The Problem With Musicians

Disclaimer- characters and whatnot do not belong to me. they belong to Nightow. i make no profit from this. i am merely borrowing them for a wee bit.



The problem with fucking musicians was that they figured they knew how to play you as perfectly as any other damned instrument. And with their nimble fingers, faultless breath control and affinity for pacing…well, it was rather hard to argue their arrogance. It was almost impossible to argue when Midvalley’s mouth was warm against his abdomen; Midvalley’s hands were working their way up his thighs…

Midvalley was all elegance and grace, a demonic jazz musician putting on an obscene encore for the man who half despised and half admired him. At least he wasn’t talking…waxing philosophic, treasonous. At least he wasn’t about to get both of them killed, not that time, not occupied as he was. It made the sex all the more important, gave it a meaning, albeit a tenuous one, that went beyond adrenaline and sweat and animal need.

“Shut up.” Wolfwood growled, recognizing the look in Midvalley’s hooded eyes. Midvalley chuckled, the words he had been about to utter swallowed into a smile the instant before he bit, none too gently, at the sensitive flesh of Wolfwood’s inner thighs. A tongue honed from working long and hard at the reed of a saxophone applied itself with equal skill Wolfwood’s flesh, drawing a pleased array of sound in response.

The problem with fucking musicians was that there was nowhere else to get such attention to detail, such methodical and almost supernatural skill apart from a paid companion. Wolfwood hated being played, but like any drug, until he came down from the high he wasn’t going to complain. Especially not when Midvalley was sucking like that.

Hatred would come later, with the sweaty, unmistakable evidence of sex cooling on his body. Later he would pull away, angry that he had been played again, pull away from the dark expression on Midvalley’s face, their mutual loathing. But for now…