“Ooh, do tell me more.”
“I was thinking I might do more showing than telling.”
“Even better.”
She enjoyed every moment of the undressing, from slinking out the knot from his silken cravat to releasing his straining cock from a pair of brand new boxers.
Even better than that was ordering him onto his back, looking down at his body as it lay amongst the petals, then straddling him—still in her corset and special underwear—and putting her crimson-painted lips over his swollen tip.
Nothing could have been sweeter to her than the way he twitched his hips and gasped to catch his breath as she ran her mouth up and down, transferring some of her lipstick to his shaft in the process. She was marking him, in her own way, and he was helpless to resist.
She cupped his balls in her hands and sucked him right to the edge, crossing off the signs one by one—the clenched fists, the sudden chaotic rise and fall of his chest, the fluttering little noises—then she released him.
“Oh God!” He mouthed the words but couldn’t give them voice.
She knelt up, smiling tenderly at him.
“I don’t want it wasted,” she said. “That’s for me. I want it inside me.”
“Take it, take it,” he whispered frantically.
She didn’t remove her knickers, but simply moved the lace gusset aside, then hovered above him, rotating her pussy over his cock tip, dipping it shallowly in her, getting her wet and ready.
She touched her clit at the same time and, once she was sure she could take him all the way inside in one swift downward movement, she took the plunge.
“Oh, Ness,” he moaned.
“Ohhh, yes,” she replied. “God, yes. You always feel so good. And now this is mine, really mine.”
“Really yours,” he echoed.
He said it again at the moment of climax, which Vanessa skilfully held off, despite several near-misses, by pulling herself off him and waiting for him to calm down. He wasn’t going to get his rocks off until she’d had hers, of that she was quite determined.
She took him through a rocky journey of ups and downs until her own orgasm signalled its beginnings, then she rode him hard. He tried to control himself, obviously thinking this would end in another cruel truncation of his road to ecstasy, but it was delightful to watch him lose that control and surrender to her and all the sensations she aroused in him.
“You can come, lover,” she said, at the height of her own extremity, and he took the advice with relish.
“Really yours.”
“Oh yes. Really mine.”
Chapter Eighteen
In the Green Room at the Barbican the following night, Lydia stopped Karl-Heinz as he crossed the room full of instrumentalists, all slightly hyped up and nervous ahead of the concert.
“How is he?”
“He is fine. Asking for you. Go and see him—we have five minutes.”
The conductor would never be so unprofessional as to kiss his lover in front of the entire orchestra before an important concert, but he leaned into her and put his hand on her shoulder, the gesture every bit as intimate.
She accepted this looked-for permission and dar
ted off to Milan’s dressing room, drawn to the right location by a brilliant cadenza being played at the far end of the corridor. That would be him all right.
She knocked on the door. “It’s me.”
The music broke off.