Undone, Volume 2 (17 page)

“Sucking you.”

Say what now? All alert
attentiveness, I bent down closer to her mouth. Had she just said
what I thought she’d said? Her eyes were completely closed.

“Never thought I’d
wanna do a blowjob. But I wanna blow you.”

Out like a light. Drop
the mic, she’d left the building.

Well. Quite the way for
her to finish off the day.

Now my cock was hard as
a goddamned rock, practically hammering at the seam of my jeans. She
wanted to give me a blowjob? I almost wondered if I’d made that up,
some fiction of my fantasy life taking over reality. But, no, I was
pretty sure she’d actually said it. I’d been sitting on the couch
thinking rather tame thoughts, content holding her in the firelight
and reminiscing about a moment from my childhood. She was the one
with the dirty mind.

Now my mind caught
right up with hers. The thought of her perfect lips descending on my
cock. She’d be shy about it, but she’d have that eagerness, too.
I could picture her kneeling between my legs, her wide,
toffee-colored eyes looking up at me as she took me into her mouth.
Jesus, it would feel like heaven. My own eyes closed as I imagined
it, the warmth, the pressure, the way she’d lick me. Fuck. How had
she managed to fall asleep with that coming out of her mouth? I bet
she didn’t even realize she was talking out loud.

Nice to know her mind
ran as nasty as my own when we were together. I enjoyed my small
glimpse into unfiltered Ana. What else did she think about doing with
me? I had a long list with her.

You know what was
funniest about the moment, though? I guessed she and I were both
having a first. She’d been snuggling into me, falling asleep,
having an unfiltered moment with sex on her mind. I guess I was the
first man she’d ever wanted to go down on. There was a God.

What got me, though,
was the fact that she was the first woman I’d ever wanted to just
sit on the couch with. Don’t get me wrong, I wanted to fuck her and
fuck her long and hard. I wanted her up against the wall and over the
couch and tied to the bed for hours at a time. I wanted to fuck her
so hard she’d have trouble walking, shoot come so deep inside her
she’d see stars. I wanted it rough, wild, driving, pounding into
her like an animal.

But I also wanted to
sit with her on the couch. Her body resting gently against me, she
slept, trusting and sweet. The fire crackled, a giant clock over the
mantle ticked, and I felt an entirely strange sensation. No roar of
the crowd, no hype from my PR team, no pressure from groupies or band
mates or photographers. Just me and Ana. Time stretched out. And for
an impatient man, always climbing from one peak to the next, seeking
the spotlight, center of attention, I had a unique feeling. For once
in my life, with Ana sleeping on my chest, I wanted the moment to
last.

§

The next morning, Ana
woke rosy and early, clearly with no memory of her over-sharing the
night before. I still remembered it, with a deep ache in my balls,
but I didn’t say anything. I knew I’d find the right time to do
something about it, though. I couldn’t let her fantasies go
unrealized, now could I?

I’d carried her into
the bedroom and we’d slept together, entwined. For a man who never
shared his bed, it came easy with Ana. I woke with my arm around her
in a protective circle, her ass against my engorged cock.

She didn’t seem to
realize my state, though. Or if she did, she chose to go librarian on
me and hop out of bed. There was Paris outside the window. I
understood her excitement. The sun shone on the streets, calling us
outside.

“Ash!” she
exclaimed, hopping up and down. “Croissants!”

“Pain au chocolat,”
I smiled at her, telling my boy to settle down. My girl had a city to
explore, and apparently some baked goods to enjoy. Patience. He’d
have his moment in the sun. Lots of them, if I had my way.

We spent the day
ambling along, letting ourselves get pulled into a mixture of classic
tourist attractions and random storefronts, basically anything that
caught our eye. The Musee d’Orsay, a shoe store, Notre Dame
cathedral, a chocolate shop, the Eiffel tower. We stopped for café
au laits and, once the afternoon turned long, glasses of Bordeaux.

The bar we found was a
little hole-in-the wall. The ancient bartender looked to be about 80
and he still used the black swiping machine for my credit card, with
the raised numbers pressing into the purple ink on the paper. I
couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen one of those things.

