it.
“We could go home,” she said to Milan. “You’ll need to be up early tomorrow—so much practicing to fit in!”
“This is true.” He looked, with mild regret, at his empty brandy glass, then picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder. “And I have champagne in the fridge.”
Lydia scampered after him, wanting to remonstrate, but, before she could speak, Milan had collided with a glamorous blonde woman in the doorway, causing her to spill the bottle of slimline tonic she was carrying.
“Shit, forgive me… Sarah, right?” said Milan. “Let me get you another.”
“No, it’s fine. Don’t worry,” said the harpist, smiling in a way that caused Lydia’s hackles to rise. “I don’t like too much tonic in my gin anyway.”
He twitched his lips. Lydia knew what that meant. I know you fancy me and I’m going to play up to it.
“You’re sure?”
“Quite sure. And congratulations, by the way. You so deserve a shot at a solo career.”
“Thank you.”
Lydia cleared her throat.
“I’ll see you at rehearsal,” he said, moving on again.
Lydia tried to say nothing about it, steeling her resolve not to snipe and make digs like a bitter, jealous person would.
“She is a good player,” said Milan. “You are not friends?”
“We haven’t really spoken.”
“Why don’t you talk to her? She is new. You could be friends.”
Lydia took a breath and stopped the words that sprang into her head from reaching her throat. If you think you can get me to agree to a ménage setup with her, think again.
“You can’t force it,” she said neutrally.
“I guess.”
When they arrived at his Barbican flat, Milan’s first move was to head for the fridge and remove the bottle of champagne.
“Milan.” Lydia hated the plaintive note of her voice. Was this how it had to be? Her as the joyless voice of moderation, him as her surrogate pupil or child? No, thanks. She wasn’t responsible for him—it was true.
“What?” The cork popped and he ran around the kitchen, bottle in hand, looking for glasses. “I don’t get to celebrate?”
She decided to try a different tack.
“There’s more than one way to celebrate.”
He turned from the cabinet to raise an eyebrow at her. His lips curved into a slow smile.
“I’m sorry, miláčku . I haven’t been the best lover lately. But all that can change. Let’s take this to bed.”
She shrugged off her denim jacket and slung it over a chair before advancing slowly, hand on hip, towards him.
“Put that down,” she said softly, placing a finger on his cheek.
He put the bottle on the floor and slid his hands down her back, bringing them to rest on her bottom in its thin cotton chinos.
“Yes, ma’am,” he whispered.
She opened her palm and let it travel along his jawbone and beneath his chin, settling on his elegant, curved neck, fingers crooking around and pressing into his nape.
“Why would I want to taste champagne when I can taste you?” she said.
He bent his forehead to touch hers.
“This is good counselling,” he said, then he caught her in a kiss, brandy-scented and spicy, yet also warm and sweet.
He pulled her tightly into him and the glasses juddered in the cabinet behind while they tried to make handprints on every part of each other. She hurled herself into the kiss, putting every reserve of energy into the clash of tongues, wanting to show him how deeply, how fully she cared for him.
The sound of shuddering crystal and gasping and sighing was all that could be heard in the room for a long time, then, once the lump pushing into her stomach was hard as hard could be, she broke off and made a slow descent to her knees.
He exhaled reverently when she unbuckled his belt and loosened his trousers, easing them down over his thighs and down to his ankles.
She kissed her way back up his long legs, then lowered the boxers over his cock, which was upright in readiness, just waiting for her to do what she wanted with it.
She
“We could go home,” she said to Milan. “You’ll need to be up early tomorrow—so much practicing to fit in!”
“This is true.” He looked, with mild regret, at his empty brandy glass, then picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder. “And I have champagne in the fridge.”
Lydia scampered after him, wanting to remonstrate, but, before she could speak, Milan had collided with a glamorous blonde woman in the doorway, causing her to spill the bottle of slimline tonic she was carrying.
“Shit, forgive me… Sarah, right?” said Milan. “Let me get you another.”
“No, it’s fine. Don’t worry,” said the harpist, smiling in a way that caused Lydia’s hackles to rise. “I don’t like too much tonic in my gin anyway.”
He twitched his lips. Lydia knew what that meant. I know you fancy me and I’m going to play up to it.
“You’re sure?”
“Quite sure. And congratulations, by the way. You so deserve a shot at a solo career.”
“Thank you.”
Lydia cleared her throat.
“I’ll see you at rehearsal,” he said, moving on again.
Lydia tried to say nothing about it, steeling her resolve not to snipe and make digs like a bitter, jealous person would.
“She is a good player,” said Milan. “You are not friends?”
“We haven’t really spoken.”
“Why don’t you talk to her? She is new. You could be friends.”
Lydia took a breath and stopped the words that sprang into her head from reaching her throat. If you think you can get me to agree to a ménage setup with her, think again.
“You can’t force it,” she said neutrally.
“I guess.”
When they arrived at his Barbican flat, Milan’s first move was to head for the fridge and remove the bottle of champagne.
“Milan.” Lydia hated the plaintive note of her voice. Was this how it had to be? Her as the joyless voice of moderation, him as her surrogate pupil or child? No, thanks. She wasn’t responsible for him—it was true.
“What?” The cork popped and he ran around the kitchen, bottle in hand, looking for glasses. “I don’t get to celebrate?”
She decided to try a different tack.
“There’s more than one way to celebrate.”
He turned from the cabinet to raise an eyebrow at her. His lips curved into a slow smile.
“I’m sorry, miláčku . I haven’t been the best lover lately. But all that can change. Let’s take this to bed.”
She shrugged off her denim jacket and slung it over a chair before advancing slowly, hand on hip, towards him.
“Put that down,” she said softly, placing a finger on his cheek.
He put the bottle on the floor and slid his hands down her back, bringing them to rest on her bottom in its thin cotton chinos.
“Yes, ma’am,” he whispered.
She opened her palm and let it travel along his jawbone and beneath his chin, settling on his elegant, curved neck, fingers crooking around and pressing into his nape.
“Why would I want to taste champagne when I can taste you?” she said.
He bent his forehead to touch hers.
“This is good counselling,” he said, then he caught her in a kiss, brandy-scented and spicy, yet also warm and sweet.
He pulled her tightly into him and the glasses juddered in the cabinet behind while they tried to make handprints on every part of each other. She hurled herself into the kiss, putting every reserve of energy into the clash of tongues, wanting to show him how deeply, how fully she cared for him.
The sound of shuddering crystal and gasping and sighing was all that could be heard in the room for a long time, then, once the lump pushing into her stomach was hard as hard could be, she broke off and made a slow descent to her knees.
He exhaled reverently when she unbuckled his belt and loosened his trousers, easing them down over his thighs and down to his ankles.
She kissed her way back up his long legs, then lowered the boxers over his cock, which was upright in readiness, just waiting for her to do what she wanted with it.
She
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