Smoke and Seduction Ch. 05

Author's Note: This runs alongside the stories in 'Tales from a disability Driver' it could be seen as a crossover.

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The smell hits me first, bacon, thick and curling through the air like smoke from a cigar. My eyes open to pale morning light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the ocean is a flat grey line beyond the glass. The beside me the bed is empty, the sheets cool where Diana's body had been.

I roll onto my back, one arm thrown across my face, and listen.

The sizzle of fat in a pan. The scrape of a spatula against cast iron. The soft clink of a plate being set down on the marble benchtop.

I push myself up, the sheets pooling at my waist, and scrub both hands through my hair.

My body is heavy with that particular ache that comes from a night spent doing everything right, muscles in my thighs still thrumming, a low pull in my lower back from the rhythm on the deck under the stars.

I swing my legs off the mattress and stand, the pale carpet soft under my bare feet, and pad down the hallway toward the kitchen.

Diana stands at the stove with her back to me, wearing one of my shirts and nothing else.

The hem skims the middle of her thighs, the fabric tented slightly at the shoulders where it's too broad for her frame. Her dark blonde hair falls loose between her shoulder blades, still creased from sleep.

She's humming something a low, tuneless thread of melody that vibrates in her chest more than her throat, shifting strips of bacon around a pan with a fork.

"Morning," I say, my voice rough.

She glances over her shoulder.

Her blue eyes catch the light from the window above the sink, and her mouth curves at one corner.

"Sit down. Eggs are nearly done." Diana says to me.

I pull out one of the stools at the marble island and lower myself onto it.

The kitchen smells of salt air and rendered fat and the faintly sweet note of Diana's skin that warm, sleep-flushed scent she carries before she showers.

She reaches up to a high cabinet for two plates, the shirt riding up the backs of her thighs, and I catch the crescent of her arse before she drops onto her toes and the fabric drops again. She brings the plates to the island bacon piled high, eggs over easy with yolks still trembling, two forks, two knives.

"There's coffee, and Tea." she says, nodding toward the pot on the bench behind her. Grinning as she knows I am the one who won't drink coffee. I never have.

I pour two mugs and slide one across to her. She wraps both hands around it and lifts it to her mouth, blowing across the surface before taking a sip. Her eyes close for a moment.

We eat in a silence that doesn't need filling.

I cut through an egg yolk and watch it bleed gold across the white of the plate. Diana eats with her fingers half the time picking up bacon strips, tearing them with her teeth, licking the grease from her thumb.

The husk in her voice is thicker this morning, rougher, like the bourbon and the ocean air have stripped another layer from it overnight.

"I found something," she says, not looking up from her plate.

"Found what?" I enquire.

"A place. About an hour from here." She reaches across the island and picks up my phone, which she's somehow already unlocked, and turns the screen toward me.

A website loads a basic layout, the kind of thing that hasn't been updated since 2015, with a banner photo of steaming grey-brown mud ringed by high wooden walls.

"Thermal mud pools. Natural hot springs. They've got private spas you can hire by the hour." Diana says rather excitedly. Her tone when she is excited is strangely the same as Megan's.

I look at the screen, then at her. She's watching me with that particular expression she gets when she's already decided what we're doing and is only asking out of courtesy, chin lifted, one eyebrow slightly raised, the corner of her mouth holding steady.

"Diana." I say.

"It's our last full day." She says as she sets the phone down and leans forward on her elbows, the collar of my shirt gaping so I can see the inner curve of her breast, the shadow of pale pink.

"I want to sit in hot mud. I want to smell like sulphur. I want to do something that isn't this house for a few hours." Diana states firmly.

"We could just." I start.

"We've fucked on every surface in this place. We've fucked on the beach. We've fucked on the deck." She picks up her coffee and takes another sip, eyes fixed on mine over the rim.

"I want to fuck somewhere that smells like the earth's insides." Diana states categorically.

I can't argue with that. I never can.

"Fine, Thermal mud pools." I say.

Her mouth breaks into a full smile the second real one I've seen from her, the first was at the chip shop and she straightens up and carries her plate to the sink.

"Shower first. You smell like my cunt and bourbon." Diana says to me.

"You say that like it's a bad thing." I tease back.

She turns on the tap and doesn't answer, but I can see her shoulders shaking with a laugh she won't let me hear. As I stand and walk to the bathroom.

The bathroom tiles are cold under my feet as I step into the shower stall and pull the glass door shut behind me.

I crank the handle toward hot and stand under the spray, letting the water flatten my hair against my skull and run in rivulets down my chest, through the hair, along the channel of my stomach. Steam fills the small space, fogging the glass, turning the world outside into a blur of white tile and pale light.

I'm reaching for the soap when the glass door opens quietly and Diana steps in behind me. She's naked now shed my shirt somewhere between the kitchen and the bedroom and her body presses against my back, her breasts soft against my back, her nipples telling me her body is turned on as they poke me.

Her hands sliding around my waist. Her palms are flat against my stomach, fingers spread, and I feel the slight scratch of her nails as she drags them down through the wet hair below my navel.

"I thought you were going to wait," I say, though my cock is already thickening, filling with heat against my thigh.

"I changed my mind." Diana replies as she reaches past me for the soap, a plain white bar, nothing fancy and works it between her hands until a thick lather builds, white and slick.

She presses her soapy palms to my chest and starts to wash me, moving in slow circles across my pectorals, down over my ribs, along the line of my obliques.

Her touch is firm and unhurried, almost clinical, like she's mapping terrain.

"You're very thorough," I murmur.

"Shut up." Diana snaps back playfully.

Her hands travel lower. She lathers my stomach, my hips, the crease of my groin, and then her fingers close around my cock still half-hard, thickening further under her grip, and she strokes upward from root to tip with a slick, soapy fist.

The sensation is immediate and electric the slip of lather, the pressure of her fingers, the heat of her body against my back.

I brace one hand against the tile wall and let my head fall forward, water streaming down my face.

She works me with a practised rhythm long, twisting strokes that pull the foreskin up over the head and then drag back down, her thumb sweeping across the slit on every upstroke, smearing my precum into the lather.

Her other hand cups my balls, rolling them gently, tugging with just enough pressure to make my hips buck forward into her fist.

"Di!" I pant breathlessly. The word comes out broken, half-swallowed by water.

"Cum on," she says against my ear, her voice a low rasp that vibrates through my jaw.

"I want you to cum for me. Right here. In my hand." Diana says almost tauntingly.

She speeds up. Her fist becomes a blur of white foam and slick skin, pumping my shaft with a grip that tightens on every downstroke, and I can feel the orgasm building at the base of my spine.

