Confessions of a Mistress (Part V):

Tour Bus Rendezvous

by Gwen Masters

His fingers worked gently over the strings of his old guitar. The binding was worn and missing in places. The veneer below the pick guard was long since rubbed away, leaving nothing but the beauty of the naked wood underneath. Concentration claimed his features as the song took shape, tripping over itself in places, falling in perfect stair step sync in others. His hands were steady and capable over the instrument of his boyhood dreams and mature hopes.

The door opened and closed. Men walked in and down the narrow aisle. Then they walked back and out with some important object in hand. They were intent on setting up the stage just outside and preparing for a show that would command the attention of over ten thousand people. But here in the last moments of solitude, the old tour bus was a haven for the star of the show. I sat on the couch. My hair made idle trails down my shoulders, every curl separating slightly before my fingers, over and over. He played with the intention of a man trying not to show his nervousness.

His experienced hands skipped a note. He paused, then went back and played the note, over and over. The precision of it was like that of a hammer driving a nail, driving the missed note deep into the structure of his mind.

He glanced up at me. I tapped my lip with my finger. He rolled his eyes.

"I know you are smirking behind your hand, why hide it?"

A snicker escaped me. He smiled and gave up on the song, settling the guitar beside him with the reservation that I had grown to expect before every show. The crowd outside was the judge of his work. The moment of truth was always there on that stage, no matter what a chart or a plaque said. He always had the remembrance of a young boy playing air guitar in his bedroom in the middle of the night, dreaming of exactly what now awaited him beyond the doors of the bus. I prayed he would never lose that generous measure of childish awe that made him the man he was.

"You ready?" I asked softly.

"Yes." His answer came quickly and then he laughed, a short sound that belied the calm exterior.

We looked at each other for a long moment. He opened his mouth to say something just as the door opened. We both quickly looked away. He picked up his guitar.

The chords he played kept the men from asking questions. An eternity passed before the roadies were finished. He moved with the grace I had come to expect. Three steps took him to the door. A few spoken words to those outside, then our smiles met with the click of the lock.

"I thought they would never leave," he whispered.

His hair was surprisingly warm under my fingers. His head rested on my shoulder as he dropped to his knees in front of the couch, pulling me as closely to him as he could. His arms around my back made me feel safe and warm. His heart thumped steadily against mine. His breath caressed my throat as he spoke.

"It's a big crowd tonight."

His calm tone didn't fool me, and he knew it. I held him tighter. Something thumped against the outside of the bus. One of the roadies cursed roundly. A keyboard trailed out a merry tune, then stopped in mid-measure. Drumbeats rang out. The crowd got louder by the minute. But there on the couch on that big tour bus, there was only the resounding sweetness of silence as two people held each other.

"You'll do so well. You'll make them laugh and cry. You always do."

One long sigh, and then he lifted his head to look into my eyes. Brown flecked with green made the deepest of hazel. Nervousness made the darkness even darker. He searched the depths of me for something, as he always did, a search that puzzled yet comforted me all at once. A warmth ran all through my body and settled somewhere in the pit of my belly. He did not smile.

"What is it that makes you believe in me so much?"

I counted the green strands. Twelve in one eye, fourteen in the other. Flecks of amber shone occasionally. One trace of yellow graced the left one. The intelligence in them made them shine with the light of playful attentiveness. His eyes were actually a whole slew of colors, just as the man was never what he first seemed to be.

"I believe in you because you are who you are. You are a wonderful man with incredible gifts."

His fingers twined into my hair. He pulled my head back, revealing the vulnerability of my throat by slow degrees. I shivered as his lips touched my ear. At the sound of his low voice I arched toward him with the instinctive nature of complete trust. "But why me?" he whispered, his breath teasing my skin.

I began to answer, but the sound escaped me as his tongue flicked over the hollow of my throat. Then his teeth settled on my jaw with a gentle pressure. My hands came up to cradle his face, so that I could better feel the way he was making my body melt like a candle in the heat of a summer windowsill. My eyes drifted closed.

"Why me?" he whispered again.

"Because-." The thought was again lost as his fingers found the buttons of my shirt. One, then two. Then three, and the cool air rushed in to tell us both just how much my skin craved his touch. His tongue trailed down. I tried desperately to remember what he had asked, feeling slightly disturbed at the fact that he took my thought so easily. Then he pulled the shirt open with one quick and deliberate motion, and I moaned despite myself.

His eyes were darker than ever when I looked into them again. The intent and almost malicious desire in them made it impossible to look away. I let myself be held captive by his eyes as his hands worked buckles, zippers, and the trappings of modesty that were suddenly nothing but hindrances. My hands curled into the soft leather seat. I lifted my hips at the slightest questioning motion of his hand. Then there was nothing between us at all.

