#behemoth!

You don’t even bother to close your robe when you stomp out into the damp night. Your bare feet squelch in the wet grass, and you don’t care. The music gets louder when you get to your neighbor’s door. It’s nice? You guess. You don’t even know anymore.

You pound on his door. Three rasps. You give your neighbor time. Nothing. So you pound again. Until the music stops. Footsteps get closer, floorboards creak.

The door opens, just like your jaw drops. Dark hair slicks back from a face that the gods might as well have sculpted. Sharp cheekbones, strong nose, plush lips, big brown eyes. He’s in a black tank top, ridiculously broad shoulders escaping the flimsy fabric. His gray sweatpants hang loose on his hips. His whole look suggests either a strategic carelessness or a total lack of giving a shit. It might be due to how fucking horny you are, but your new neighbor could be the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

His dark eyes size and assess you. Your robe. The flimsy, light pink tank top sticking to your skin, the short, barely there sleep shorts with tiny, green polka dots. Your hair’s probably a mess, your skin still damp with a sweat of frustration. He looks almost amused at the sight of you, but his eyes linger a little longer than propriety should suggest at your thighs.

“Can I help you?” he asks. Deep, kinda dark, like a freshly poured cup of your favorite coffee.

“It’s la—” your voice squeaks. You clear your throat, square your shoulders. “It’s late. Your music. It’s… loud. Some of us have to, you know. Sleep.”

He leans on the doorframe, folds his arms, and your eyes square in on the way his biceps bulge, the line of his forearms. “Sleep,” he says.

“Yes. That’s right. It’s past 11.”

“Didn’t think it was that loud.”

“Could you turn it down at least?”

A thick eyebrow arches up. “Guess these walls are paper-thin. I suppose I could use a different bow.”

There’s no shame in his voice, no apology, and it just irks you more. You wobble a bit in the way he looks at you, half wanton desire, half boredom.

“I’d… appreciate that.”

“Mm,” he says, and his lip quirks up in a maddeningly handsome smirk… like he knows he’s gorgeous and getting under your skin. “You best get back to… sleep,” he says.

You nod, because you have no other fucking clue how to respond under his heated, cocky gaze and the revelation that the music was being played by him and not a too-loud stereo.

The silk of your robe swishes across your hot skin as you make your way across the grass to your bungalow. You’re sure your neighbor’s watching you the whole way and you don’t dare look back.

He keeps his word, you can barely hear the music when you lie back down in bed. Fuck him for being beautiful. Your whole body is still reverberating from the baritone rasp of his voice. You press a pillow over your face and scream an annoyed sound into it, as the heat of his gaze still blooms across your body.

At least now all you can hear is nothing but the sound of your breathing, picking up when the heel of your hand slinks its way back between your thighs. Jesus Christ, you’re even wetter now. You’re leaking a frustrating hunger, the image of your neighbor’s big shoulders and golden skin playing in your mind. You imagine his biceps pinning you down and his thick fingers hooking against your waist as he pounds into you.

“Fuck,” you whisper, picturing his wide palm against your mouth. You wonder what he sounds like when he cums, is it as sad and tragic sounding as the music he plays?

God, it’s so easy now. Your body’s arching up, desperate to feel how soft his tank-topped chest is when it’s shoved against your chest. You can almost feel him, the weight of him atop you, his dark eyes searing into you as you edge yourself closer and closer. You’re pressing needy circles against your clit, your thighs tensing and toes curling. “Fuck, fuck,” you moan out, too loud for your own good and the silence of your own bungalow. Your hips are moving against your hand harder, faster, and when you think of that damned smirk of his and the way he’d watch you shatter apart for him, you orgasm, hard and hot and loud. “Oh fuck, godddd,” you moan. You don’t even care. You want him to hear it. Maybe he will, with the thin walls. Maybe he won’t, because he’s too busy playing that damned music. Maybe he heard a hint, and now he’s sat, frozen in his chair, bow in one hand, listening to your own symphony between the walls.

—-

Two nights of silence, and then you hear it… a loud cat-like moan around 11 PM. Followed by another high-pitched mew. “Aleeeeex,” the shrill sounds. “Oh god, Alex.”

So, your hot neighbor’s name is Alex.

A rhythmic thumping starts up against your wall, fast, brutal, not sweet. You can’t help yourself as you move towards the wall, listening in for any type of low grunt or groan, but there’s nothing… just a repetitive smack of wood against drywall and the squealing of a woman.

You roll over, turn on your speaker, and pick up your phone. You know the perfect song. You scroll to the B’s in your music, find Cello Suite no. 2 by Bach, and let the sad, melancholy play… loud.

The pace just behind the shared wall picks up, and the wails of the woman speed up, along with the tapping against the wall. Now it’s your time to smirk, take that, Alex, and whoever he’s decided to fuck.

And when the roaring sadness of the music slows and quiets at a point… you hear it. A long, low groan timed perfectly to the song, almost like he was waiting for it.

You feel the angry roar of want in your body at the sound of him and let the song fade out as you reach into your drawer and pull out your vibrator.

—-

The next night, the cello is back, at 11 on the dot. Louder. Like it’s back to mock you. You shake your head and smile, willing it not to bother you as you turn in bed and put a pillow over your ear, but even through the muffled down, you recognize the song. It’s Cello Suite no. 2, just like you played him last night.

Damn, he’s talented. You have to give him that.

By 11:30, he hasn’t stopped, and the cello almost plays like a siren song to you and your sleepy, horny frustrations. You step out into the night air, and you swear the cool air hisses against your heated skin. No robe this time, just you and your light blue silky, short nightdress, complete with the lace trim across your breasts.