That heavy, inevitable pull that starts in my balls and climbs through my core. My thighs tense. My fingers splay against the wet tile. I push my hips forward, fucking her fist, and she matches my rhythm perfectly meeting every thrust with a downward stroke that drags the climax out of me whether I'm ready to climax or not.

I cum with a groan that echoes off the tiles thick ropes of white shooting across the shower floor, dissolving into the water and swirling toward the drain.

Diana keeps stroking, slower now, milking every last drop from me, her thumb circling the sensitive head until I flinch and catch her wrist.

"Enough," I breathe, defiantly.

She releases me and steps back, holding her soapy hand under the spray. I watch the water run clean over her fingers, watch her shake them dry, and then she's stepping out of the shower and wrapping herself in a towel and leaving me standing under the hot water with my cock still twitching and my legs still trembling.

Diana dresses in the bedroom while I dry off. I watch her from the bathroom doorway, a towel around my waist, as she pulls on a pair of pale blue jeans that hug her hips and thighs, and a white blouse that she buttons to the third button.

Underneath I catch glimpses as she moves a white bra with pink lace along the upper edge of the cups, and matching panties with the same pink trim sitting high on her hips.

She sits on the edge of the bed to lace up a pair of orange Converse the colour jarring against everything else, loud and deliberate and then stands and tucks a folded black garment into a small canvas bag.

"What's that?" I ask out of curiosity.

"Swimming costume. The mud pool requires actual swimwear. Apparently." She says as she holds it up briefly a black one-piece, high-legged, cut deep at the hips. Her tone almost laughing at the idea that a public pool would require bathers.

I pull on my own clothes, jeans, a grey t-shirt, leather ankle boots and grab my phone and keys from the kitchen bench.

Diana is already at the front door, the canvas bag slung over one shoulder, waiting.

The drive takes us inland, away from the coast, through rolling green hills dotted with sheep.

The Skoda hums along the narrow country road, diesel engine steady, and Diana sits in the passenger seat with her bare feet she's kicked off the Converse and tucked them under the seat feet propped up on the dashboard, her toes wiggling against the windscreen.

She's found a radio station playing old jazz crackly trumpet solos and brushed snares, a lot of Glen Miller and Louis Armstrong, and she taps her fingers on her thigh in time.

Forty minutes in, and all of a sudden, she drops her feet from the dash and turns to look at me.

"Pull over!" Diana says commandingly and suddenly.

"What?" I say as I glance at her.

"Pull over. Now. Stop the car." Diana says again.

There's nothing around us, just the road, the hills, a dry stone wall running along the verge. I indicate and ease the Skoda onto the gravel shoulder, the tyres crunching to a stop.

I put it in park and turn to ask her what's wrong, but she's already unbuckled her seatbelt and reaching for the door handle. Like she wants to escape all of a sudden.

"Back seat, Now." she says

I don't argue. I've learned not to argue.

We climb out of our respective doors and meet at the rear of the car. Diana pulls the back door open and pushes me in ahead of her.

I land on the leather upholstery, the seat cold through my jeans, and she follows, pulling the door shut behind her and straddling my lap in one fluid motion.

Her knees bracket my hips, her hands grip the headrest behind me, and her mouth finds mine -- hot, open, tasting of coffee and that particular sweetness her lips always seem to carry.

Her tongue pushes past my teeth and I suck on it, my hands gripping her waist, pulling her down against me.

She grinds against my lap and I can feel her heat through both layers of denim, that concentrated warmth between her thighs that seeps through fabric and sets my blood moving. My cock hardens in my jeans, the shaft pressing against the seam, and she rolls her hips in a slow circle that drags her cunt directly across the length of it.

"I've been wet since the shower, Since I felt you cum in my hand." she whispers against my mouth.

"Christ, Diana." I say starting to protest.

"Get your dick out. NOW!" Diana commands me.

I reach down and fumble with my belt, the buckle clinking, the button popping, the zipper dragging down.

I shove my jeans and boxers down to my thighs and my cock springs free.

Fully hard now, twelve inches of thick, veined flesh jutting up between us.

Diana lifts her hips, reaches down, and undoes her own jeans, shoving them and the pink-laced panties down past her knees in one rough motion.

She doesn't take them fully off just enough and then she's guiding me inside her, one hand wrapped around the base of my shaft, the other braced on my shoulder, and she sinks down in one long, slow descent that takes every inch of me.

She's slick and open and scalding her cunt swallowing me whole, the walls gripping and rippling as she adjusts to my girth.

Her head falls back, her mouth open, a low sound coming from deep in her chest not a moan, exactly, more like a sustained exhale of pure relief.

She bottoms out with her pelvis pressed flat against mine, my cock buried to the root, and she stays there for a moment, just breathing. Just sitting. Breathing and sitting with her eyes closed.

Then she starts to move.

She rides me in long, grinding strokes lifting until only the head remains inside, then dropping back down with a wet slap of skin on skin.

The leather seat creaks beneath us.

The windows fog. I grip her hips and thrust up into her from below, meeting every descent with a sharp upward snap of my hips that drives my cock deep into her deepest recesses.

She makes a high, thin sound that breaks in the middle, and braces both hands on the back of the front seats, changing the angle so my cock drags against her front wall on every stroke.

"FUCK! FUCK! RIGHT THERE! RIGHT THERE! OH MY FUCKING GOD YES RIGHT THERE! DON'T STOP! DON'T YOU DARE STOP!" Diana shouts.

Her voice is shredded, the huskiness torn into something raw.

"DON'T STOP, DON'T YOU FUCKING STOP!" Diana screams.

I don't. I fuck up into her with everything I have, the car rocking on its suspension, the headrest banging against the door frame, my hands leaving marks on her hips.

Then she rises off a fraction enough for maybe one or two fingers to sit in the gap between her and me. She hovers for a few seconds, pants, breathes heavily and then she collapse down like a pile driver back onto my cock and takes the whole length. And she cums.

She cums with a full-body shudder, her cunt clamping down on me in rhythmic pulses, her thighs squeezing my sides, her fingers white-knuckled on the leather. Screaming in a loud, long shout of "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH."

I keep thrusting through it, drawing it out, and when she finally goes limp against my chest, I'm still hard inside her.

She lifts off me slowly, my cock sliding out with a wet sound that fills the car's interior.

She settles back on her heels, breathing hard, and looks at me with glassy eyes.

"Outside, I want it in my ass. Over the boot." Diana says almost commanding me.

She climbs off of me and opens the passenger rear door and climbs out. I follow her.

