Wrong Notes

I can hear the music trickling out of the living room as I open your front door. You’ve got so used to my presence now that you leave it open for me, knowing that I can kick off my shoes and find my way in without needing you to hover over me. I hear your greeting from the living room, and pad down the hallway.

You’re bent over your guitar, your back to me, and I catch the notes of a riff as you try to learn the quick fingering. My feet are soft on the carpet, and I’ve moved so quietly that you haven’t heard me, intent on your fingers as the music slowly comes together.

A slipped finger, a wrong note, and you swear before you restart the sequence. I’m behind you now, and you half-turn your head as you feel my breath on your cheek. I don’t usually get this close to you, and the notes falter as you start to straighten up, wondering what I’m up to.

My fingers trace up the back of your neck and into your hair, and your breath catches on the surge of desire.

“Don’t stop playing.” I murmur.

And then it’s a game to see how many wrong notes you’ll play, before the music dissolves into a moan.

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