Page 19 of Serving the Maestro

Her hands trembled as she went to unbutton her bright pink jacket, but I caught her hands, and nudged them down.

“Let me.” Lowering my head, I took her mouth as I unbuttoned her jacket, then stripped it away.

I’d meant to slow things down. Take off her jacket, seduce her with kisses and caresses, control the pace now that I had her in my place, confident I would quickly have her naked under me.

But she rose onto her toes and pressed a kiss to the side of my neck, hands coming up to grip my waist.

Darker urges pushed aside thoughts of seduction. I dropped her jacket, all but tore mine off before grabbing her hips and boosting her up. Placing her against the door, I went to nudge her legs apart, but her straight skirt stopped me.

Holding her eyes, I reached down, and fisted one hand in the fabric. She sucked in a breath, barely breathing as I tugged it upward. “Can I?”

“Yes.” She licked her lips and nodded. “Yes, please, fuck, yes.”

I used both hands, desperate to feel the silken softness, and once I had her skirt out of the way, I moved between her thighs, the heat there threatening to destroy the little control I had left.

It was insane.

I never lost control.

I broke the kiss and eased back.

The hot glitter of frustrated lust in her eyes almost brought me back to her. Before putting more distance between us, I stroked my hands down her arms, and eased her skirt down.

“I’m rushing this, and I've lost my manners? Would you like some wine?”

She hesitated more than a second. “Yes.”

Despite my overwhelming desire to continue, I turned away and scooped up our discarded jackets. After a brief pause to hang them on the coat tree, I led her to the kitchen.

The tap-tap-tap of her heeled boots marked her progress through the apartment. I breathed a sigh of relief that she hadn’t bolted.

“Red or white?”

“Ah...white, please.”

After pouring each of us a glass, I led her to the grand piano in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, the setting sun over Manhattan as a backdrop.

I didn’t turn on the lights.

Sitting at the piano, I put the glass of wine down and met her gaze. She leaned against the gleaming black Steinway, a smile on her lips.

“Are you going to play for me?” she asked.

In answer, I put my hands on the keys. The feel was familiar, welcome. For months, I’d been fighting to find a way to spark the creative drive that fired my songwriting.

All afternoon there had been a melody dancing in my head. I let it flow, the music winding around us.

The piece was short, less than two minutes.

When it ended, I flowed into another, looking up to see a rapt expression on Jazz’s face.

“What was that one, the one you just played?”

“I’m not sure yet.” I gave a half shrug. “I’m still playing with it.” I thought about telling her that our afternoon had played some part in it and decided against it.

I had every intention of getting her into my bed, but I didn’t want to use flattery or anything else to get her naked.

She edged closer, her lashes shielding her eyes, lips curved in a half-smile.

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