Sebastian’s manager pounded on his dressing room door; the beating of his fisted hands became percussion to the song Sebastian played on and on—bluesy and throbbing, sexual and haunting. The melody alternately cajoled and demanded, seduced and enchanted.
Gifted, he was the current darling of the concert world. Radical and unorthodox, he was just as likely to play Black Sabbath as Paganini; he was a rock star in a world of staid classical musicians.
As he played, his fingers ached. The blood within them pulsed, as if wanting to burst free of his skin and flow, crimson, down his hand. His arm was numb though it flew, carrying the bow over the strings, frantically ricocheting back and forth, wringing the notes from his instrument. He caressed the fingerboard, touching it the way some men would a woman’s flesh. The Guarnerius violin was his muse’s favorite. When he played it, he felt her near.
He ignored the knocking on his door and disregarded the cries of his name—Sebastian . . . Lachance . . . Sebastian . . . Lachance. Girls shouted from the alley below—fans waiting by the stage door, their nubile young bodies pressed to his sleek black Rolls Royce as if the chrome and metal held a piece of him.
It was always the same, in every city, after every performance.
Tonight, he’d played his music and left his admirers screaming for more. He’d kissed a few groupies as he left the stage. He’d accepted the flowers, the panties, and the hotel keys. He’d even signed a few autographs and posed for pictures with a charming old woman from Milan and her moon-faced daughter. What more did they want?
Come. Come. Come, he thought now, closing his eyes, pushing visions of his manager, the concert, and his fans out of his mind; his muse would never come if he concentrated on anything other than her.
He played louder, drowning out the frantic knocking and the chanting outside by pressing his bow harder into the strings, dragging it closer to the bridge so the violin screamed. The sound filled his head and vibrated against his shoulder. Soon, he forgot everything but his need and his music.
He was desperate, hungry, and half-crazed. He’d do anything to lure her. Couldn’t she feel it? Couldn’t she hear him begging? Hadn’t he done enough?
“Please . . . please . . . please!” he shouted as he played. “Anything, for you!”
He played until finally she appeared—when he was dripping with sweat, on his knees, barely able to hold the quivering violin anymore.
She cradled his head to her belly, her red fingernails sliding through his hair, skimming the wet slick of his scalp.
The voices outside faded away. She brought calm with her, peace. Her lips pressed to his forehead. “I am here, my love.”
The timbre of her voice was harmonious with the song in his heart. Her presence cast a net about him, pulled tight, constricting and fluttering around his heart. His cock stiffened in his pants as his fingers clutched at her.
He pressed kisses to her mons, to the puffy swell of it under her gossamer dress. He dared a lick, following the curl of a pubic hair he could feel in hyper-relief through the fabric of her gown.
Sebastian shuddered, his entire body thrumming like a penis aching to explode. Everything in him felt new again, alive despite his exhaustion, and tuned into her, his beautiful muse. “Muse, Muse, Muse,” he sighed, closing his eyes.
She allowed him to bunch up her skirt with his fingers. He delved beneath, sliding his hands over her smooth, white thighs, over the succulent mounds of her clefted ass. He licked the hollow nestled against her pussy, the crack between it and her leg and inhaled the scent of her—woman, musk, flowers.
“Yes, my darling,” she said, drawing his head back with fingers that grew tighter in his long, brown hair.
His tongue resonated with her taste; he licked his lips and swooned, drugged with it. He looked up into her face, almost loathing to drag his gaze from her sex.
Each time he saw her was like the first. She wove a spell around him, haunting him. She was mystical, magical, and otherworldly. Her aura glowed brightly, like the wings of a hummingbird—moving so fast only he could see its rainbow colors. He had to look at her through the slit of his lashes. She brushed them with her fingertips.
“You played so well tonight,” she said, slipping one of her fingers into his mouth.
He suckled gratefully, listening to her. His knees ached from kneeling, but the rest of him was free of pain or concern. She was here. Nothing else mattered. And, tonight, he was going to fuck her.
“Pizzicato, harmonics, technical wizardry. Godlike.” She strung the words together like a poem.
He wanted to kiss her feet and would have had she not bent to him, her lush mouth brushing his, her hands cupping his face. Her hair drifted around them both, a red cloud that blocked out everything, sheltering them.
“For you, Muse. All for you,” Sebastian answered, drowning in her aqua gaze.
Her eyes narrowed and she pushed him away.
His violin clattered to the floor, his bow still clutched in his hand.
“You lie. You play for them too,” she said, flinging an angry gesture to the open window, where the girls still crooned to him, begging him to come down, come out, come away with them.