We climb out, her jeans still around her knees, my cock jutting obscenely from my open fly and she walks to the rear of the car and pops the boot.

It opens to reveal the spacious boot with the carpeted interior, and a folded towel she must have stashed earlier.

She bends forward in a standing doggy style, over the lip of the boot, forearms resting on the towel, arse presented to me, round and pale, the cheeks parted just enough to show the dark puckered ring of her anus.

I step behind her. I gather spit in my mouth and let it fall onto her arsehole, a thick strand that lands directly on the tight ring and runs slowly downward.

I press my thumb against it, pushing the spit inside, working the muscle in slow circles until it yields, softening under the pressure.

She drops her head between her arms and pushes back against my hand.

"More!" she demands.

I spit again, this time directly into the gap between her cheeks, and use my thumb to spread it. Then I press two fingers against the opening and push inside feeling the ring resist, then give, the heat and grip of her arse closing around my knuckles.

I work them in and out, scissoring gently, stretching the muscle. She makes a sound half grunt, half groan and I feel her relax further.

I line up my cock. The head presses against the spit-slicked rim and I push in, slow, steady, relentless.

The ring resists, clamps, then opens around the head with a pop that I feel more than hear. She sucks in air through her teeth and her back arches, and I stop, holding still, letting her adjust.

"Keep going," she manages.

I push deeper. The heat is overwhelming, it's tighter than her cunt, drier, the friction intense even with the spit.

I feed inch after inch into her arse, watching the muscle stretch around my girth, watching the shaft disappear slowly into her body.

When I'm halfway in, I stop for a second and then I start to move, short, shallow thrusts that work the first six inches in and out, each stroke opening her further.

"Yes! More! Give me more! She says, Her voice barely a whisper

I push deeper. Eight inches. Nine.

The grip of her arse around my shaft is so tight it borders on pain, a hot, squeezing pressure that sends sparks up my spine. I grab her hips for leverage and start to fuck her properly, long strokes that pull almost all the way out before driving back in, the force of each thrust rocking the car on its suspension. The boot lid bounces gently with every impact.

Diana reaches back with one hand and grabs my wrist, pulling me deeper, urging me harder.

I increase the pace slamming into her now, the sound of our bodies meeting in sharp, wet slaps that echo across the empty landscape.

Her arse clenches and releases around me in waves, the muscle learning to accommodate my full length, and I bury myself to the root on every stroke.

"I'm going to cum inside you," I tell her, my voice strained. As I grab a handful of hair and pull her head back.

"Do it. Fill my arse. I want to feel it." Diana snorts through clenched teeth.

I drive into her one final time, burying all twelve inches, my hips pressed flush against her cheeks and I cum.

The orgasm rips through me from the soles of my feet, my cock pulsing inside her, pumping thick jets of cum deep into her arse.

She gasps I can feel her arse clenching around me, milking every drop, drawing it deeper and her whole body trembles.

I hold still inside her for a long moment, breathing hard, my forehead resting against the back of her neck.

The world smells of grass and sex and the faint mineral tang of the hot springs we're driving toward.

I pull out slowly, watching my cock emerge from her stretched arse the head popping free with a wet sound, followed by a trickle of white cum that runs down between her thighs and drips onto the gravel.

She sighs a contented sigh and straightens up slowly, turns, and kisses me soft this time, almost tender.

Then she pulls up her jeans, fastens them, and climbs back into the passenger seat as if nothing has happened.

"Drive," she says.

The mud pool facility sits in a hollow of land ringed by steam, a low wooden building with a gravel car park and a path leading through a gate into an enclosed garden.

The sulphur smell hits me before I've even turned off the engine, thick and eggy and strangely pleasant in its earthiness. Diana inhales deeply beside me, her eyes half-closed.

"Oh, that's good," she murmurs.

Inside, a bored teenager at a bench takes our money and hands me a pair of hired swimming shorts, navy blue, slightly faded, the elastic waistband stretched from use.

Diana carries her black one-piece into the changing rooms.

We change separately, and when she emerges, the high-legged one-piece cuts deep across her hips, the black fabric clinging to every curve, the scoop back exposing the blade of her spine and the dimples above her arse.

The main mud pool sits in the centre of the enclosed garden a steaming basin of grey-brown mud, thick and viscous, ringed by high wooden walls that block any view from outside.

We wade in together. The mud is warm not hot, but a deep, enveloping heat that climbs my calves, my thighs, my waist as I push deeper. It clings to my skin with a weight that's strangely comforting, like being held.

Diana sinks to her chest and tilts her head back, eyes closed, a slow smile spreading across her face.

"This is exactly what I wanted." She muses, talking with her eyes closed, head back.

We soak for twenty minutes. The mud softens everything the tension in my shoulders, the ache in my thighs, the residual soreness in my lower back.

Diana floats beside me, occasionally scooping up handfuls of mud and letting them slide through her fingers. We don't speak. The silence is complete and warm. Which is how it should be.

Then she opens her eyes.

"I booked the private spa. For an hour. Wanna go?" Diana says to me.

"Why not?" I reply back.

We help each other out and wash the mud off ourselves, it's a rule that you can't walk around the site covered in mud.

Diana finds a staff member who unlocks the private spa and shows us in, leaving us a key to get in and out with.

The private mud spa is a smaller room enclosed, private, with a bench carved into the stone wall and a shallow pool of hotter, thinner mud in the centre.

The air is thick with mineral steam. She locks the door behind us and drops her swimming costume to the floor in one motion, standing naked in the steam, her skin slick with mud.

"Your turn," she says, nodding at my shorts and grinning.

I strip them off and she's on me before I've even stepped out of them her mouth on mine, her muddy hands gripping my arse, her body pressing against me with a heat that has nothing to do with the steam.

She pushes me back toward the small wooden bench against the wall and I sit, the wood warm and smooth under my bare thighs.

She drops to her knees in the mud. It's only ankle-deep here, and it squelches around her shins as she positions herself between my legs.

Her hand wraps around my cock already hardening, the shaft thickening under her touch -- and she leans forward and takes the head into her mouth.

The heat of her mouth after the heat of the mud is almost indistinguishable a wet, enveloping warmth that draws a groan from my chest.

She works her tongue in slow circles around the head, teasing the ridge, dipping into the slit. Her hand pumps the lower half of my shaft in a twisting motion that matches the rhythm of her mouth.

She takes more inch by inch, her lips stretching around my girth until I can feel the back of her throat against the head, and she swallows, opening herself, and takes me deeper.