You punch at his door again, then stand back, arms crossed. You’re sure your nipples are pressing against the thin fabric, and you don’t care.

He answers almost instantly, and good lord, he’s only in a pair of boxers and a loose, button-up shirt.

“You’re playing on purpose now, aren’t you?” you ask him, no greeting, just attitude.

“I need to practice. Figured you’d like to hear it.”

You snort. “So why that song?”

His hand rests against the doorframe and he looms over you. “Thought I’d return the favor of last night.” You roll your eyes and huff. “Thanks.”

He turns his head back to his living room, then back at you, deep brown eyes searing into you. “Come in. I’ll play you something else.”

“It’s late.”

“It’s not like you were going to sleep anyway.”

You don’t say anything, you just walk past him into his place. It’s neat, in order, vintage furniture with modern touches. His bow is discarded on the floor, the cello leaning against the wall.

He lifts his hand, guides you to his couch, a soft, buttery leather that dips when you settle on it, mindful of just how short your nightdress is. He bends to pick up the bow, and your throat goes dry as you stare at his ass. You blink yourself back to reality as he takes a seat and places his cello between his legs. God, his legs, strong and dusted with hair, he looks to be golden all over.

He begins playing. Something you don’t recognize, but it’s smooth and sultry. Your heart and body answer, heating and beating with each note of music that flows from the instrument.

Alex doesn’t look up, he’s transfixed by the music he plays, and you’re just as spellbound. You’re sure you’re breathing hard, sure your pulse is thrumming along to the song. You don’t know how long you sit like that, mesmerized by the music and the man. If this is how he looks as he plays, then you’ll surely sacrifice the nights of sleep, just to let this beauty out into the world.

His head tips back, neck straining as his head lulls back and forth, caught in the notes, and when he looks at you, dark brown eyes meeting yours, you know he can see the way your chest is rising and falling, the heat of your stare. He gifts you one of those damned smirks, but this time it’s different. It’s heated and full of desire. He watches you watch him, and you can’t look away. Every note he plays flows through you, from your ears to between your thighs.

Alex’s arm slows, the bow stopping, and the last warble of the strings escapes the cello. He sets the cello against the wall with reverence, his loose shirt gapes open as he turns, exposing golden chest and a dark line of hair. You try to adjust how you’re sitting, the leather couch sticking to you with the heat of your thighs.

His eyes roam over you, from your bare legs up to your chest, up, up, finally meeting your eyes again. He licks his lips, pink tongue against his plush bottom lip. He smiles, hot, knowing, painfully cocky. “Did you like it?” he asks.

You answer with a bobble of your head. Any type of words would just fail to be husked out of your dry throat. Goodness, you want him. You want him a way that’s almost embarrassing in the desperate, feral way you do.

"You want to try to play?" he asks.

You’re silent again, just another nod sent to him.

He pats his thighs, beckons you over, and you rise and pad towards him, going to exactly where he wants you. He parts his legs, and you straddle his lap, your back meeting his chest. You’re painfully aware of the silk of your dress clinging to the arch of your ass, the way your thighs bracket his, his skin meeting your skin. You move, hoping he can’t feel how wet you are for him, but you hear the small grunt, and you know he absolutely can.

He picks up the cello and sets it between both of you, the smooth wood is cool against your thigh. He wraps his arms around your waist, enveloping you in his strong arms, his chest flexing against your back.

You’re glitching, absolutely dumbstruck by how gentle and low his voice is as he places your fingers over the strings. “Here,” he whispers, guiding your hand to the cello’s neck. “Thumb here. Not too tight.” His hands are big and hot. His breath fans across your ear, and it makes you shiver.

“Now, try,” he says, handing you the bow. You attempt to make a song, but you’re so heady off the closeness of him that you’re too clumsy to do anything right. The bow draws across the strings, and it’s… like a car crash of a note, but he tightens his arms and chuckles low against your ear.

“Again,” he whispers, and you try. This time, the note is softer, a pleasant hum leaves the cello. “Good,” he says, lips grazing against your earlobe. He rewards you by letting his hand skim against your thigh.

There’s a shared hunger, an almost understanding, guided by the music and want that’s drifted between the walls. You melt and tense at the same time, and you feel the press of his cock against you when you tilt back and press yourself into him.

He slides his hand up, rucking up the hem of your dress. “You still want to play?”

You’re dizzy, barely holding onto the bow. “No.”

“Then set the bow down.”

You obey, letting it clatter to the floor. He takes the cello from between your legs and sets it aside while keeping you still locked against him, hand splayed against your belly. “Spread your legs,” Alex tells you.

You instantly spread, letting him slip his palm between you and trace your soaked pussy through the wispy layer of your lace panties. You almost lose it right there, hips jerking at the thick, callused fingers of his exploring the drenched line of your cunt.

He lets out a low, incredulous growl as he touches you, pressing his mouth to your neck, sucking at the skin. “Feel good?” he rumbles. “Yeah?”

“Fuccck,” you manage.

He smiles into your neck, slides his fingers into your panties, parts you, thick, middle finger slowly exploring before plunging deep into you. You moan, noisy and erupting, louder than any song he can play.

He fucks you with his hand, two fingers, thick and skilled, shallow then deep, giving you a pattern you’ll never guess. His thumb rubs circles on your clit, making you stupid with just how good he is at this. You’re sweating now, shaking, under the control of Alex’s possessive hands against your body.

He’s rutting and hard against you, whispering “that’s it, that’s it,” over and over as his fingers play you like an instrument he’s mastered.

