Acoustic

She stood in the doorway and watched him.

He was lost in the moment. He was lost to music, he was lost to the creation of sound. His fingers moved seemingly effortlessly over the strings.

The way he created beauty with sound had always astonished her. To call him an artist seemed a little underhanded, as he seemed so much more than that, so she had thought of him as some sort of magician. Though, she never said that to him. He'd surely scowl at her, dismissively. But, there was something almost otherworldly about the way he could create sounds that could so course through her body, and spoke to something deeper within her.

It's perhaps a new piece, as she doesn't recognise it, and there is that brow of his. There is a small furrowing of his brow that gives away that he isn't completely pleased with its sound. Though, you'd never know by looking at his hands, that seem to glide and move over the instrument, like they were one and the same. His hands. Those fingers. He broke for a moment and stared out the window, before he realised he wasn't alone. He slowly turned to look at her, as she was standing in the doorway. She is framed in white, at the edge of the softening darkness of his music room.

Is he glad of the distraction? She can't be sure, but he said to her, with a neutral look, "Come," and indicated the floor by his feet.

A smile teased the edge of her mouth. She always loved when he beckoned her. She settled by his feet, and immediately he began to play again. To her it is perfect. But she has not his ear, nor his sense of musical perfection. But what she does have is knowledge. A knowledge of him. She knows his brow oh-so well. She can tell that something is amiss.

He turned to stare out the window again, and he moved the guitar slightly away, so he could reach into her hair. His strokes were soft, as his fingers plied her hair, and he left light touches against her curve of her head and up the nape of her neck.

She almost purred, but something in his demeanour, and the feeling of the room, made her resist and so she held back her sound. She didn't want to fill the space between them with any other sound. She didn't want to break the entranced state he was in.

He wrapped his fingers around a lock of hair and pulled. He pulled on her hair, and softly dragged her against his knee.

She ceded without the slightest bit of resistance. She ached to be against him, to feel him. Her cheek rested against the denim of his jeans, as she stared down at the canvas of his converse shoes, she listened to him hum the piece of music.

He continued, with a mixture of soft humming and the stroking her hair. It sent shivers skirting her neck. Her hair and neck, were such a sensitive, sensation rich areas for her, and his touch stirred her. But, something is still amiss.

A handful of her hair is firmly gripped and she was suddenly being slowing and deliberately pulled backwards, rather awkwardly. Her back first reached the cool of the floor, and then her head. Lying flat upon the cool of the wooden floor, she looked up at him, trying to read his unsaid words, and couldn't even have guessed at ideas and thoughts that were clearly running across his brow.

He continued to hum, and drag his somewhat roughened fingers through her hair and then down her cheeks. Hand so softly calloused from all his work and play. He hummed, with the beginning of a bare glint of a grin, as he began to peel away her clothes. He started slowly at her buttons, and then more eagerly as her skin began to appear from beneath the unravelling shirt buttons. He slowly bared her body, as the edges of her shirt fall away from her chest. Her chest that rose and fell deeper, the more he bared her skin.

She realised she had been holding her breath, and holding back the sounds of her lust. A grip of her breast, through her bra made the moan that had been threatening, to spill out of her lips and it broke something between them. A simple sound and the mood between them changed. Her moan was now being stifled, as she found his thick, fingers invading her mouth, and almost reaching her throat.

"Hush," he said, with a glint in his eyes. There was a tune in his mind, and he wanted it realigned, to correct its form. The sound of her was a distraction. But, what a delightful distraction. His fingers began to move in and out of her mouth. He watched as those things -finger and mouths - that so brought sounds to the space between them, were silent.

Again, she tried to hold back her sounds of her desire, and she succeeded, (perhaps) to only moan, mew and purr in her own mind.

His fingers. His hands. His talent. They explored her. She was now his instrument, and he was determined to make music, if not with his guitar, then with her. He grinned at her, as he watched her hold back, as she stilled her voice, and held back her groans. It excited him and made him more eager to make music with her body. How far would he have to push her? How much could she take, before her eagerness and desires spilled from those lips. He was about to find out. As she was about to become his symphony.