Musical Beds (6 page)

“I’m fussy,” she said, producing the ring of latex and fitting it over the crown of Ben’s cock.

“I’m flattered, then,” he said. “And so am I. Fussy, I mean. Oh. Go easy!”

The rubber snapped into place and Ben grimaced.

“This is nice and thick,” said Vanessa, taking the base of the shaft in her fist. “I wonder what it’ll feel like inside me.”

“Only one way to find out,” said Ben, the words jerking from an increasingly agitated mouth.

She raised her hips and hovered over his straining cock, dropping tantalisingly every now and then, but never quite letting him inside.

“If you want it, you have to beg for it,” she told him, now in full Cleopatra mode—a goddess who took no prisoners.

“Oh, Van, Ness, Vanessa. Please, please, I want you.”

“Want what?”

“You, want to fuck you. Please, please, let me in.”

She took pity on him—and her own rampant desires, if she was honest—and slid herself down on the long, thick shaft.

Oh, at last.
Why hadn’t she missed this more? The memories were never as sharp, as keen, as penetrating, as the pleasure when it was present.

Controlling the pace and rhythm from the start, she moved into a slow bump and grind, letting her nipples brush against his chest. He felt so warm and, if she leant down low, she could feel his heart clamouring away.

She kissed his neck, kissed his face all over—then he caught her bottom lip with his teeth and forced her into a long, deep meeting of tongues that lasted all the time her arousal was building and building.

He moved his hands over her skin in a frenzy, now grabbing, now rubbing, until finally he landed on her bottom. He held her there, pushing her down, trying to dictate an upsurge in the pace of her thrusting hips.

She fell into a primitive beat, determined and single-minded, focused only on the orgasms that must come to them both. Her thigh and buttock muscles worked hard, driving her on, bringing the sensation up to the surface.

She came first, shutting her eyes against the forgotten ferocity of it, rising up on his pelvis, letting her breasts swing above him while she merged mind and body in that unique, sensual surrender.

Then she had no other mission but to give that same melting bliss to him, and she drove him forward, giving him no quarter, until his fingers sank into her skin and he gave a high-pitched cry, mimicking a sound of pain, but ending in a sweet breath of contentment and a sudden relaxation of every muscle.

She bent to kiss his sweat-beaded forehead, then removed him, with care, from her mildly stinging pussy and lay down by his side.

With a longer-established lover, now might be a time for companionable silence while their brains and bodies wound down from the peaks they had reached. But Vanessa did not feel she knew Ben well enough for that.

“Well, we did it,” she said, watching her chest rise and fall fast. “I wasn’t expecting my day to turn out like this.”

He made a snuffly sound, the closest thing to a laugh a man in his condition could manage.

“Me neither,” he said. He rolled onto his side and looked at Vanessa with such piercing tenderness that her cheeks flamed. “Glad it did, though.”

He laid his palm on her stomach and moved it slowly in a soothing circle around her navel.

“Me too.”

Now the silence came. The ‘who will set the agenda?’ silence.

“I suppose this makes me a cougar,” Vanessa said at last.

Ben snorted, shaking his head.

“Or a MILF. Except I don’t have any children. What happens when you fuck a MILF? Does she then become a MIF?”

“I hate those terms,” said Ben reprovingly. “So crude. You’re neither of those. You’re who you are. Vanessa. Gorgeous, sexy Vanessa.”

“People might call me a cougar, though.”

“People can shut their fucking yaps. They’d better not say it where I can hear them.”

“Oh, Ben.” She was touched by his defence of her. “Anyway, people only talk when there’s something to talk about.”

She flicked her gaze up at him, looking from underneath lowered lashes.

“What do you mean? Do you… Do you not want to…go on…with this?”

She reached up for him, hooked a hand at the back of his neck, pulled him down for a kiss of apology.

“I just wondered if you did,” she whispered afterwards.

“I don’t care what anyone says. I want this. More than anything.”

“Then I want it too.”

Chapter Five

Milan had asked her to wait for him in the Delius Arms, but Lydia had no desire to sit alone in a bar full of afternoon drinkers. Besides, it was a beautiful day, so she’d insisted on buying them a picnic lunch from Pret and sitting on the grass in the park instead.