You cum for him, so hard you shudder and squeeze. Head knocking back against his broad chest. He growls, licks up the sweat of you, holding you tighter as you ride and writhe against his fingers.

He pulls his fingers out, yanks your panties to the side, and frees his cock from the thin cotton of his boxers. You don’t know if you’ve ever wanted someone so bad before and when he brushes the fat tip of him against your accepting hole, you gasp at the promise of his size.

It’s one monstrous, behemoth of a thrust that makes your eyes flutter shut and all the air escape you. He fucks up into you hard, and you grab at his big hands, holding on as the old wooden chair frame creaks. He’s so fucking thick, overwhelming and rough, but Christ, the way your slippery cunt swallows him, it’s like he was fit for you. You ride him, back rubbing against his chest as he pumps in and out of you, the noise of your slick and his grunts crescendoing in the sex-heavy air.

He grabs your hips, planting both feet on the floor, and starts railing up into you so deep you let out a sob of his name. He’s rewarding and withholding at the same time, sliding all the way out, holding you above himself, letting you beg for him, until he plants all of himself into you. He slinks a hand up your body, thumb stroking your cheek before he sticks two of his fingers into your mouth.

You taste the sweet tang of your orgasm, tongue licking at the rough and ridges of his fingers. You suck, and he groans, bucking so hard the chair actually scoots back across the floor.

He must want to see you desperate and dumb, his other hand moving between your legs, playing with you there. It only takes a couple strokes of his fingers against your puffy, needy clit for him to orchestrate your orgasm out of you. It’s shocking how fucking hard you cum for him, how white your vision goes, how the pulse of your body pulses a cacophony of beats. Alex fucks straight through your orgasm, cock spearing you as you whimper around his fingers and drip around his cock. But, he’s losing it now, panting into the crook of your neck, hips snapping so loud against you.

He pulls out, and you feel the slide of his cock head against your clit when he cums, thick, white ropes painting against your panties, your belly, the silk of your dress. You’re still floating high like the music notes he plays, a trembling mess in his arms when you lean your head back and can’t help but laugh. Alex chuckles, too. Both of you are sticky and soaked, pressed together, glazed in shared sweat and cum.

The cello sits unused, the bow on the floor. Alex’s forehead rests against your shoulder as he comes down. You think he’s going to say something smart and frustrating, but he just kisses your shoulder blade and tightens his arms around you.

Your hands are trembling slightly, just a faint tremor.

You've always been interested in that thin line between what's good for you right before a concert and what's going to harm your performance. The adrenaline is good for you, your first teacher used to tell you, encouraging you to keep on playing, which has brought you to this very moment.

Perhaps it is good for you, but that doesn't make it any more pleasant.

You absolutely hate the rough three hours before the start of a concert. The worst time period varies depending on how confident you are feeling on that specific day, but today, there is no doubt about the panic that has settled into your belly since dawn.

It's not just an important day, it also happens to be your first concert with your new orchestra. The stakes are high, and for someone like you who's always had such immense struggles to control your nervousness, the day couldn't have been more nerve-wracking and intense.

Fold your hands and pretend you're someplace else, your second teacher always said when the anxiety threatened to spill over.

Mrs. Jordans was an old, grey-haired woman with a lot of patience, the first person in your life to actually help you with your issues right before your performance.

Well, maybe her options were pretty scarce when she caught you throwing up in the bathroom five minutes prior to a concert, but at least she hugged you and didn't just drag you out there like other teachers throughout your life might have done.

Swallowing hard, you reach for your bag.

There's always the chance that the shaking of your hands is rooted in low blood sugar rather than your churning stomach, which is why you stored a couple of chocolate bars in there.

The moment you straighten up again, your heart jumps, sensing movement to your right. You purposefully withdrew to the corner of the practice room where people would understand your message clearly. There might be people whose most effective medicine against stage fright is distracting themselves, but it never worked for you. Therefore, you sank down on the floor half an hour ago, and you haven't lifted your gaze since.

Until now.

"You look lost."

Alex Serian, the star of the ensemble. If he weren't the most popular and best player of the orchestra, you would have assumed that he isn't playing tonight, given the way his eyes sparkle, his face missing the paleness of your face and that of the other members of the ensemble.

"Lost?" you ask weakly, slinging your arms around your knees while the chocolate bar starts melting in your hand.

"Yeah. Lost. What's your name?"

He does know that you're part of the orchestra too, doesn't he? Sure, the two of you haven't interacted before and you might be new, but your violin is right next to you and you're dressed in black like everyone else.

"Y/n," you speak shortly, taking a bite from the bar before it's a complete puddle in your palm. Alex repeats your name slowly as if to assess whether he likes it or not. Then, he pulls up a chair, plopping into it, which takes you by surprise.

"I – " you begin, but all it takes from the other man to cut you off is a raise of his brows.

"You're new. And you're nervous… I've come to believe that there is a correlation between the two things a lot of the time."

You're speechless, which is why you just stare up at him, feeling very uncertain and small all of a sudden.

"And you're young, of course. It makes an inconvenient combination."

You swallow the last bite quickly, forehead wrinkled as you try to come up with a response.

Alex seems… amused. Neither unsettled by the fact that he's about to get on stage and play principal cello, nor concerned about the state of your dilated pupils and trembling hands. Obviously, the chocolate bar has done nothing for you.

"Do you want any advice, sweetheart?"

With a sigh, he leans back in the chair, his hand casually resting on his thigh. Fuck, he looks much better than any person you have ever seen minutes before they hit the stage. You're more than familiar with tousled hair, running mascara, blotchy skin and glistening brows, but his hair looks angelic, his face is glowing and there is just the right shimmer sparkling on his pronounced cheekbones.

