come back to bed, mein Lieber.” She leaned closer, kissing him on the shoulder. “How you endured my abandonment through those weeks, I’ll never understand. But I love you, Arie. I promise you have nothing to fear from me anymore.”

  If his heart could shatter in his chest, his would have broken upon hearing her aggrieved words. He had spent the last hour fretting about his deceptions and injustices, while her first thought upon awakening in an empty bed was to blame herself for his withdrawal.

  I love you, Arie.

  She had said the words. But he could not believe her.

  The deepest center of his loathing had deserved the pain of her wordless rejection in February. Her desertion had been just. Appropriate. He had missed her with a vicious yearning, but never once had he blamed her for leaving. And he could not allow her to believe such a thing now. He would not have Mathilda slip into the realm of doubt that marred her past.

  He took her icy hands and brought their foreheads together. To any observer, their silhouettes might have revealed two people in the midst of a furtive, tender conversation, their faces near enough to kiss.

  “I cannot sleep. That is all.”

  She traced her hands across his hair, a calming, civilizing gesture he had come to enjoy. “Something troubles you, I know.”

  “My symphony,” he said dismissively. But he hated the rancid taste of that half-truth.

  Shyly, yet with the determination he so admired, Mathilda smiled. “Then you will listen to my idea. Accept that your symphony is complete and come back to our bed.”

  Our bed.