"Jesus." I cry out. My hands are in her hair, fingers tangled in the dark blonde strands, and I resist the urge to thrust. She sets the pace. She always sets the pace.

She pulls off with a wet pop and looks up at me, her lips swollen and pink, her chin slick with spit.

"Fuck me, Right here. Right now." she says, it is almost a command.

I pull her up and turn her around, bending her over the bench so her arse is presented to me, her hands braced on the warm wood.

I line up my cock with her cunt it is soaking wet, the mud and her own arousal mixing into a slick mess and push inside.

She's open and ready, and I slide in to the root in one thrust, my hips slapping against her arse.

I fuck her hard. The bench creaks. The mud squelches under our feet. She pushes back into every thrust with a grunt that echoes off the stone walls. I reach around and cup her breast, pinching the nipple pale pink, hardened to a tight peak and she squeals as her cunt clenches around me.

"More!" she gasps

"In my ass. I need it in my ass." Diana gasps.

I pull out of her cunt and press against her arsehole which is still slightly loose from the roadside, still slick with my earlier cum.

The head slips in easily, the muscle yielding, and I push deeper. She groans a low, sustained sound and her back arches as I fill her.

I fuck her arse on the bench, one hand gripping her hip, the other braced on the wall above her. Then I pull out and sit back down, pulling her onto my lap, and she rides me my cock in her arse, her back against my chest, her feet planted on the bench.

She bounces on me with a controlled rhythm, her hands gripping my knees behind her, and I reach around and rub her clit in fast circles until she cums her whole body going rigid, her arse clenching so hard around my cock that I nearly lose it right there.

"Not yet, I want you in my pussy when you cum. I want your children in me." she breathes

She lifts off me, turns to face me, and sinks down onto my cock taking me into her cunt this time, the wet heat enveloping me.

She rides me facing forward, her hands on my shoulders, her forehead pressed to mine. I grip her hips and thrust up into her, meeting her rhythm, and I feel the orgasm building that heavy pull at the base of my spine, the tightening in my balls.

"I'm going to cum," I tell her.

"Inside. Cum inside me. Fill me up. Darling, Fill me up and make me pregnant." Diana says as she hits me with her hand, repeatedly yet softly.

I bury myself to the root and cum pulsing deep inside her cunt, my cock jerking as I pump rope after rope of cum into her.

She clenches around me, milking every drop, and when I'm spent, she collapses against my chest, her breathing ragged, her body trembling.

We pant heavily, my cum dribbles out of Diana well used pussy and spend the rest of the hour soaking in the thermal pool and the mud bath.

We shower in the facility's communal showers washing the mud from every crease and crevice, the water running brown and mineral-scented.

We change back into our casual clothes, Diana back into her blouse and jeans and orange Converse, me back into my grey t-shirt and jeans and walk to the onsite cafe, a small room with plastic tables and a serving bench.

I order two drinks, two pies and a plate of chips. We sit by the window, looking out at the steam rising from the pools beyond.

Diana wraps both hands around her mug, the same gesture from this morning and stares into the dark liquid for a long time.

When she speaks, her voice is quiet. Controlled. The husk smoothed over into something deliberate.

"I want to record something," she says placing her mug down.

"When we get back to the house." She continues.

"What kind of something?" I ask.

She lifts her gaze from the coffee. Her blue eyes are steady, clear, unreadable.

"For Megan. Something for Megan." Diana answers.

"Oh." I say thinking what is she planning?

Diana seemingly as if she is reading my mind, Answers.

I am going to dedicate a song to you, to you, to Megan To both of you. A private acoustic recording that you could play at your wedding reception if you like. A dedicated song for you two recorded for you both from a well known international Jazz performer." Diana says.

"Oh who do you have in mind?" I tease her back.

"A Miss Diana Krall." Diana teases back.

I breathe relieved that it is what it is, not some of sordid sex tape to hold over me.

We pack up from lunch and head back to the Air BnB.

Diana sits in the front seat and insists I listen to her on YouTube as we drive back.

The gravel crunches beneath the Skoda's tyres as I ease in beside the weathered timber frame of the Airbnb.

The DRL headlights sweep across the front windows, catching the pale curtain linens before I cut the engine. The coast presses in around us that enormous silence broken only by the distant crash of surf against the crescent of sand below the house.

Diana is already reaching for the door handle before I've pulled up the handbrake.

Her fingers close around the leather strap of her bag, and she slides out of the passenger seat with a purpose I haven't seen since the mud pools. The sulphur smell still clings to her hair, mixing with the salt air as I follow her up the wooden steps.

She doesn't wait for me to unlock the door. She already has the key she's been carrying it since this morning and the deadbolt turns with a heavy click. The door swings open onto the open-plan living space, pale wood floors gleaming in the moonlight that pours through the wide windows.

I step inside behind her, and the door hasn't even closed before she's on me.

Her hands hit my chest with both palms not a push, more of a shove and my boots skid on the hardwood as I stumble backward.

The momentum carries me down.

My shoulders hit the floor first, the pale wood grain pressing cold and hard against my back through my white shirt. The impact drives the breath out of my lungs in a grunt.

Diana doesn't give me time to recover. She's already straddling me, her knees bracketing my hips, her thighs clamping against my sides.

"You've been inside me all day," she says, and her voice is that low, gravel-edged husk that makes my cock twitch before my brain even catches up.

"And I want you inside me AGAIN." Diana whispers empathising the word 'AGAIN.' As she licks my face with her long tongue.

Her hands go to my belt. The buckle clinks on the floor. It's a sharp metallic sound in the quiet house, and she rips the leather tongue free of the loops with a hiss.

She doesn't bother with the button. She just hauls the zip down and reaches into my trousers, her fingers wrapping around my cock with the practiced grip of a woman who knows exactly what she wants. And how to get it.

I'm already half-hard I have been since she pressed against me in the car and her grip finishes the job in seconds.

My blood rushes south so fast my head swims.

She pulls me free of my boxers, and the cool air hits my shaft for maybe two seconds before she's shifting her weight, rising up on her knees.

I reach for her, but she catches my wrists and pins them above my head with one hand.

Her grip is stronger than it looks those pianist's fingers digging into the tendons of my inner wrists. She holds me there, and her blue eyes lock onto mine with something between hunger and possession.

"Stay!" she says.

She doesn't have to say it twice. I stay.

Her free hand works the button of her black trousers. The zipper hisses down.

She shimmies the waistband over her hips, and I feel the fabric drag across my thighs as she pushes it down. She's not wearing anything underneath, she hasn't been since the mud pool and the heat of her cunt hits my cock like a slap. Wet. Slick. Ready.