His skin was warm, almost as warm as his mouth. His arms wrapped around me and his eyes left mine. The softness of his tongue over my breast suddenly brought my body back to life. My hands caught in his long hair and I held him there, pulling him into me, feeling him take long and slow draws of the sweetness of my skin. My legs parted and then he was between them, his body needing to claim the space, his jealousy not allowing even the innocent air to grace those places he thought were rightfully his. The heat of his desire was like a match to tinder. My legs twined around him of their own accord.

His breath was harsh against my belly. Then my thighs. What I had been so shy in letting him do only a month before, I now gladly offered. His breath brushed over me like the paint strokes on a canvas, the gentle caress of a man intent on rejoicing in the work of art he believed me to be. I watched everything, studied every motion that made my body arch and tremble. Then my eyes had to close with the lightness of pure sensation.

My whimper was answered by his deep groan. His hands were suddenly not as gentle on my thighs, for neither of us wanted gentleness any longer. I bucked into him, enjoying the feeling of his tongue playing over the most intimate secrets of my woman's body. The thrill built deep within me, the curious mixture of tightening desire and gentle relaxation that always left me weak yet wanting more.

Eventually he let his tongue trail back up my body, as we both tasted the sweetness he had enjoyed. My whole body shook. When there was nothing left but the certainty of his body driving deep into mine, he paused. My hands dug into his hips. My legs tightened around him, trying to pull him to where he belonged. He held steady against the beckoning of my desire. He held steady until I looked into those dark eyes with the green strands and flecks of amber.

"Why me?" he whispered.

My answer came easily and with an honesty that startled us both. "Because I have no choice."

For a long instant, the words settled around us, charging the very breath we shared, the very air that graced us. Then that power became motion and I cried out against his shoulder as his body slid deep. In that first moment of pleasure mixed with the sweetest of gentle pain, his shuddering breath was all my thoughts could possibly hold.

He was deliberate and sure. My body felt like a vessel from which he drew his very sustenance. Suddenly, he could not have enough. The demand of his heart made itself known in the demand of his body. His intensity shocked me in its boldness. When I would have touched him, he didn't let me. When I would have held him closer with my body, he would not allow it. He moved so that his eyes could take in everything. His hands could touch everything. His tongue could taste almost as much. He could breathe deeply of my perfume. He could hear the moans that fell from my lips as he drove deeper, harder.

"More," he demanded, and I thrust up to meet him. The shattered groan that ripped from his throat sent a shaft of power coursing through my veins. Nothing but the silken sheath of my body touched him. Nothing but the deep well of desire that he had created within me. My hands clenched hard on the couch; his trembled on either side of my head. I moved harder. His eyes drifted closed. His head fell forward as his body fell still.

He let me drive him almost to the point of no return. The rush began somewhere deep within me and raced outward. In pure instinct his hand covered my mouth and I let go, let the scream rend the very fabric of my being, knowing that I was in his safekeeping. He thrust deep one final time and let my orgasm claim him. One final tortured breath, one last moan and then his teeth bit down on my shoulder, the little burst of pain sending me over a higher edge than I had just found. This time our cries mingled, the desperate sounds of two people trying to keep quiet when being quiet was the last thing that really mattered.

Each throb of him inside me sent a sweet aching all through me. His heart beat so hard against my chest that I felt it as my own. Then he was whispering in my ear, moving so slowly, telling me things that made me smile. Long moments passed while we enjoyed the remnants of the passion that lingered still in bodies deliciously tempting to one another. His low laugh was answered with mine. We whispered things meant to tease. His hands molded every curve. The flush of lovemaking covered us both, but the true warmth was within.

We gradually became aware of the crowd outside, the voices that were anticipating his. He regretfully moved away from me with one lingering kiss. We dressed slowly between kisses and teasing touches. Nothing felt as comfortable as his hands in my hair when he kissed me one more time just because he had to taste the essence that was uniquely me. We laughed more than we talked. By the time he was dressed and ready to face his adoring public, the relaxation in his dark eyes was real, and the nervousness was long gone.

He said something to make me giggle, and I slid my hand up his back to make him shiver. We headed for the door of the bus. His step was confident and sure. My body ached deliciously from his recent welcome invasion of it. Just before he opened the door that would lead him to the stage, he swooped me close to him with one quick motion, holding me so tightly that neither of us could breathe.

"No one has ever believed in me like you do." His voice was that of a man who had a past of taking too much for granted. It was the voice of a man vowing to never take those common and simple things for granted again.

I kissed him softly. "Play well," I whispered. He smiled against my lips.

A moment later the crowd roared as he bounded onto the stage, guitar in hand. The flush in his face was both excitement and passion. The lithe motion of his body was both anticipation and the relaxation of a man well enjoyed. I stood with the crowd, the one person in the sea of humanity who knew.

Then his eye caught mine, he grinned, and his hand slid slightly down the neck of his guitar. The key changed for one brief note. It was his acknowledgement. And I was the only one who understood, the only one he needed to understand. The thought made me smile.

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