He must have some secret, because you refuse to believe that someone could be so confident in themselves that they don't carry an ounce of doubt in their heart. Which is why you nod slowly.

"Don't look at the crowd. When we walk in."

"What?" you chuckle humorlessly, tangling your fingers over your stomach.

"I'm being serious. I struggled with stage fright when I was younger. One of my mentors gave me the advice, and at first I laughed too. But it helps. You just ignore them. If you don't know who you have in front of you, there is no one you can disappoint. Except for the ensemble, of course. But… you're gonna have to live with that."

Alex's lips are still drawn as he looks you up and down, probably feeling pity for your pathetic sight. You probably precisely fit the prototype of a stressed out, overwhelmed maniac, your hair messy and your lips brittle from all the chewing.

"And where am I supposed to look? To the floor? And then fall on my nose?"

Taking a deep breath, the man across from you rises to his feet suddenly, leaning down to your level like he's talking to a child. His eyes are a dark brown, the transition of his irises to his pupils barely noticeable.

He's beautiful. You've already found that watching his marvelous performance on TV, but sitting in front of him, his face hovering above yours, you sense a whole different kind of grace and elegance he's capable of emitting.

"You could… look at me?"

With that, he's gone.

You only have to blink once, your heart skipping a beat at his raspy voice, and when your eyes scurry around the room, you notice that he has made his way to the other side of the room. All of that just in a matter of one flutter of your lashes.

Your hands are quivering even more now, your palms sweaty, but once the tightness in your throat dissolves, your mind is able to think of something else for the first time in many hours. Which you would consider a victory.

Fifteen minutes later, when it's time to go out on stage, the nervousness has returned and swallowed you like an inexorable wave. The kind that soaked you to your bones.

You're way beyond caring about what any of your new colleagues might think of your tense appearance and consider it your only goal to get through this night.

You're going to take care of the rest tomorrow or tonight after you've successfully walked off the stage without completely humiliating yourself.

When you're in line behind the others, you begin questioning your career choices, just like you always do right before a performance. You've always been good at math, and you didn't hate explaining easy calculations to your classmates growing up, so perhaps you should have just followed your dad's path and –

There is a hand on your naked shoulder.

You whirl around abruptly, nearly bumping into the person in front of you. That would be the final straw, not just ruining your own playing but one of your colleague's as well.

"Remember what I told you," Alex says calmly, rubbing a soothing circle over your arm, his head tilted to bring himself closer to your level. There are not many changes in his appearance except for the softness around his eyes that replaced the cockiness from earlier. For the first time, you're not certain that he's just mocking your anxiousness, which is why you allow him to hear your uneven panting.

"I'm – I don't know if I can do it. I really don't – "

You look down and shake your head rapidly, pinching the fabric of your dress between two fingers to make them stop shivering. You definitely can't play your violin like that. Normally, the trembling stops the second you sit down on stage, but tonight, you're not so sure about it.

"You can. And you will," Alex speaks, putting a finger under your chin to force you to meet his gaze.

"You will go out there and do a flawless job."

"But I don't know – "

"It doesn't matter if you know or not. You will, and that's all that matters."

"That's not – " you start again, but Alex just swipes over your shoulder one last time, lets go of your chin and then suddenly walks past you to take his place right in front of you.

"Look at me while we walk out. Not the audience. Just keep your eyes on me, remember to breathe, and no matter what happens, don't look at anyone else. Your hands are gonna know the rest."

He spoke those words quietly, not even bothering to turn toward you, but you understood him regardless.

"I really don't – " you whimper, but this time Alex doesn't have to cut you off for your voice to trail off.

What choice do you have? He's a seasoned, well-experienced concert cellist who has gone through stressful moments like this one far more often than you have, even though you can't picture him anxious, no matter how hard you try.

You're going to have to trust him.

Once the applause from the concert hall increases in volume and the door opens, Alex blindly reaches behind him to seize your wrist. His skin is warm and soft, but not so overheated that it would be uncomfortable.

You glare at the back of his head stubbornly, refusing to take in the impressively large crowd, hoping that Alex was right and it's going to save your performance.

He, on the other hand, keeps a tight grasp until he has to leave you to walk over to the cello section, but you're grateful for it. You don't wish to know what would have happened, how you would have collapsed or bumped into the person behind you on your way when your body refused to keep moving.

But that doesn't matter now. All that matters is right in front of you, or rather in your fingers that only shiver a little as they lower onto the strings of your violin.

You can feel the applause buzz in every vein, every fiber of your being, but in your prickling fingertips first and foremost.

For the very first time since you took your seat in the chair, you crane your neck to run your gaze over the audience, your stomach bubbling with excitement. The ranks are filled with what looks like countless heads and hands high up in the air. Clapping for you.

Obviously, not only for you but probably rather for Alex Serian, the star of the night, but it does kind of feel like it.

That is precisely the moment when you remember what you're doing all of this for, the purpose that you always tend to forget about in the hours leading up to a concert. The thrill, the heavy weight dropping off your heart the second you lower the bow and come to the realization that you played well without a single mistake.

You never consider your playing flawless and always find something to work on in the coming weeks, but the first relief still hits you like a tsunami, which you consider far more magnificent than any nervousness. Of course, it's easy to say right after the performance when your adrenaline and joy are running infinitely high, but you don't care. You're going to savor the happiness as long as it lasts because that's the kind of reward that only belongs to you.

As you stand up to bow for the cheering audience, your eyes catch Alex, who's seated to your left, in the center of the stage so he's visible to everyone in the crowd.

He gives you a smile that you surely surpass in intensity and brightness.