She doesn't tease. She doesn't ease down.

She takes me in one long, brutal slide that bottoms out with her pelvis flush against mine. Twelve inches buried to the root, and she doesn't even flinch.

Just lets out a low, guttural moan that starts somewhere in her chest and exits her throat like she's been starving for this.

"Fuck, That's it. That's fucking it." she breathes.

She starts to move. Not the slow, rolling rhythm of the morning shower or the desperate backseat urgency of the car. This is something else entirely.

She rides me hard, slamming her hips down with each stroke, the impact of her pelvis against mine a dull thud that echoes off the hardwood and the high ceiling.

Her free hand braces against my chest, fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt, knuckles digging into my pectoral.

The nail marks from earlier the ones she left in the mud pool changing room sting as she presses into them.

I try to thrust up into her, to match her rhythm, but she's having none of it.

She pins my wrists harder and leans forward, the angle shifting so her clit grinds against my pubic bone with every downstroke.

Her breathing turns ragged short, sharp gasps that sync with the slap of skin on skin.

The floor is unforgiving beneath my back. Every thrust drives my shoulder blades into the hardwood. I can feel every ridge, every seam in the pale wood grain pressing into my skin through my shirt.

But the pain doesn't register as pain, it registers as intensity, as the physical proof that this is happening, that Diana is above me and around me and using me exactly the way she wants to.

Her cunt grips me like a fist. Slick and hot and impossibly tight, the walls of her squeezing along my shaft with every withdrawal and every plunge. I can feel her getting wetter, I can feel the excess dripping down my cock, pooling at the base where our bodies meet, slicking the space between us into something obscene.

"Diana," I manage, and my voice comes out wrecked.

"Fuck, Di!" I cry out.

"Shut up," she says, but there's no cruelty in it. Just focus.

Her eyes are half-lidded, her lips parted, and a flush has crept up from her chest to her throat. She's close. I can tell by the way her thighs start to tremble against my sides, by the way her rhythm stutters it's faster, harder, less controlled.

She lets go of my wrists to plant both hands on my chest.

Her nails dig in five points of sharp heat on each side of my sternum and she grinds down against me in tight, desperate circles.

Her head tips back. The column of her throat catches the moonlight, tendons standing out beneath fair skin, and the sound that comes out of her is barely human.

It's a moan that cracks into a whine, then breaks into something guttural and raw.

Her cunt clenches around me once, twice, a third time and I feel the gush of her orgasm flood around my cock.

Hot liquid spills down my shaft, soaks into my trousers, drips onto the hardwood beneath us. She doesn't stop moving. She rides the climax like a surfer rides a wave, milking every aftershock with her hips until her thighs are shaking and her arms are trembling.

I'm right behind her. The clench of her orgasm, the wet heat, the sight of her above me with her dark blonde hair falling across her face and her mouth open and her eyes glazed over, it pushes me past the point of no return. My cock swells inside her and I grab her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh above her hipbones, and I bury myself as deep as I can go.

It seems as if my tip is touching the inside of her skull.

And then, the orgasm hits me like a punch to the gut.

My spine arches off the floor, my hips driving up into her, and I actually raise both of us up and off the floor, and I cum hard. I cum and rope after rope of hot semen floods her cunt.

I feel each pulse travel the length of my cock, feel the wet heat of my own cum filling her, mixing with hers. I pulse inside her three, four, five times before the aftershocks fade into a deep, throbbing ache.

I sink back against the floor, chest heaving.

My shirt is soaked with sweat, and it sticks to my skin. Diana stays above me, still straddling me, my softening cock still inside her. She's breathing hard, breathing deep, her hands still braced on my chest, and for a long moment neither of us moves.

Then she lifts herself off me.

The sensation of my cock sliding out of her, oversensitive, slick with both of us makes me hiss through my teeth.

She rises to her feet above me, and I watch as she straightens, her trousers still pushed down around her thighs.

I'm lying on my back on the hardwood floor, my cock hanging out of my open trousers, and I can see, I can see the cum starting to drip out of her.

It starts as a slow leak. A thin, white thread of my semen sliding from between the swollen lips of her pussy, dangling, stretching, before it breaks and lands on the pale wood floor with a faint, wet tap. Then another. A thicker glob this time, viscous and slow, sliding down her inner thigh before it drips from her skin onto the hardwood. Like a dripping bathroom tap.

She looks down at me, then at the floor.

A smile slow, deliberate, almost playful spreads across her face.

"Look at that mess," she says grinning.

She steps out of her trousers entirely, leaving them pooled on the floor beside my hip. Then she does something I don't expect. She lowers herself to her hands and knees on the hardwood floor, her dark blonde hair falling forward around her face, and she dips her head.

Her tongue pink, wet, the same tongue that traced every inch of my cock in the mud pool changing room extends and touches the pale wood floor. She licks a long, slow stripe across the hardwood, collecting the drops of my cum that had dribbled out of her. I watch her tongue work against the grain of the wood, gathering the viscous white fluid, and I can hear the faint wet sound of it, the loud slurp of her sucking and the soft click of her swallowing.

She does it again. Another drop, another stripe of her tongue against the floor. Her lips close around the pooled semen, and she lifts her head slightly, her throat working as she swallows. Then she lowers her mouth one more time, lapping at the last traces of the mess, her tongue pressing flat against the hardwood, leaving a faint shine of saliva where she's cleaned the floor.

She rises to her knees. Then to her feet. She stands over me naked from the waist down, her black jacket and white blouse still buttoned above and she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. The gesture is casual, almost dismissive, like she's just finished a meal. The smile is still there.

"Stay there," she says, and disappears toward the bedroom.

I don't move. I couldn't if I wanted to. My back aches from the hardwood, my cock is soft and sticky against my thigh, and the nail marks on my chest sting when the sweat cools. I lie there on the pale wood floor and listen to the distant crash of waves through the windows.

Twenty minutes pass. I know because I can see the microwave clock on the kitchen bench from where I lie. The numbers change in slow, green increments while I stare at the ceiling beams and try to process what just happened. What's been happening for four days.

What's going to happen tomorrow when I drive Diana to the airport and then go home to Megan?

Then the bedroom door opens.

I turn my head on the hardwood floor and watch Diana walk back into the living area.

She looks different. Transformed. The woman who just rode me raw on the floor and licked my cum off the hardwood is gone, replaced by someone else entirely. Someone polished. Someone professional.

She's wearing a black suit. The jacket is fitted, nipped at the waist, fastened with a single button. Beneath it, a white blouse, crisp, pressed, the collar sharp against the hollow of her throat. Wide-legged black trousers fall in clean lines to the floor, where they break against the glossy black leather of her high heels.