While she waited, fending off exceptionally bold urban squirrels, she fretted. The trustees were going to fire Milan. If they didn’t, then they needed their heads examining. In the two weeks since his return, he’d made it to three rehearsals. The rest of the time had been spent either drinking or sleeping it off.

She’d tried everything she could think of to try to wean him off the bottle—promises, entreaties, threats. Eventually, the trustees had acted. It was going to be tough, but she could only pray that this might be the wake-up call he needed to put aside the alcohol and deal with his grief and guilt more productively.

Then maybe they could get back to the way they had been—or, at least, the way she had dreamt they would be. Looking back, it had never been perfect, but that day in Prague… Oh, the hopes she had let herself have. They had been so close to realisation. Surely there was still a chance?

She caught sight of his tall, lean figure loping along the path, looking around for her. She leapt up and waved, her heart thundering. How did he look? Angry? Devastated?

No. He seemed to have a spring in his step. Had he managed to bamboozle or enchant the trustees somehow?

“How was it?” she asked anxiously.

He sat down beside her and picked up the sandwich pack.

“Ah, crayfish, this is one of my favourites. Did you get crisps?”

“Milan! What happened?”

“Can we go to the Delius? Get a drink?”

“No. Please. Tell me what they said.”

“Okay. Well. They fired me.”

“Oh, Milan.” She put out her hand for his.

He squeezed it, but he was smiling.

“It’s not so bad. They offered me a deal.”

“Really? What?”

“I see a counsellor and they give me my first concert as a solo violinist.”

“What?”

“It’s true. I will play at the opening night of the Proms. Instead of the Thomas Tallis fantasia, we do
The Lark Ascending
, and I play it. Then I do the Elgar
Violin Concerto
. So, not so bad, huh?”

For a moment, Lydia was speechless. They had sacked Milan as conductor, yet given him an even dearer wish—one he had thought impossible to achieve at his age. It was both wonderful and mystifying.

“But I am orchestra leader again,” he clarified. “Leonard won’t be so happy.”

“And you’re going to do the counselling thing? Give up the booze?”

He shrugged.

“I’ll go to the sessions, I guess. The deal is too sweet to jeopardise. Lydia, this could be the start of my real career—the one I was meant for. International tours, recording deals. My God. It could all happen. I can’t fuck it up. Don’t let me fuck it up.”

“I’m here for you. You know I am.”

He pulled her close, kissing her while the squirrels frolicked on the sandwich packs. Eventually one jumped on her leg and they broke apart, laughing.

For a moment, the sun was dazzling, the blossom bright with promise. New beginnings were carried on the scented breeze.

“I guess you’ll be coming to rehearsal this afternoon then?”

“Of course. Better eat these sandwiches.”

* * * *

The rehearsal was interesting, to say the least. Not everyone was content with the trustees’ way of dealing with the Milan issue, but nobody dared comment.

Of more positive note was the speed with which they had managed to engage a new conductor. The gentleman in question was the musical director of the Bavaria Philharmonic, a certain Karl-Heinz von Ritter of some international renown, and he was expected in London as soon as his current contract had expired.

Afterwards, in the beer garden at the Delius Arms, Lydia, Vanessa, Ben and a couple of string players waited for Milan to get the round in at the bar.

“How the fuck did he swing that?” Martin, the viola player, directed his question at Lydia, who looked sheepish.

“You know what the trustees are like when it comes to Milan.”

“Too right,” said Vanessa. “It’s like a fatal attraction. They just can’t let him go. Well, he’d better not let them down, that’s all I can say.”

“Do you think he’ll come through?” asked Ben of Lydia.

Milan appeared at the door, bearing a tray of drinks, not one of which looked non-alcoholic.

“I hope so,” she said.

“So,” said Milan, distributing the beverages. “Who’s worked with Karl-Heinz von Ritter?”

He paused to look at Lydia, who had pinched her lips tight on catching sight of his double—or was it a triple?—brandy.

“What? Don’t look like that. This is a final fling, right? My last.”

“It has to be, Milan.” Lydia’s lips stayed pressed together as she tried to keep her frustrations in check.

“Hey, I am paying somebody to be my counsellor. You don’t have to do their job for them.” Milan’s famous inability to take criticism was in full force.