You did it. You mastered your first performance with your new orchestra, and it's all thanks to him and his advice. From this day forward, it's surely only going to get easier once you feel at home in this group of people.

You must have looked pretty silly wearing such a wide smile, your cheeks so naturally wrinkling at the corners of your mouth, but Alex just nods once and winks briefly.

It's not a clear, striking gesture, but pretending that it didn't happen would be naïve.

"Fucking hell…" he grunts against your cheekbone, backing you toward the wall until your head hits the hardness with a low thud.

He immediately reaches for you, cradling your face as if to silently apologize for being so rough with you. Not that you mind it. Everything is loud and itching, your toes, your fingers, your weak knees, your trembling hands, but first and foremost your brain.

It's a result of every event in the past few hours, but slowly but surely, you come to believe that it's mostly Alex's hands and hungry mouth taking control over your body.

He's taller than you realized earlier, his frame towering over you by many inches, and fuck, he smells good.

It was the first thing you noticed about half an hour ago when you hugged him, utterly swamped by relief and gratitude. Alex's massive hands rested on the small of your back, pressing you against his chest briefly before he made his tour to talk to the rest of the ensemble.

But then, a few minutes later, his palm returned to that very place again when you ran into him again backstage where everyone was chatting about the sensational night. He looked not nearly as exhausted and blissful as he did right after the curtains fell.

His eyes carried that sparkle again, lips cocked upward while he waited for you to answer him. He asked you if you were satisfied with yourself, and after you explained how you felt about your performance, where you lacked practice, there wasn't much else that was exchanged between the two of you before Alex guided you out of the room, through the corridor and to the staircase.

Everything was dark when he pulled you toward him by your wrist, catching your fall and putting his hands on your waist.

Submerged by adrenaline and jitteriness, you giggled against his lips at first, barely able to grasp what was happening, but when he first pushed you backward, your core clenched and your knees buckled. Alex shoved a leg between your thighs, pressed his hand to the side of your face, and that's how you ended up where you are right now.

Breathing heavily against his mouth, your fingers trail along the stitching of his jacket.

"You did well, sweetheart. Very well," he growls. His lips are parted, devouring your lips, your chin, your dimples and everything else that he can reach, but you're not any less eager. Everything about him is intoxicating. Starting with his addictive scent and ending with his whole magnetic charisma that pulls you into his orbit.

"I did?" you pant without being aware of what he actually just said.

"Yeah… You listened to my advice… And it helped, didn't it?" His hand clasps your chin tightly, holding you in place while his lips travel down your neck, sucking at your pulse point. After a brief hum, your fingers helplessly clawing at his broad shoulders, you nod a few times, bending your neck to watch him savor your flushed skin.

"I know it did… You almost seemed relaxed. But you rushed the entrance in the third movement. I didn't mind it. But Jenna unfortunately does…"

Your lips fall open, which gives Alex the opportunity to draw along the curve of your lip with his thumb.

"You noticed that?" you whisper reverently, eyes flitting up to his as he straightens up in front of you again.

"Of course I did, sweetheart. Let's say I felt… obliged to keep an eye on you. You were a mess."

Against your will, you blush at his words, which evokes deep laughter in Alex.

"Now, now… No reason to feel ashamed. It's a lot for someone new in the ensemble. You did well. Just keep in mind what I told you and slow down next time. Jenna's surely gonna mention it during the next practice." His lips are at the bone in your jaw, softly picking at your skin. "My advice? Mention it before she does. She's gonna like that."

"Huh," you moan, feeling his hand at your thigh, pushing up the fabric of your dress.

"Shhh… you're gonna have to stay quiet. You think you can do that? Keeping those pretty lips sealed?"

You don't even know what to focus on, his hand riding up your leg until it ghosts over the seam of your underwear, the tip of his thumb gently making its way past your lips, or his mouth on your neck. That's why your response is muffled.

"Please… Please, Alex," you whine and cringe as his thumb makes contact with your clit through your underwear.

"Oh Jesus… I didn't take you for the loud kind. Baby, you have to stay quiet or we're gonna have a second crowd for the evening in front of us. And you know… they don't really like this kind of partying. Especially if it includes one of the new lambs." He laughs deeply, the sound so appealing that you need a while to shift your attention to his words.

"So – So we shouldn't?" you murmur a lot more restrained now, spreading your legs wider to give his hand more room to explore your pussy.

"Of course we shouldn't, sweetheart. I thought that was clear. But that doesn't mean that we can't… mhm?"

He abruptly moves his mouth to the other side of your neck, pinning you into place. His thumb circles your bundle of nerves painfully slowly, which doesn't align at all with the content of his words. If the situation is as risky as he paints it to be, then he is supposed to hurry up, isn't he? There is not much time for extensive, exploratory touching, no matter how good it might feel.

"But – What if they're gonna find out? What's gonna happen?"

"Well, they're not gonna find out," Alex speaks like there's not a single thing in the world worrying him, pecking your collarbone with gentle kisses. "Don't worry about it. Everything's gonna work out…"

It's hard to say what you would have felt with the knowledge you gather in the following weeks after that moment. Sure, you would have been relieved knowing that Alex is beyond experienced when it comes to covering the things he does at the end of the night after having played a successful concert, but you might have felt sad and insignificant if you knew how many new musicians he fucked on their very first night. Perhaps you wouldn't have been that surprised considering he seemed so calm throughout it all, but you're positive that there would have been some disappointment.

Either way, in the moment, you moan against his thumb, rolling your hips to encourage him to touch your pulsing clit, but Alex has a mind of his own. He just trails his digit through your soaked slit, humming at the wetness he can feel through the thin layer, and brings his left hand to your throat.