Her dark blonde hair is smooth, straightened, tucked behind her ears. She looks like she's about to walk onto a stage.

She carries a small camera in one hand, the compact kind, the size of a thick paperback book and a microphone in the other. A thin cable connects them. She moves to the kitchen bench and sets both items down, then reaches into her bag and produces a blank DVD in its clear plastic case.

I sit up slowly, my back protesting. As if I am my own grandfather.

"What is all this?" I casually ask.

She doesn't look at me. She breaks the seal on the DVD case, slides the disc out, and feeds it into a slot on the side of the camera. A small red light blinks on, then steadies.

"Megan." she says.

The name lands in my chest like a fist.

"What about Megan?" I ask.

Diana finally looks at me. Her blue eyes are steady, clear, completely present. There's nothing of the wild woman of twenty minutes ago, nothing of the cum on her lips, the nails in my chest, the desperate grinding on the hardwood floor. She looks at me with the composed, unreadable expression of a performer about to step into the spotlight.

"Go sit on the sofa, Don't talk. Don't move. Just watch." she says in a commanding tone as she gestures across to the couch.

I don't know what to say. My mouth opens, then closes. I pull myself to my feet, tuck myself back into my trousers, and zip up. I don't bother with the belt. I walk to the leather sofa near the window and sit down.

Diana moves around the open-plan space with practiced efficiency. She positions the camera on the marble kitchen bench, adjusting the angle until it frames the upright piano against the far wall. She runs the microphone cable to a small stand near the piano bench, clipping the mic to the stand's boom arm so it hangs at mouth level. She checks the frame on the camera's flip-out screen, adjusts the piano bench height, and then stands back and surveys her setup.

She walks to the piano. She sits down on the bench, her back straight, her heels together on the floor. She reaches up and adjusts the boom arm of the microphone so it sits just below her chin. She looks into the camera lens.

"Jon, I need you to be quiet for this. Completely quiet. Can you do that for me?" she says, her voice carrying across the room to me. It's not loud. Just clear.

I nod.

She holds my gaze for a moment longer, then turns to face the camera. She reaches forward and presses a button on the side of the device. A small red light on the front of the camera blinks to life, recording.

Diana looks into the lens. Her hands rest on her knees, her posture impeccable. The single button of her black jacket catches the light from the windows.

She takes a breath, slow, measured, the kind of breath she takes before she sings and when she speaks, her voice is the warm, husky Canadian burr I first heard in the back of my taxi years ago.

"Hi, Megan." Diana says.

The words are simple. Gentle. The way you speak to someone you've never met but already know something about.

Diana pauses, just a beat, just long enough for the name to settle into the silence of the room.

"My name is Diana Krall. I'm a jazz singer and I've been on tour, and for the past four days, Jon has been my driver." Diana states. She says it calmly almost as if she is addressing fans at a concert.

She pauses again. Her hands shift on her knees, smoothing the fabric of her trousers.

"He's been more than a driver, though. He's been my guide. He showed me places I never would have found on my own, thermal pools, coastal roads, little cafes with chips and pasta and ice cream. He's been patient. He's been kind. He's been a friend. And a good one." Diana explains.

I sit on the sofa and watch her profile. The moonlight catches the line of her jaw, the straight fall of her hair against the white of her blouse. Her voice is steady, controlled, but there's something underneath a thread of something I can't quite name.

"But here's the thing, Megan." Diana leans forward slightly, her eyes finding the camera lens with an intensity that makes me hold my breath. I think she is going to tell Megan, my Megan that I haven't kept it in my pants.

"Every single thought he's had every quiet moment, every drive, every view we stopped to look at every thought he has had, every action, has been about you." Diana explains and I breathe a sigh of relief.

"Four days," Diana continues.

"Four days of driving, of talking, of sharing meals. And in all of that time, I can tell you, it is apparent that he loves you. Very, very much." Diana continues.

She says it without hesitation. Without performative softness. Just a flat, clear statement, delivered the way she delivers a lyric. But it is with conviction, with weight, with the understanding that the words themselves carry the meaning and don't need decoration.

"You're a very lucky girl, Megan." Diana says with a broad smile. Anyone watching will see it. But Megan will know Diana is smiling by the change in her tone.

Diana sits back. She lets the words settle. Then she straightens her jacket, squares her shoulders, and shifts on the piano bench. Her hands rise and settle on the ivory keys. The polished ebony of the piano's front panel gleams in the low light.

"I'd like to dedicate a song to you," Diana says.

"It's called 'The Look of Love.' But I've changed the lyrics a little. Because this isn't about the look of love in your eyes, Megan. It's about the look of love in his." Diana explains.

Her fingers touch the keys. The first chord rings out a warm, deep voicing that fills the open-plan space with a resonance I feel in my chest. The piano's sustain pedal clicks beneath her heel, and the sound swells, then settles into silence.

She plays the opening bars. Slow, deliberate, each note placed with the precision of a woman who has played thousands of hours on instruments in clubs and concert halls across the world. The melody is familiar the classic Bacharach tune, the one Dusty Springfield made famous.

But Diana's voicings are different. Darker. More open. She lets the bass notes ring while her right hand traces the melody in octaves, each phrase breathing like a living thing.

Then she sings.

"The look of love is in His eyes," Diana sings.

Her voice is low. Husky. The gravel is there that distinctive texture she cultivates with her cigars, the rough edge beneath the warmth. Making me wonder if she had indeed smoked a cigar as she stripped off and changed.

The microphone captures every grain of it, every breath, every subtle vibration of her vocal cords.

"The look of love, I can't disguise." Diana sings.

She plays while she sings, her left hand maintaining the chordal foundation while her right hand moves between the melody and fills. Her eyes are closed. Her head tilts slightly to the left, toward the microphone, and her lips nearly brush the metal grille.

"Trying to hide the way I feel" Diana sings.

No. She's changed it. She's not singing the original she's rewriting in real time, tailoring each line, each word, each pronoun to the story she wants to tell. The melody is the same, but the lyrics have shifted, redirected, aimed like an arrow at Megan and at me.

"The look of love is in HIS eyes." Diana continues singing.

Her voice catches on the word "his" not a break, not a waver, but a slight deepening, a press of weight into the consonant that makes it land harder than the others. She opens her eyes and looks directly into the camera lens as she sings the line. Her blue eyes are bright, steady, and for a moment I can't tell if she's singing to Megan or to me.