We found a quiet table
in a corner, just the two of us in the Parisian night.

“I have to confess
something.” Ana leaned in to me. My dick remembered a confession
she’d made last night. I didn’t say that, though, I merely leaned
in to listen. “I just realized wine types are named after actual
regions in France.”

“Yeah,” I nodded.
“Bordeaux is on the coast.”

“And Burgundy and
Champagne. They’re places!”

“I want to take you
to all of them.” It had been years since I’d been in the French
countryside. I’d lived in England for a few years after my parents
divorced, with my grandmother. She’d taken us around the continent,
as she called it, making us visit churches in obscure towns. I’d
sulked and dragged my feet like a typical 13-year-old boy, too cool
for school. Tours had taken me back through France, of course, but
not to Bordeaux.

And I’d love to take
Ana to Provence. We could rent an estate for a few weeks, just us. We
could break in every room in the house, plus a lot of those places
had extensive grounds. There’d be all sorts of hidden groves and
alcoves where I could fuck her and fuck her again.

“Do you see what I
see?” Ana gave me a mischievous smile and nodded her head behind
her. Another place where we could fuck?

“What?” I asked, my
eyes not leaving her face. For all the sights to see in Paris, she
was my favorite. And it wasn’t just because I’d been to Paris
before. Ana pulled me in like a magnet, her radiance, her excitement.
She might be the first person who really helped me understand the
phrase ‘beautiful inside and out.’ She was definitely making me
think some pretty over-the-top thoughts. Even two weeks ago I would
have rolled my eyes at a sap like me, mooning over his girl. Who he
hadn’t even slept with. There it was again, on my mind, fucking. I
took a sip of my wine.

“They have a piano!”

She was right, tucked
in a corner by a window, they had an old but gorgeous upright.
Everything in Paris looked old but gorgeous, even this tiny,
hole-in-the-wall bar. Narrow and simple, there was almost nothing to
it. No celebrity DJs or signature drinks served by sexy waitresses or
VIP rooms admitting only a select few. This bar was all
understatement, but the more you sat the more you noticed the rich,
subtle details. The gilded frames on the ancient paintings and
mirrors on the walls, the carved wooden legs on the bar stools, the
burnished gleam of the polished brass lamps. And they had a piano.

“Should we?” She
looked at me, all impish delight. As if anyone could say no to that.

“Let’s do it.” I
knew I was risking some exposure going over and playing piano. I’d
relished our time in Paris; thus far I’d only noticed a handful of
people recognizing me. And it had been the harmless type, families on
vacation over the holidays, usually one of the daughters’ or moms’
eyes going wide when they realized who I was. But they weren’t on
the hunt, they didn’t have professional cameras trained in with
zoom lenses, and Ana and I had successfully ducked them all. Pure
heaven.

“May we?” Ana asked
the bartender who was busy doing not much at all behind the bar.
There weren’t many patrons, but he hadn’t been overly solicitous
with us. Or solicitous at all, really.

He shrugged. “Bien
sur.” But of course we could play piano. I loved the French.
Simultaneously embracing the pleasures of life while also
acknowledging the fleeting nature of it all, the balance of “la vie
en rose” with a dash of ennui.

Me, I was a more simple
guy. I knew what I wanted and I liked to indulge. Right now, I wanted
to sit next to my girl and play piano.

We sat together on the
bench and it was all so easy, our fingers finding the keys, in sync
as we noodled around. Then she found a melody and I followed, a
lilting tune I didn’t think I’d heard before.

“You make that up?”
I asked her.

She shook her head.
“Not really. It’s a Russian folksong my parents used to sing to
me.”

“Sounds like more
than that.” Her fingers played and danced along the keys, giving it
twists and twirls, fanciful and light.

“I’ve added on.”

She was so modest. I
wondered if she even knew how talented she was. So many people I
knew, famous in the music industry, could barely play a note. A
camera-ready face, a hot body, sexy dance moves and an active social
media following went a long way to promoting your music career. Where
vocals failed, auto-tuners could correct, and professional
songwriters and studio musicians could always be hired in cheap to
fill the gaps. Ana’s technical expertise and lyrical creativity
really blew me away.