"It's okay, darling. You're allowed to want this. You deserve it…" He skillfully tugs down your underwear until it dangles around your knees. The soft breeze wafting against your wet pussy lips makes your spine shiver, and you feel even more grateful for how close he's pressed against your body. Otherwise, you might have collapsed already, broken your wrist and been unable to play the violin again for a long time. And not seen Alex.

When you whimper, searching for his thumb that is still lightly resting against your mouth with your lips, it causes him to laugh out, clicking his tongue.

"Look at that… Not so nervous now. Go on, baby. Show me how you do it."

Fuck, his stance alone is enough to turn all of you into jelly.

"Good girl. Open wide."

You're melting under his dark eyes that look like coal in here. Your parted lips offer him more space to move his hand up and make his whole thumb disappear into your mouth. Meanwhile, he finally helps you relieve some of the pressure in your lower belly and rubs your clit in soothing patterns that don't feel so soothing considering that they make your hole clench.

"Nuh uh," Alex disapprovingly hums, throwing a glance down your body where you shift against the wall, searching for friction that's too far away to reach. "You're gonna have to relax, baby. Can you do that?"

"Mhm." You nod but refuse to let his thumb slip out of your mouth.

It's so thick and soft. Only the pad is rough and hard where calluses have formed over time from playing the cello.

He laughs condescendingly and pushes his finger a little deeper, carefully landing a slap on your pussy.

"I didn't think you would be so touch-starved, sweetheart… Go on, you're doing well. Exactly what my fingers need after such a long concert…"

Your lower body tensed at the sudden impact, but his thumb quickly makes up for it and presses into the underside of your clit with such precision that you writhe and wriggle against him, seeking something that you know you can only get with his blessing. He's the one capable of loosening the strain in your system. He's the one able to gift you the pleasure you need with a single snap of his fingers. The only question is whether he's willing to.

"Fuck… I'm enjoying this way too much, angel," Alex groans throatily, switching back to the other side of your neck that's probably sore and bruised by now. A problem for another day, you find.

"Suck my thumb, sweetheart. The harder you do it, the nicer I'll be to your pretty pussy."

You moan disapprovingly around his finger, arching off the wall with the little amount of freedom he grants you.

"I know, baby… I know it's not even her fault. But I never said I would be kind."

The next thing you know, two of his fingers, his middle and ring finger, are buried within you, filling you up so suddenly that you bite down on his thumb. For a moment, you're horrified, thinking you might have hurt him. The worst scenarios race through your head, him not being able to play the cello for weeks, losing his career, all because you couldn't control yourself. But no, Alex just chuckles condescendingly and glides his thumb over your front teeth.

"I didn't think you'd be such a nasty girl. Especially not after I found you in the corner like a terrified lamb. I was afraid I was gonna make you cry just stepping closer to you. Look at you now… Moaning around my thumb. What do you think happens when I pull it away?"

His thumb moves back a bit, and at the same time, he curls his fingers. You don't know if he's toying with you or not, but you do know that the noises you're going to let out if he removes his thumb are not meant to be bouncing off these high walls, carried toward the rest of the ensemble in the next room.

Therefore, you shake your head over and over while Alex's eyebrows are high up his face, lips pursed mischievously.

"No?"

"Mhmm," you mumble, hooking your little finger into the collar of his white button-up, trying to tug him closer, but you can't exert a lot of force with a single digit. Especially not while you're trying to move someone as massive as him.

"I want you to cum for me, baby. You can. I got my finger in your mouth, so you can just bite down on it. Look at me. It's okay, I'm gonna help you stay quiet."

A few drops of spit trickle down the corner of your mouth, dripping onto your cleavage, but that's a problem you're going to take care of later. For now, you just stare at him like he commanded you to, and to your great surprise, there's nothing awkward about it.

Before he puts in all his effort to make you reach your orgasm, Alex pulls back briefly to bring his hand to his mouth, sighing softly as he licks your juices off his finger. The view prompts you to whimper again, which makes heat rise in your cheeks.

"Good girl. You taste sweet. And now you're gonna let me take care of you. No holding back."

He straightens your posture, gently lifting your chin like your violin teacher used to do when you were slouching.

"Look at me and say it."

Alex withdraws his hand from your lips, a thread of drool connecting your mouth to his thumb, which he then smears all over your chin. It must be red with your lipstick by now, but you assume that if he wanted flawless, he wouldn't have led you in here in the first place.

"I won't hold back," you whisper, watching the smug satisfaction unfold in his features.

This time as Alex resumes his touch on your pussy, his other hand stays over your mouth, swallowing your small whines and wails. You can feel his hardness press against your thigh, and lord, he must be large, but for the moment, the only thing you can really perceive is the sensation against your sweet spot and the swift swipes over your nub.

You're a pliant mess in his arms. If he told you to sink to the floor right now, you would do it without hesitation. On the other hand, if he let go right now, you would beg him on your knees to continue.

"You're so warm, so wet, sweetheart... Making a goddamn mess on my hand."

Your lips are agape, spit gathering on his fingers.

"Don't let it get to your head... This doesn't mean you're not gonna have to earn your place here. But if you ask nicely, I might help you..."

His lips briefly connect with your hairline as he breathes in the scent of your hair, while his fingers grow more relentless and determined in what they're doing. Whereas he tried to tease you earlier, Alex has a goal now, and that is to get you over the edge.

It takes no more than a few more pumps in and out of your drenched cunt, the noises echoing off the walls like something straight out of a porno. It should have made your blood freeze with the fear of getting caught, but it doesn't, which is a fact you're scared of.