The bridge comes. Her left hand drops into a walking bass line quarter notes, steady, heartbeat-regular while her right hand traces the descending harmony. She leans into the microphone.

"The look of love, it says so much, No one can deny this look of love. I can't disguise, the look of love is in His eyes" Diana sings.

The sustain pedal releases and re-engages. The sound swells and recedes like the tide outside the windows. I can hear the distant crash of surf beneath the music, beneath Diana's voice, beneath the resonance of the strings inside the piano.

The two sounds the ocean and the song weave together into something that makes the hair on my arms stand up.

I sit on the sofa and don't move. Don't breathe. Don't think. I just watch Diana play.

Her fingers move across the keys with the ease of someone who has done this ten thousand or more times.

The muscle memory is in her hands, her wrists, the set of her shoulders.

But the emotion the raw, exposed nerve of what she's singing that's not muscle memory. That's real. That's her voice cracking on the high notes, not from inability but from the weight of what she's putting into them. That's her breath catching between phrases where it shouldn't, where the rhythm demands more air than her lungs are willing to give because something else is taking up the space.

She plays the final verse.

The chords open up wider, more spacious, the harmony expanding outward like a breath released after being held too long.

Her right hand traces the melody one last time, each note slower than the last, each one hanging in the air like smoke.

"The look of love is in HIS eyes..."

She holds the final chord. Her foot presses the sustain pedal down, and the strings vibrate inside the piano's body, the sound fading by degrees a long, slow diminuendo that seems to match the rhythm of the waves outside.

Then silence.

Diana lifts her hands from the keys. She looks at the camera. Her expression is unreadable composed, professional, the mask of a performer who has just finished a set and knows not to let the audience see what's underneath.

"Goodbye, Megan," she says.

She reaches forward and presses the button on the camera. The red light goes dark.

The surf crashes somewhere beyond the walls, a low rhythmic pulse that fills the silence she left behind.

I sit on the sofa with my shirt stuck to my back, the sweat cooling against my skin, my belt still hanging open. The echo of her voice that rewritten melody, the changed lyric, 'the look of love is in His eyes.' coils through my chest like smoke. I can still see her hands on those ivory keys, her spine straight, her mouth shaping Megan's name.

Goodbye, Megan. The words she said echo in my mind.

I stand. My legs are unsteady, the aftertaste of everything still thick on my tongue.

The living room stretches out in dim amber light, the piano bench pushed crooked, the camera dark on its tripod. The bottle of Jim Beam sits half-drunk on the marble countertop, amber catching the glow from the stove light.

I don't reach for it. I walk past all of it, through the hallway, my boots heavy on the hardwood, and push open the master bedroom door.

Diana stands beside the king bed, the suitcase open on the white duvet. Her movements are precise she folds a silk blouse into a tight square, presses it flat, slides it against the inner wall of the case. The DVD in its plain case sits tucked into the outside pocket, zipped shut. She doesn't look up when I enter. Her heels click against the pale carpet as she shifts her weight, reaching for something else.

I stop in the doorway. The floor-to-ceiling windows behind her hold nothing but black ocean and the faint memory of moonlight on water. The room smells like fresh linen and the salt that seeps through every crack in this house.

She's still in the full suit the jacket buttoned, the white blouse sharp at the collar, the wide-legged trousers falling clean over those glossy heels. Her dark blonde hair is tucked behind her ears, smooth and deliberate.

She turns. Her blue eyes find mine, and the breath I take is shallow. The husk in her voice when she finally speaks sits low in my stomach.

"I want one more memory." She pauses. Her fingers rest on the edge of the suitcase. She pauses and exhales.

"But this time, I want you to take control." She explains.

The words land between us. I don't move. The surf fills the gap.

Her hands go to the single button of her jacket. She works it free, shrugs the black fabric off her shoulders, and lays it across the chaise lounge by the window. The white blouse follows her fingers moving down the front, popping each button with a slowness that feels deliberate.

She peels it off, folds it once, sets it aside. The white and pink lacey bra underneath holds her breasts with a delicacy that makes my jaw tighten. Her skin is pale in the low light, the faint pink of her areolas visible through the sheer fabric.

She steps out of the heels. Kicks them neatly to the side. The wide-legged trousers unbutton and slide down her hips, pooling at her feet. She steps free, standing in the white and pink lace panties, her manicured pubic hair a dark shadow beneath the sheer material.

She reaches back. The clasp of the bra snaps free with a soft click. She pulls it off, and her breasts settle full, C-cup, the pale pink nipples tightening in the cool air. Her thumbs hook into the waistband of the panties. She pushes them down over her thighs, lets them drop to the carpet. She steps out of them.

Naked, she turns and walks to the bed. She pulls the duvet back, lies down on the white sheets, and settles down against the pillows.

Her dark blonde hair fans out across the cotton. She bends her knees and lets her legs fall open the trimmed hair between her thighs a precise triangle, the pink of her cunt soft and exposed. She looks at me.

"Fuck me however you want." She says, her voice is gravel and restraint.

"But you look into my eyes the entire time." Diana continues.

I pull my shirt over my head. The sweat-soaked cotton peels off my chest, the nail marks she left earlier stinging as the air hits them.

I drop it on the carpet. My trousers come next

I push them down with my boxers, kick off my boots, step out of everything. My cock hangs heavy between my thighs, half-hard, thickening as the blood rushes in. Twelve inches, and she's looked at it enough times this week to know exactly what's coming.

I walk to the bed. The carpet is thick and soft under my bare feet. I kneel on the edge of the mattress, and the sheets are cool against my knees.

I move over her one hand beside her shoulder, then the other and her face is right there beneath me, her blue eyes locked onto mine.

She doesn't touch me. She doesn't move. She just watches.

I lower my mouth to hers. The kiss starts slow my lips pressing against the full lower curve of hers, tasting the faint salt of her skin, the lingering warmth of the whisky on her breath.

She opens for me, and my tongue slides against hers, wet and searching. I feel the moment her body responds a soft exhale through her nose, her chin tilting up, her lips pressing harder against mine. I bite her lower lip. Not hard. Just enough to pull it between my teeth, let it slide back. Her breath catches.

I don't break eye contact. My hand finds her breast the full weight of it filling my palm, the nipple stiff and pebbled against my skin.

I roll it between my thumb and forefinger, a slow squeeze, and her pupils dilate. The blue of her irises contracts to a thin ring. I watch it happen. I watch her mouth part, the tip of her tongue appearing between her teeth.

My mouth moves down. I kiss the line of her jaw, the hollow of her throat where her pulse is hammering. I keep my eyes on hers tilted, straining, but locked.