I took her melody and
blended it into something I was working on, morphing it and
transitioning it into the chords I kept hearing over and over in my
head. It really stuck with me, this theme, and I knew it was going
somewhere but I didn’t know how it would come out, yet. She heard
it and joined in, recognizing it from what we’d played together in
Santa Clara. She read it as easily as if she had sheet music with it
in front of her, yet her eyes were closed. She felt it, the same way
I did. Something moved inside my chest, something that had lain
dormant my whole life. I looked at her by my side, so lost in the
music. I was lost in her.

“Oh! Look! It’s
started snowing!” She’d opened her eyes, looked out the window,
and it was true. Fat, lazy flakes came drifting down out of the sky,
a perfect accompaniment to our evening. Unhurried, languorous,
enjoying their spectacular moment in free fall.

“Oh, the weather
outside is frightful,” I couldn’t help but begin singing,
quietly, just to Ana. It was only three days after Christmas. Holiday
songs could still be sung. By the time I got to the chorus, Ana
joined me, looking up with a full smile on her face.

“Let it snow, let it
snow, let it snow.” Oh, man, she had a lovely voice, too, just like
the rest of her. Sweet and soft, she sounded like a classic crooner
from the 1950s, melting hearts with her candied notes.

A few more people came
into the bar as we sang, but I didn’t mind. This was too much fun
to worry about getting spotted. I couldn’t remember the last time
I’d had fun like this. Connor and I used to mess around with music
together, him on bass and me on guitar or piano, but we hadn’t in
who knew how long. It had been practice, perfect, perform, driving
hard into the next show, for a couple of years now. Those early days
of exploring and creating, getting a spark and fanning it into a
flame, that hadn’t happened together for a while. I hated to admit
it, but we’d even cribbed a few songs from a ghostwriter for our
last album. I’d made sure they were well-compensated for their
work, but it wasn’t the same.

But now wasn’t the
time for feeling guilty and reflecting on how I’d failed to live up
to my own musical standards over the past couple of years. Now was
the time to sit next to my girl and sing, our fingers playing over
the keys.

That song ended, and I
started up the familiar notes to another holiday song. She smiled up
at me and picked up my cue like we’d been doing this together for
years. With a shy, sexy lilt to her voice, she started in.

“I really can’t
stay.”

“Baby it’s cold
outside.”

“I’ve got to go
away.”

“Baby it’s cold
outside.”

We flirted through the
lyrics, her demure and resistant to my relentless seduction. We were
speaking other’s words, but they rang out real and true.

“I ought to say no,
no, no sir.” She shook her head, an adorable pout on those luscious
lips.

“Mind if I move in
closer.” I gave her a slow smile and did just that, our thighs
pressed together, the heat traveling right through our clothes into
each other. Did she know how husky she was making her voice, how
perfectly sexy she sounded? She was like a pro, giving all that
emotion into her vocals. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was
getting turned on. Wait, was she?

“Ooh, baby, you’re
so delicious.” Her skin, so soft and smooth. She obviously had
packed herself for this trip, no slinky silver numbers tonight, but
she still looked so good in a simple Henley t-shirt with a few
buttons undone at the top. Yes, I could start with kissing her there.
Then at the hotel, I could slip the shirt all the way off.

“Well, maybe just one
little kiss more.” She gave me a flirtatious wink and I nearly fell
off the piano seat. Did she know what she was doing to me? I somehow
made it to the final line of the song without tearing my fingers off
the keys and sinking them into her.

We chorused, “Baby
it’s cold outside!” smiling at each other as we did it. And then,
then I sank down to her, one hand at the back of her head, the other
around her slim waist, and I kissed her like I’d never kissed
anyone before. I drank her in, sweeter than anything I’d ever
tasted, my favorite drug. I could feast on her all night long.

Applause rose up around
us, cheers too, and I realized we had an audience. She slowly did,
too, though she seemed as rapt in our kiss as me, and we only
reluctantly loosened our embrace to turn our heads and see.

At least 15 people
stood around us, half of them with camera phones up and in action.
Snapping pictures, capturing it all on video. We’d just put on a
show.