You've been working for this for months. You've put your whole heart into following your dream, and now you're pressed up against a wall by one of the most talented cellists - who's almost twice your age - which could end your career within seconds. You don't have to be a genius to figure out which one of you is more likely to be fired if it comes down to it.

You finally cum with a rather inelegant grunt, your blown, teary eyes fixed on him while your face grows hot. Knees trembling, you hold onto Alex's shirt, gripping the fabric until you're afraid it's going to tear.

"That's right... Cum for me, baby, let me see you. Yeah, there you go."

He tightens his hold around you, just in case you're actually going to collapse. Then he gently thrusts his fingers into you a few more times, his thumb still pressed against your clit.

When it starts aching, you squirm, toes wriggling in your heels. The heels that don't even make you reach his chin, which might be worth mentioning.

"Shh, darling, don't rush me. I'm just enjoying myself... And that happens rarely around here."

The way he's laughing confuses you, but Alex doesn't explain himself further. Instead, he keeps playing with your wetness, smearing it all over your cunt and inner thighs until you're scared you're ruining the floor beneath you.

"Alex..."

"There's that pout..." His hand clasps your jaw, tilting your head to the side as if to examine you from every angle. "That's not how you ask for something, is it?"

"Please."

"Please what? What do you want?"

"Aww, fuck..." you curse, your clit so overly sensitive that every small contact with his thumb feels like someone is setting your nerve endings on fire.

"I thought I told you to trust me earlier. I know how to handle a sweet little lamb like you... All eager to prove herself. So curious and ambitious. It's refreshing to see."

All of a sudden, his hand is gone, and the coldness engulfing your cunt is so abrupt that you can't help but regret flinching away from his touch.

But then Alex picks you up, one arm slung around your waist, the other under your butt. Instinctively, you wrap your legs around his waist and comb through the baby hair at the back of his nape while he carries you toward the stairs.

He sits down with you on top of him, his back against the wall. It's so dark here in the back that you doubt anyone would see you even if they walked straight past you. Then again, it's your noises you're mostly worried about.

"So pretty... You're dressed nicely, but I get it. It's your first concert with this ensemble. You wanted to look beautiful, didn't you?"

His left hand shamelessly roams up your front, cupping your breast through your black dress and bra, while his right is busy somewhere below.

"Pull it down, sweetheart. That's a good girl, yeah... I want you to play with your pretty chest, alright? Do you know how?"

You nod, shifting a little closer to him to ensure that he can see you in the dark.

"Good..." Alex snarls.

There is more movement below him, and you hope it means that he's about to fuck you, but you wouldn't mind stroking his manhood too, if he wanted you to. When you hear plastic being ripped open, you glance down, your hair falling over your shoulders.

"My eyes are up here. I told you to play with your chest, baby... I don't see you doing that. Come on, don't make me ask you twice."

Reluctantly, you pinch your nipple, moaning softly while you knead your breasts. You feel a tad ridiculous since Alex doesn't even have his eyes on you most of the time and instead seems completely occupied with pulling a condom over his cock.

"There you go. Treat them nicely, baby. They open a lot of doors for you if you use them well."

Before you can reply, his mouth is on yours again, shoving you backward only to hold onto the small of your back so you don't fall off his lap. The next thing you feel is his cock tapping against your entrance as if to ask for permission to enter you.

"Deep breath for me, honey. You know how to do that. You did it so well for me earlier."

He rewards you with another "that's right" as you relax your walls and then feel a pressure spreading from your heat all the way up to your ribs.

You had no way to gauge how large he might be or how much sweat and strain it was going to take for you to open up to him, but from the feel of it, he can't be small. Your pussy stretches for him, but it takes a second to adjust to him, which is why you tense your thighs and restrain yourself from sinking onto him in one go.

"What a good little pussy... Fuck, baby. You're tight. Tight and sweet and pretty... Don't know what more I could ask for."

Alex reaches around to give your butt a soft smack, causing your insides to clench.

"Fuck. Fuck, it's - oh gosh..."

You throw your head back, but before you can remember what he told you, he already grabs a few strands of your hair and guides you back into place.

"Jesus Christ, you turn into a brainless brat faster than I can snap my fingers. You focus right here."

You start rolling your hips slowly, hissing through gritted teeth every time he hits deep inside you. It's not like he's impossibly long - rather, he's thick - but somehow, he has the talent of being everywhere all at once, which has to do with his thumb circling your clit like he has some unfinished business there and his other hand sliding along your upper body, mostly your breasts.

"Spit in my palm, angel," he rumbles after a while, his voice gravelly and deeper than before. He uses your drool to lubricate your chest and make his touch smoother. But as your eyes grow wide, your breath staggering at the obscenity of his actions, laughter boils in his lungs.

"Mhmm, filthy, isn't it? You're thinking just because you and I are wearing pretty clothes, this would be refined and neat. But look at your poor nipple. Already sore. We don't want you to hurt, though, mhm?"

Alex breaks your rhythm with a sharp thrust, and as the twirls of his thumb around your clit become faster as well, you lose all sense of time and place, and definitely can't keep up the steady grinds of your hips against his.

"I know, baby... Deep breaths for me. I know it's a lot, but you can take it. You're a tough girl, you can take deep breaths for me. Yeah... In and out. Fuck, you're pretty like that. Your sweet tits bouncing for me."

He cups one and kisses the other, circling the stiff bud with his rough tongue. It's soft and uneven at the same time, bordering on the exhilarating line between pain and pleasure.

"I'm gonna fuck you well, honey, don't worry. It's okay, I'm gonna take care of it, and you relax. You've been through too much already, isn't that right?"

