Free The Conductor and the Muse by Veronika Myse Page B

during the course.
    M s . Tanes returns and takes the dishes.  I look up and see that Miss Winter had consumed most of the vegetables.  The main course is baked chicken wrapped in prosciutto, baby red potatoes, and steamed carrots.  I watch as she picks up the knife and carves the chicken into bite size pieces.  Her fingers are strong, nimble, and I cannot wait to see her play the piano.
    “Are you satisfied with the accommodations in the guest house?”
    She quickly swallows, “Yes, it is very nice.  I especially like the bed,” she stops and covers her mouth.
    She likes the bed?  I try to recall the bed in the guest house.  It has been so many yea rs since I have been inside.  Mister Kensley takes care of the grounds as well as the guest house.  Miss Riner takes care of the housekeeping and laundry for the Muses.
    “What do you like about the bed?”
    Her eyes meet mine, they are darkened, heavy.  Her lips are pouty and full.  “I, uh-I like the heavy down comforter and all of the pillows.  It’s so luxurious,” she smiles softly.  We sit quietly, finishing our meal staring at one another, stealing smiles and exchanging pleasantries. 
    M s . Tanes places a small bowl of Neapolitan ice cream in front of each of us and returns to the kitchen.  I watch Leena scoop a small amount of strawberry ice cream on the spoon and place it into her mouth.  Her movements are so fluid, so seductive and I cannot take my eyes off her lips.  I spy her tongue flick out and wet them, retreating quickly.  My ice cream remains untouched.  Instead, I drink the water that has now warmed to room temperature.  It still feels cool against my arid mouth.
    After she finishes her dessert, I stand and pull her chair out.  She stands and thanks me for my jacket.  I take the material in my fists and slowly reveal her naked shoulders.  My fingers inadvertently brush against her skin, she turns and faces me.  Her breath smells of strawberry and vanilla.
    “May I play for you now?”
    “Yes, this way please,” I say leading her to the sitting room.  I feel her el ectricity as we walk in .  She walks toward the piano in the corner.  I sit, facing the Muse as she pulls the ruby velvet bench from under the white piano.   She stands, facing away from me and bends at her waist.  I watch her back side, fully present as she pulls her dress up to her knees.  I watch her untie the blue ribbon around her calf and unwind it, remove the delicate shoe, then the other, and setting them to the side.  She drops her dress and it puddles at her feet.   I feel like a voyeur.  I am seated in a large, overstuffed chair, in the shadows with my muse sitting in the spotlight preparing to play for me.
    She’s breathtakingly perfect.  She squares her shoulders and starts to tickle the ivory keys.  The sound is more than music, like nothing I have ever heard before.  I search my memory of her compilations and I cannot place the melody.  I close my eyes and rest my head back against the leather .  The beat is seducing, matching my heart rate .  The lower tones are reverberating, pounding in my core, causing an immediate reaction once again.  I adjust myself and wonder if I will make it a full year with her so close yet so untouchable.
    The notes continue to pound until suddenly, they soften.  Quiet, high notes fill the still room.  I open my eyes and stare at the form playing with my emotions.  Her head is down, her chin touching her neck.  Her feet gently caressing the brass pedals keeping time and holding the crescendo.  I have never witnessed anything so erotic, so raw, so powerful yet, so innocent in my life.  A small smile spreads across her lips as the final note fades.  She stays seated, waiting for me to respond.
    “Miss Winter,” I sigh, “you are most talented.”
    I watch her reach for her shoes.  She remains seated, pulls her dress up slightly, bends at the waist and places it on her left foot.  She crosses her leg