“I know, just…”

“Just nothing. Who are you, my…” He stopped, the word ‘mother’ still on his lips.

Everyone concentrated on their drink, especially Milan, who emptied half the glass in one gulp.

“So,” he said, somewhat aggressively this time, “von Ritter?”

“I haven’t worked with him myself,” said Vanessa, “but I have a friend in San Diego Philharmonic who has. Apparently, he has a nickname there. Herr Trigger.”

“Herr Trigger?” Ben snorted. “He’s got a bit of a temper then?”

“So I gather,” said Vanessa.

“That’s interesting,” said Milan, finishing the rest of his drink.

“Why?” Lydia felt a flutter of anxiety cross her heart.

“No reason. Anybody want another drink?”

“Milan…”

“Oh, relax. It’s the last time!”

Tactfully, making it look natural, the rest of the group found reasons why they couldn’t stay for another drink.

Lydia was so grateful to them it nearly brought tears to her eyes, especially when Vanessa bent to kiss her cheek and whispered, “You aren’t responsible for him, darling. Call me if you need to.”

Lydia watched her leave, wondering again whether there was something going on between Vanessa and Ben. No. Surely she’d have mentioned it.

“We could go home,” she said to Milan. “You’ll need to be up early tomorrow—so much practicing to fit in!”

“This is true.” He looked, with mild regret, at his empty brandy glass, then picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder. “And I have champagne in the fridge.”

Lydia scampered after him, wanting to remonstrate, but, before she could speak, Milan had collided with a glamorous blonde woman in the doorway, causing her to spill the bottle of slimline tonic she was carrying.

“Shit, forgive me… Sarah, right?” said Milan. “Let me get you another.”

“No, it’s fine. Don’t worry,” said the harpist, smiling in a way that caused Lydia’s hackles to rise. “I don’t like too much tonic in my gin anyway.”

He twitched his lips. Lydia knew what that meant.
I know you fancy me and I’m going to play up to it.

“You’re sure?”

“Quite sure. And congratulations, by the way. You so deserve a shot at a solo career.”

“Thank you.”

Lydia cleared her throat.

“I’ll see you at rehearsal,” he said, moving on again.

Lydia tried to say nothing about it, steeling her resolve not to snipe and make digs like a bitter, jealous person would.

“She is a good player,” said Milan. “You are not friends?”

“We haven’t really spoken.”

“Why don’t you talk to her? She is new. You could be friends.”

Lydia took a breath and stopped the words that sprang into her head from reaching her throat.
If you think you can get me to agree to a ménage setup with her, think again.

“You can’t force it,” she said neutrally.

“I guess.”

When they arrived at his Barbican flat, Milan’s first move was to head for the fridge and remove the bottle of champagne.

“Milan.” Lydia hated the plaintive note of her voice. Was this how it had to be? Her as the joyless voice of moderation, him as her surrogate pupil or child? No, thanks. She wasn’t responsible for him—it was true.

“What?” The cork popped and he ran around the kitchen, bottle in hand, looking for glasses. “I don’t get to celebrate?”

She decided to try a different tack.

“There’s more than one way to celebrate.”

He turned from the cabinet to raise an eyebrow at her. His lips curved into a slow smile.

“I’m sorry,
miláčku
. I haven’t been the best lover lately. But all that can change. Let’s take this to bed.”

She shrugged off her denim jacket and slung it over a chair before advancing slowly, hand on hip, towards him.

“Put that down,” she said softly, placing a finger on his cheek.

He put the bottle on the floor and slid his hands down her back, bringing them to rest on her bottom in its thin cotton chinos.

“Yes, ma’am,” he whispered.

She opened her palm and let it travel along his jawbone and beneath his chin, settling on his elegant, curved neck, fingers crooking around and pressing into his nape.

“Why would I want to taste champagne when I can taste you?” she said.

He bent his forehead to touch hers.

“This is good counselling,” he said, then he caught her in a kiss, brandy-scented and spicy, yet also warm and sweet.

He pulled her tightly into him and the glasses juddered in the cabinet behind while they tried to make handprints on every part of each other. She hurled herself into the kiss, putting every reserve of energy into the clash of tongues, wanting to show him how deeply, how fully she cared for him.