Concerto

His fingers play over her like she is a piano, the nimble and soft tips gently sliding over her delicate skin, finding a singular delight in each note of her. The crescendo would rise with her breasts, soaring as the flesh almost shivers in anticipation of each breath, each whisper, each moan. Suddenly the melody pauses as he holds a nipple between his finger and thumb, the tone drawn to a nearly breathless fermata and then descending onto the cool white of her stomach.

Looking into her eyes, his music flows upward as he caresses her face, moving her head slightly to the side as his lips warms hers, his tongue momentarily slipping into her mouth and then quickly retreating. Fingers weave into her hair, each delicate strand perfectly tuned, arranged and then left in place. Palms now warm her cheeks, he holds her head just so, his thumbs catch the corner of her permanent smile.

Returning to his piano solo, his fingers play down her neck and then quickly rise over the now familiar breasts, as each note vibrates in her skin. She is firm, her nipples taut as the music rolls downward onto her side and over her hips. He nudges her legs open as he follows the keys through her perfect fleece, the curls wrapping around his fingers, guiding him to each successive sound.

Thighs, firm, muscular, but so soft to his touch, resound to his play. He smiles, knowing how the staccato rhythms on her thighs, knees and calves teases her as she is left longing his firm progression on the melody. He pauses again and simply looks over limp body, naked and completely devoted to his music as few women have ever been. Feeling the firmness pressing against his pants, he focuses on her, his instrument, dropping his head down to rest on her thigh.

Gazing up at her he sees her face, just beyond the gentle peaks of her breasts, the soft rounded bulge of her pubis, the luxuriant curls of hair and the magnificent furrow just beneath. Moving his hand up her thigh, he watches his fingers gently probe her most delicate folds, searching for her rhythm, for the perfect notes to play. Deeper into her, he feels her open to him as he penetrates and withdraws, like the distant echo repeating itself.

Upward, he feels a trembling in a slight vibrato as a breath quickens and a pulse surges. He sees it then, just slightly beyond his fingertips, the nub, the core, the perfect note to play, gently again and again until she reaches out, reaches up to the exultant perfection of tone, rhythm and melody. Feeling it, touching the firm nub he plays and listens to the music as she rises again to the trembling crescendo and then climaxes as his fingers slip deep into her and the melody slowly fades.

Lifting his head, he looks her over and feels an urgent throbbing in his pants. He whispers, "There isn't time tonight, but tomorrow, tomorrow we will resume." Moving to her head, he kisses her goodnight as he dreams of what he will do tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow he will kneel between her legs, press his hard cock into her as his hands play over her and together they will feel that perfect crescendo.

Tomorrow, when they finish making love, he will carefully bathe her, touching her as he touched her tonight and then carefully dress her. He'll spend one more morning with her before she will have to leave, it will be a perfect morning for both of them, but tonight he must leave her now. He slowly caresses her feet before sliding them beneath the cover.

Holding the icy zipper, he carefully pulls it upward as the cover closes over her calves, her knees, her thighs, the curly fleece of her pubis and then over her stomach. Lifting the cover some to clear her breasts, he continues zipping, soon hiding her breasts, her neck and then her face. Tucking her hair inside, he tugs on the zipper and zips the bag shut before taking firm hold of the drawer and pushing it back into place.

Picturing their plans for the morning, he walks to his desk and sits down, jotting a few notes before turning off the desk light and walking slowly to the door. He opens the door and listens to the utter silence. "Quite a difference I think," he whispers to himself, remembering the music. He then turns out the overhead lights, closes the door and then pushes his key into the lock. Walking away from the morgue he imagines Chopin dabbing the formaldehyde from his piano keys before sitting on the bench to play.