Page 111 of Score
“Conveniently located beside your bedroom,” I reply dryly.
“You noticed that, huh?” Monk sits on the bench and runs his hands over the keys in one sweeping flourish.
“You wine and dine the girls downstairs,” I say, settling on the bench beside him. “Then you bring ’em up here to Jodeci them out of their pants and slip right into bed.”
He gives me a wry look and quirks one dark brow. “I don’t resort to Jodeci.”
“Snob. You think I don’t remember that corny-ass song you wrote that Canon did the video for?”
“Oh, you wrong for that. That song gives me PTSD.”
He starts playing a tune almost absently, like he’s unaware and his hands are moving so deftly from muscle memory.
“And the piano is near my bed because I’m either stumbling to sleep after working all night, or I’m rushing out of bed trying to get some music down before I forget it.” He bumps his shoulder to mine. “What am I playing you?”
It’s dumb and sentimental and he probably won’t even remember its significance, but I do. And on the night when he makes love to me again for the first time since I lost him, I want to hear the song he was singing the night we met.
“Sing ‘As,’” I whisper, glancing at him from the corner of my eye to gauge his reaction.
“Stevie?” He looks over, a smile that looks like a secret only we know sliding onto his face. “You know I sit at that man’s feet.”
He launches into the familiar tune; the one I’ve never heard since the night we met without remembering how it—how he—made me feel. It’s the first time I’ve heard him sing live since that night in Harlem a decade ago. I’ve heard him perform, of course. At award ceremonies, late-night shows, many times and many places. But it’s not the same as being his audience of one, of knowing all that talent is harnessed solely for you. The words and his honeyed voice wash over me. Tears prick my eyes for all we lost and can’t get back, but my heart thumps at the possibility of what we can become. Not those naive kids whose youth and mistakes and immaturity stole what was and what could have been. We’re grown now. Mature enough to enjoy each other with no strings attached.
“I feel like there are things you should know,” I say when the last note kisses the air. “Before we…”
My eyes wander to the bedroom a few feet away.
“Will it ruin the night?” he asks softly, sending me a look from under the sweeping curl of his lashes.
I frown, unsure of what I even want to say that would make a difference. He doesn’t knoweverything, but he knows enough. He wants this and so do I. It’s the no-strings, casual arrangement that suits us both.
“Never mind.” I shake my head and climb into his lap, straddling him as he sits on the piano bench. “It’s not important. Not anything you need to know.”
“All I want to know,” he says, pushing his hand beneath my dress and into my soaked underwear, “is do you still get so wet for me that you drip down my fingers?”
My hips surge into his touch. I gasp and nod frantically, framing his face between shaking hands and guiding his lips to meet mine. His tongue slides into my mouth and I moan. No one’s ever kissed me like he does; like I’m air, the breath of life; every stroke and lick tinged with desperation. His hands, moments ago concerned with making music, busy themselves playing me like a song he composed and I inspired. He kisses me like I’m his only muse, his touch roaming over my arms, legs, ass. Every part of me he can reach.
“Mmmph,” he grunts against my lips, shoving my underwear aside to rub and caress me.
I squeeze my eyes shut when one and then two fingers slip inside while he strokes the knot of nerves. Moaning, I clench around the welcome invasion.
“Don’t stop,” I beg, barely able to catch my breath from the onslaught of sensations. “Right there, Monk. That’s it.”
“Take this off,” he mutters, snatching the dress over my head. “This too.”
My bra is still discarded down in the kitchen. My underwear disappears.
And then he’s gone.
“Wait,” I cry out, afraid he’ll leave me like this, on the edge of combusting.
“I got you, baby,” he says, carefully setting me on the bench and droppingto his knees between me and the piano. “I wanna see if you taste as good as I remember.”
His words alone, the promise of his mouth on me again, is almost enough to make me come right then. I open my legs, reach down, and hold myself open for him. Anything. Everything. He can get it all, however he wants it.
“Look at you,” he rasps, an almost reverent look on his face. “Serving it up for me.”
“Stop playing with your food,” I chuckle hoarsely, “and get on with it.”
