A Night With The Billionaire Musician

STRAWBERRY

A faint sense of reason struck me right before I touched her again.

“Are you conscious enough to understand that you want this, Chloe? You are quite intoxicated.”

I saw her countenance change into anger. “You already started. Don't stop.”

At this point, I knew she knew what she was saying, and I dove at her lips and tasted them again. There was a mix of alcohol and strawberry in the taste, one repellent and the other drawing me in. How sweet of her, giving me a palatable mix of sweet and bitter.

Her lips bit back at mine, and her hands combed into my hair, sending wave after wave of sensation through me. I moved my hand and cupped one breast, pinching the n****e as the pink skin on it sitting like a flower atop a rock squeezed.

My lips found the other as my erection hardened with her moans.

“f**k me, please.”

“Not yet,” I groaned, moving my teeth to the white skin of her belly.

It's hard to think of skin as something sexually attractive, but Chloe's skin was driving me past limits I thought I had. She was sweating, but it had a clean smell to it, and I licked it. When I felt I couldn't get enough, I bit into it and sucked it. And when I thought I had enough, I left flaming red hickeys on her skin.

She was pleading for me to make love to her, and I could not hold myself back. I moved between her legs and slipped into her, as her warm, slippery insides welcomed me. Both her legs wrapped themselves around me, while I hung above her. Then our bodies began to move, mine crashing against hers like the waves meeting the beach on a beautiful day.

Chloe was a woman to behold as we made love.

She was beautiful, which only served to drive me even crazier. And when we came together, even though I had been so absorbed in her that I only managed to pull out a fraction of a second late, it was as though I had never made love before all my life. We lay next to each other, naked and uncaring, her body clutching onto mine for protection.

It happened two more times that night before I reached my limits, and as we lay in the darkness, her soft snoring in my arms dispelling the silence of the night, I knew it was going to be extremely difficult to let Chloe go.

And that would be if I decided that I could ever manage to.

For some reason I woke up early in the morning, right before dawn. My movements did not wake Chloe, thankfully, and I slipped into a pair of briefs before going to the window to stare at the fading stars.

It was a habit that came to me on occasion, and I had learned to keep my guitar close because of it, as I found that my biggest songs were written at that hour of the morning. It had everything to do with the solemnity of the hour, I decided, and I made a point of cashing in on it.

My guitar sat near, and I picked it up and held it close before stealing a glance at Chloe. Her tousled hair was in tatters on the pillow as she slept, and her body heaved with each breath she took. Once again, I wondered why she looked different on her i********: than in real life. She was beautiful as she was.

I gave a string of the guitar a light pick to check her reaction to it, and she did not move. Another heavier, louder strum yielded the same result, and a third, my loudest, still did not wake her. I chuckled at the thought that she was a heavy sleeper and then shut my eyes to anchor myself.

‘What to write about,’ I wondered.

‘Love,’ came a voice in my head.

For some reason I did not want to write a love song. I was in a solemn mood and wanted to write something sad to match it. Or something happy, at least, so that I would not be known for too many sad songs. Yet, the more I tried to think of the lines to the sad song, or happy song, and the perfect notes to fit it, the more lost I became.

When I became too clueless, I decided I wanted a drink, and some strawberry-flavoured juice was my best bet. The very whiff of it reminded me of Chloe.

“No… not her,” I groaned to myself.

I did not want to grow attached to what should be a one-night stand, which would end in a few hours once she got up and left me. Yet, it most definitely was, because I was soon standing over her sleeping form and staring at her, with my head writing the very first line:

“Angel with the strawberry lips.”

This sudden wave of inspiration came over me, and I returned to my place by the window and strummed the guitar before finding a rhythm to fit it. When I thought it was perfect, I wrote it down and recorded it on my phone to avoid having to forget it, and then continued to stare out at the sky.

Chloe as my muse was something I did not see coming.

For one last time, I stared at her sleeping in bed and decided I would miss her sorely when she was gone. A few weeks of intense work would permit me to forget about her, I reckoned. That and a lovemaking session with another woman, whenever I felt like it.

With these thoughts, I went and lay next to her in bed to allow myself to catch some sleep before another busy day, and just as I snuggled under the sheets, she turned and rolled into me, her face buried in my chest.

“Don't go. Don't leave me,” she mumbled.

My protective instincts kicked in, and as one of my arms wrapped itself around her, there was some sinking feeling inside, something that told me that I was going to miss her far more than I thought that I would.