They’d entertained.
They’d captured every last person’s attention.
All eyes remained on them.
But for me, my view stayed on Belladonna and the breathtaking woman holding her.
Why her?
One look at the violinist and something happened. It was a subtle ping in my chest. An odd thought came to mind, as if I’d been waiting for her. Not in a fairytale way. It was a gut feeling that she was important. Somehow. In some way.
Or maybe I was over-analyzing the fact that she’d made my cock hard.
Why did she do that?
Of course, she was gorgeous. Lush golden-honey skin. Wavy hair. She was definitely a mixture of something. A glow radiated around her. She shined bright on the stage. Although she sat as she played, I could make out her curvy frame.
Still, I sat there confused at why she’d triggered an erection. I’d seen beautiful women before. I’d fucked many, if not hundreds.
Why her?
It wasn’t just her playing either, although my body hummed to her tempo. And it wasn’t only that she stood out from the crowd. Which she did, being the only black woman up there and playing better than them all.
No.
It was because she made me think of Homer’s sirens in the Odyssey. She lured like them. Performing with the rest of the symphony, but in the most irresistible way. She held the bow and violin like a lover. Her back arched on certain notes. Her lips parted during sensual melodies. Sometimes she closed her eyes as if she was drowning in pleasure and unable to focus on seeing. I could tell that she was not with us—the audience—she was in her mind, with my violin, and doing very nasty things to it.
I bet her nipples are hard.
It took one musical pervert to know another.
Long ago, when I played certain songs, my cock would go stiff.
She’s definitely getting off on this.
The melody sped up.
She bit her lip and performed an exquisite sautillé, bouncing the bow perfectly. Belladonna and her united, mentally orgasming together—her stroking the bow just right and the violin moaning back in utter passion—I yearned to grip my cock. It was like witnessing a lesbian act between two gorgeous women.
Belladonna, you little cheat. Have you found another?
It was clear that this gorgeous woman had dominated her. Envy mixed with desire. While I had no intention of making this violinist mine, I wouldn’t mind sampling her body for the evening.
Siren. Yes. She could play a song that forced men to jump out of their boats.
I imagined charmed sailors all around her, swimming to their deaths.
What had Odysseus done to stop his demise?
Odysseus had spent one night with Circe—a goddess of sorcery. She’d lived on a mythical island with her nymph companions. She’d warned Odysseus and described the obstacle he would face on his voyage home, especially the sirens. He set sail the next day with his men. When they approached the island of sirens, he plugged his men’s ears with beeswax and had them bind him to the mast of the ship.
Only he heard the song. So seductive.
Odysseus begged his men to release him, but his men remained faithful and kept the binds on.
The orchestra quieted. The violinist took over a solo.
I hissed in my chair.
Rafael turned to me. “What’s wrong? It didn’t sound like she messed up.”
“It’s perfect. She’s a siren.”
He studied my face and then moved his view to my gripping the seat. “Sirène?”
What else could she be? Already, I’d wondered how her mouth tasted. Already, I considered what her body looked like under those clothes.
Men were visual animals after all. And I envisioned this violinist’s hands on my cock, instead of the bow, doing many erotic things.
Rafael leaned next to me. “You must admit that this is a good home for your violin. The city is even named after her. That’s a damn good sign.”
“What’s your point?”
“I hate killing women.”
“Me too, and I’m not killing the violinist.”
“You’re not?” He quirked his eyebrows. “You’ve killed everyone in connection to the deal. The seller. Buyer. Lawyer. The benefactor here in Belladonna who loaned the violin to the symphony—”
“Would you like to say that louder? I don’t think the top rows heard you.”
Being a man not used to someone being sarcastic with him, Rafael lowered his voice with a scowl. “You’re not killing her?”
“No. She doesn’t own Belladonna.”
He smirked. “I don’t know about that. Do you hear what I’m hearing?”
I frowned. “She won’t get in my way.”
“So, we take it from her house?” He smiled as he stared back at her. “I won’t send Giorgio or the others. I wouldn’t mind personally looking through her place.”
“No. I’ll handle this.”
He chuckled to himself as the orchestra ended the song and the audience rose to a standing ovation.
I stood along with Rafael. “What’s so funny?”
“She’s not a whore, Jean-Pierre. Do you even know how to talk to a regular woman anymore?”