From the content of his words, you would have presumed that he genuinely cares, but there is too much light playfulness in his tone to buy it.

"Yeah..." Alex continues nonetheless, fucking into you from below, his balls squeezed against your butt every time he pulls you all the way down his dick.

"You poor thing just wants to relax for a bit. And here I am dragging you out here..."

"No," you quickly protest, hands wandering down his chest and stomach. Fuck, you should have demanded that he undress as well, but you didn't find the time or the capacity to both hold yourself together and voice requests.

"I need it. I need it so much, Alex, please..."

"Yeah, I know you do. You can still relax with my cock inside you."

He reaches that special spot within you again, and fuck, you feel like you could go up in flames just from the stimulation alone.

"A-Alex - I - Fuck, I -"

"Yeah, you're gonna cum again, I know. I knew that's just what you need, cumming around my cock like a good girl."

His lips are twisted, and there is nothing hinting at the fact that he's anywhere close to emptying his balls. Then again, his cock is uncontrollably throbbing inside you, so that's either a normal reaction or he's just very good at concealing the pleasure he experiences.

For the next few minutes, Alex holds you down by your waist and is the only one choosing how fast his thick length fills you and how long he remains buried within you.

Even though it feels a bit strange to be on top while still being utterly motionless in the beginning, you appreciate being able to catch your breath and not being scared of messing up. It's a mystery to you how he manages to both keep a steady rhythm and circle your clit at the same time, but there is a reason why he's one of the most talented and acclaimed cellists in all of America. He's good with his hands, and apparently he's just as good with his cock.

"Cum for me, baby."

The hand on your waist lifts to rest on the side of your neck, pulling you in for a kiss. Whatever you might have choked out gets stuck in your throat, your body slouching, and when you reach your peak, even Alex can't stop you from breaking eye contact to rest your forehead against his shoulder.

He tenderly fucks you through your high, shushing you whenever you squeal or whimper, but for the most part, he just hums to himself and moves you up and down his member like a ragdoll.

His hand rests at the back of your neck now, cradling you against his shoulder, but that only lasts until Alex starts chasing his high as well. In the beginning, your overstimulated pussy protests and quivers, but that only seems to spur him on even more, resulting in a loud grunt followed by many small groans.

Alex cums inside the condom, and although you should know better after two satisfying orgasms, you can't help but wish there was no rubber between your bodies. You can only guess how warm and sticky his seed might be, but you know for a fact that you would have loved to feel it against your walls. Well, maybe next time.

He holds onto the side of your head throughout his high, snarling inaudible things that might be curses or praises of your beauty, but when he lifts his head again, his thumb twitching against your cheekbone, the wrinkles around his eyes are softer.

"Holy shit... Who would've thought, mhm?"

"Who would've thought what?" You smile and place your hands at the base of his neck, wishing you had been wiser and taken off his shirt earlier. You hardly even saw anything, not even his cock.

"That you were hiding all of this underneath that dress. I can tell that I made a good decision taking you back here, mhm?" Alex smacks your butt again, then strokes up the back of your thigh. "Go on, sweetheart. Time to get back to the others, or else they're gonna find us here. And that wouldn't look too good on me... I made a promise after the last one."

The last one?

Your eyebrows draw together, your dry mouth gathering enough spit to ask him the meaning of his words, but Alex is faster and helps you rise from his lap. Your knees and thighs are so feeble that your legs almost instantly give out, which causes him to click his tongue.

"You better behave yourself, sweetheart. People are not gonna believe that your legs turned to jelly from playing the violin for two hours."

You silently pull at the straps of your black dress. The spit he smeared all over your chest has dried by now, but you can't say the same about your pussy. At least no one's going to see it now that your underwear safely covers your cunt again.

"And - And what now?" you whisper once you're dressed.

Alex's shoulders drop, his hand reaching out to bring some order to the mess on top of your head.

"Now we're going back to the others. And we're gonna act like nothing happened because we both don't have any interest in the others finding out about this. I can promise you that much."

It's not at all what you meant by your question, but you have no idea how to rephrase it so he understands.

"You think you can do that? Or do I have to get you to the bathroom so we can splash some cold water on your face?"

"No. It's fine."

He nods once, then turns toward the end of the staircase. Right before he leaves you alone in the dark, you collect all the courage inside your body and clear your throat.

"Alex?"

Alex Serian, the star cellist, one of the most talented people you've ever had the privilege of meeting, halts, his hand on the railing of the staircase.

"What?"

"Are you - I mean, we - What does it mean for... for us?"

"For us?" A smile creeps onto his lips, his forehead creased. "Honey, it means that I just found out that you have a very nice and very tight pussy and that we shouldn't get tricked by the clothes you usually wear to rehearsal."

He waits for you to answer, but since you don't, he sighs, walks back to you and cups your chin.

"You're not satisfied with that? You think because I fucked you on that staircase, it means I'm gonna take you out to dinner tomorrow? Oh sweetheart..."

He leans in to kiss your brow, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

"You're adorable. But unfortunately, I don't do dating. No matter how soft a pussy they have. You're gonna understand. I wouldn't recommend going on dates with people you work with anyway."

Alex's pupils scurry over your features a few more times, taking in the pucker of your lips and the sparkle in your eyes, indicating that you're not far from bursting into tears.

You just can't help it. The day has been exhausting and nerve-racking, you made a wonderful acquaintance with one of your greatest role models, and now that very man fucked you in the hallway only to tell you that he doesn't do dating. What are you supposed to make of this?

It felt so fucking good.

He must have felt that way too, or why else would you feel like the two of you fit together like puzzle pieces?