Page 21 of Serving the Maestro

She gasped and arched up as I took the hard bud into my mouth, scoring it with my teeth.

The sudden, harsh movement threatened our balance on the piano bench, the seat only built for one. I steadied us, gripping the bench with one hand, the top of the piano with the other.

“We should move this away from the piano,” I murmured.

“Ummm.”

Urging her off my lap, I stood. My cock protested painfully, and I shoved my palm against it with a grimace.

Jazz drew in a slow, uneasy breath.

I looked up to see her gaze on my groin—specifically, on my hand as I tried to adjust the uncomfortable fit of my jeans, my dick trying to punch a hole through the denim.

“Blue jeans weren’t made to accommodate an erection,” I said, stroking the flat of my palm down the front of my pants, watching her pupils dilate.

Her breasts trembled on the unsteady breath she hitched in, her eyes all but black now, the thin rim of purple-blue barely visible as the pupil swelled even larger.

Tempted as I was to take her hand and invite her to touch me right there, I knew if I did, I’d end up fucking her bent over the Steinway bench.

So I took her hand and led her to the bedroom down the hall.

Jazz went to the bed, her slim back to me as I stripped off my shirt, the elegant line of her spine tapering down to the waistband of her skirt.

“What’s on under the skirt, Jazz?”

She glanced over her shoulder at me, a sexy yet oddly sweet smile on her lips. “Panties. My boots. A pair of boot socks.”

“Boot socks?”

She arched a brow. “Know how uncomfortable knee-high boots can get without them?”

“I can’t say I’ve ever worn knee-high boots.” I approached, pleased when she didn’t turn to face me. Putting my hands on her waist, I stroked up, and cupped her breasts. “Maybe you should show me the boots, and the socks, give me an idea.”

Her breath came out on a raspy sigh.

Over her shoulder, I met her gaze in the mirror over the dresser, and smiled.

But I didn’t say anything about the mirror, or how she stared at my hands on her beautiful tits. “Can I see your boots?”

She nodded jerkily, but when she went to unzip the skirt, I caught her hands and nudged her forward until she was bent over the bed, her hands supporting her upper body. Taking a step back, I caught the hem of her skirt and worked it upward, still holding her gaze.

Once I had the skirt to her waist, I palmed her ass, the silken fabric of her panties no barrier.

“Stay right like that while I look at your boots.”

She shivered but said, “Okay.”

I could easily imagine that soft, throaty voice whispering, “Yes, master.”

But I didn’t need it, and that was a fucking shock. I was harder than I’d ever been, about ready to come, and she hadn’t even touched me.

Stepping back, I let my eyes take a leisurely tour of her body, the long lines of her back, the skirt rucked up around full hips, thighs clenched together and trembling, the boot socks reaching to just over her knees, a soft, blue with pink that matched her sweater while the shiny black boots provided a stark contrast.

“Nice socks,” I told her. “You’re right. I think you do need them. Even for this.”

I rubbed against her wet heat and felt her shudder. “You don’t need these, though.” I tugged on her panties and saw her slow nod.

I slid them down to just below her hips, let them linger where they gathered at her hips because I wanted to touch her, feel the soft silken wet heat that was her pussy.

---