“Nooo . . .” he protested, shaking the long dark locks that made him a favorite of poster-makers and scandal magazines. He crawled to her. “It’s you I play for!”
“Do you love me?” She closed the window, locking it. She curled her fingers, beckoning him close once more.
Sebastian rose to his feet, taking her in his arms. He pulled her to him, seeing in her eyes that she liked it this way—when he acted as if she was just a woman. Just a girl.
She was so much smaller than him, her body so much softer. He dipped his head, his breath ruffling her hair, his tongue casting temptation upon her collarbone.
She moaned when his hand found the plump perfection of her breast.
“I love only you, Muse,” he whispered into the part of her lips. He held her nape in the clench of his fingers, stealing a kiss and her breath along with it.
He danced with her, twirling her slowly around the room. He made it a tango and a waltz, and a dirty dance, grinding himself into her then pulling away. He kissed her, winding her hair around his arm. He cast his own spell upon her with his gypsy-eyes and fluid limbs, and soon she melted into his embrace, into the dance, into him. Just a woman.
There was a couch, there were chairs, there was the floor, but he pushed her against the door, where his manager still knocked, frantically calling to him. Sebastian felt the wood resonate with the sound as he laid her back against it. Rending her dress with one rip from neck to hem, he bared her spun-sugar skin to his gaze, to his hand, to his lust.
He kissed her as if his life depended on it, sealing his mouth to hers, stroking her tongue with his own, velvety hot. He thrust his hands into her witch-red hair, holding her still for his plundering exploration of her mouth.
“They say I’ve lost my mind, that I’ve gone mad,” he said, his tongue following the path of her breast.
It made him ache in the pit of his stomach—the sweetness of the slope of skin from her breast to her nipple. He’d never seen anything so beautiful. He laved the warm pink flesh of her areola with his tongue. Reaching down, he unzipped his pants, wrapping his fist around his turgid penis, pumping it with his hand. He let her feel it against her belly, let her feel how huge she’d made him. He wanted her to ache for it.
Her head bounced on the wood as the efforts of his manager were joined by Sebastian’s pleading assistant.
Shaking his head as if to clear it, he kissed his muse impatiently. Fuck everything else, fuck them all. He needed this, needed her, now.
He hooked his fingers under her knee, dragging it up to ride his hip. She shuddered as he spread her wide, the knob of his prick splitting her slick gash. He felt her envelop him, her raspberry-pink folds kissing his plum-like cockhead. They were one, at last.
“Yes, music-man. You are home,” she said, taking his cock into her, one hungry inch at a time.
His belly pressed into hers and she whimpered. Their hands twined together and they rocked to a tune as old as time. She kept one foot on the floor and dug the other into the small of his back, riding his length, matching him move for move. He braced her against the door and drove into her over and over, harder and harder.
“Home, home, home. Take me home,” he groaned, fucking her faster, deeper.
She urged him on, her body undulating, taking him in and squeezing him until his knees sweat in the creases. His balls lifted, tight, and his cock grew longer and hotter. It hurt, it hurt so good. Fuck . . . fuck . . . fuck. He was going to explode.
“Sebastian! Please . . . please. Just open the door!” A voice begged from the other side of the door.
“Come with me, Lover. Be mine forever. Play for me always,” his muse begged, winding her arms around his neck, drawing him back into her. She kissed him as she clung to him, as if without him she would fall. Her voice wove its melody around him, around them both. Everything else faded far, far away.
He reached down, finding her cunt with his thumb, rubbing the apex of her slit until he felt her gather, felt her still, and then come undone all around him. She came, gripping and fluttering—his beautiful muse, his woman, his dream—real. Here. His at last.
“Yesss. I’m coming . . . coming . . . coming!” Sebastian flooded into her, his body giving up his spunk with a force that made him dizzy, as if she’d reached into him and drawn out a piece of his soul along with his orgasm.
They kissed, sharing ragged breath in the decrescendo of their lovemaking.
“I love you.” He closed his eyes, resting his lips in the curve of her neck.
“Always.” Her lips moved against his forehead.
“All ways.” He promised.
The door finally gave way. Sebastian’s manager and assistant spilled into the room along with the theater owner and a groupie or two.
“What the fuck?” someone asked.
The window was closed, locked up tight from the inside.
They’d all heard Sebastian pleading and crying, banging on the door, yelling and playing his violin like a madman. But now, there was no one in the room.
His violin was there, in the middle of the floor, the bow laid neatly across the strings. Later, some swore they’d seen tendrils of smoke wafting from its fine hairs. Some said they’d heard the faint sound of laughter and music, unearthly music, but no one ever saw Sebastian Lachance ever again.