My lips find her collarbone, and I drag them along the ridge, tasting the clean salt of her skin. She smells like the linen on the bed and the ocean outside and something underneath both something warm and dark and uniquely hers. Something I can't quite put my finger on.

I move lower. My tongue traces a line from the notch of her throat down to her sternum, and I feel her ribs expand with a deeper breath.

I cup both breasts now, pushing them together, and lower my mouth to her left nipple. The pale pink peak is rigid against my tongue. I circle it slow, wet, deliberate and her back arches, just slightly. A sound comes from her throat, It's low and rough. I look up at her. Her eyes are still on mine, glassy and wide.

I pull at the nipple with my lips. Suck it into my mouth, run my tongue flat across the tip. Her hand comes up her fingers threading into my hair, gripping and I let her.

The pull sends a jolt down my spine. I switch to the other breast, giving it the same attention, my tongue painting wet circles around the wide dark pink areola before sucking the nipple hard. She gasps. Her hips shift under me.

I keep moving down. My mouth traces the flat plane of her stomach, the slight softness below her navel. I can smell her now the musk rising from between her thighs, warm and thick. My cock is fully hard, aching, pressed against the sheets. I settle between her legs, my shoulders pushing her thighs wider. She opens for me, and I can see everything the trimmed dark blonde hair, the pink lips of her cunt glistening with wetness, the tight rosebud of her arse below.

I look up at her. She's propped on her elbows, staring down at me. Her chest rises and falls rapidly.

"Eyes on me," she says. The gravel in her voice has thickened.

I hold her gaze. I lower my mouth. I enjoy, no let me rephrase that I LOVE eating pussy. Always have, Diana's, Megan's my dead wife Jenny's.

My tongue finds the outer fold of her cunt a slow, flat lick from the bottom to the top, gathering the wetness that has already gathered there. She tastes sharp and sweet, like something ripe. Her thighs tremble against my shoulders.

I do it again. Slower. My tongue parts her, dipping into the slick heat between her lips, and I feel her clench a quick, involuntary pulse. I find her clit, swollen and firm, and circle it with the tip of my tongue. Her hips buck, just once, and a moan tears out of her.

I don't stop. I work her clit with my tongue alternating between slow circles and small rapid flicks, sucking it between my lips and letting it slide free.

Her fingers tighten in my hair. Her hips grind against my face, and I let her I let her fuck my mouth, chasing the rhythm she needs. Her wetness coats my chin, my lips, my tongue. I slide one hand under her arse, cupping the cheek, and pull her harder and closer against me.

I shift. My tongue drags lower past her cunt, past the perineum, to the tight ring of her arse. I circle it. Her whole body stiffens. I look up at her, she has her mouth open, her eyes blown wide, locked on mine.

I push my tongue against the tight muscle. It resists, then yields just enough for the tip to slip in. She makes a sound I've never heard from her before something raw and unguarded, almost wounded. I push deeper, my tongue swirling against the slick heat inside, and her thighs clamp around my head.

I reach up with my free hand. Two fingers slide into her cunt she's soaked, and they slip in easily. I curl them upward, pressing against the front wall, and I fuck her with my fingers while my tongue works her arse. The dual sensation makes her writhe her back arching, her hips rolling, her breath coming in sharp bursts.

"Jon! Jon! Ooh Jon!" My name in her mouth is half-gasp, half-plea.

I pull back. Her eyes are wet. Not from sadness from the sheer overwhelming pressure of being this open. I crawl up her body, my cock dragging against her thigh, and I position myself over her.

I reach down. The head of my cock thick, flushed, and leaking pre-cum presses against the entrance of her cunt. I hold there. Just the tip, parting her, the heat of her almost unbearable.

"Look at me," she whispers.

I am. I have been. I press forward. The head slides in, and her cunt stretches around me tight, wet, gripping. She takes a sharp breath. I push deeper, inch by inch, watching her face the entire time. Her eyes widen. Her lips part. I feel the resistance of her body adjusting to the sheer size of me, the walls of her cunt clenching and releasing as I fill her.

I bottom out. Twelve inches buried inside her, my hips flush against hers.

She exhales, a long, shuddering breath and her hands come up to grip my shoulders. Her nails dig in.

I pull back. Slow. Almost all the way out. Then I drive back in.

The force of it pushes her up the bed. Her head presses against the headboard. I grip her hips, anchoring her, and I drive in again harder this time. The wet slap of our bodies fills the room, louder than the surf. She cries out, and her cunt clenches around my cock like a fist.

I set the rhythm. Deep, hard, relentless. Each thrust is a full stroke pulling almost completely out before slamming back in, my cock stretching her, filling her, the head battering against her cervix. Her breasts bounce with every impact. Sweat breaks out across her chest, across her collarbones, beading on her skin.

I watch her. I watch every micro-expression, the way her eyes flutter when I hit deep, the way her mouth opens when I grind against her clit on the downstroke, the way her brow creases when the pleasure spikes so hard it almost hurts. I watch her because she asked me to. Because she needs to be seen.

I shift my angle. I grip her right thigh and push it up, bending her knee toward her chest. The new angle lets me go deeper impossibly deep and her back bows off the mattress. I slam into her, and the sound is obscene wet, sloppy, the squelch of her cunt gripping and releasing my cock with every thrust.

"Don't stop," she gasps. Her voice is wrecked.

"Don't you dare fucking stop." Diana curses.

I don't. I pound into her with everything I have my hips pistoning, the muscles of my arse clenching with each drive, my cock a rigid pole of flesh splitting her open. The bed frame creaks. The headboard taps the wall. Sweat drips from my forehead onto her chest, and she reaches up and wipes it away with her thumb, then brings the thumb to her mouth and sucks it.

I lean down. I kiss her, hard, my tongue pushing into her mouth, swallowing her moans. My hips never stop. The rhythm is brutal now, primal, and I can feel her cunt starting to flutter those involuntary contractions that tell me she's close.

I break the kiss. I pull back enough to see her face. Her eyes are locked on mine, and there's something in them I haven't seen before not the composed performer, not the grieving wife, not the commanding lover. Something underneath all of it. Raw. Unguarded. Open.

I keep thrusting. I reach between us, my thumb finding her clit, and I circle it firm, steady pressure. Her whole body jolts.

"Cum for me," I say. My voice is rough.

"Cum on my cock." I spit.

Her breath catches. Her eyes go wide wider than I've ever seen them and her body seizes. Her cunt clamps down on me so hard I almost can't move.

She cums her back arching, her mouth open in a silent cry, her thighs shaking, her nails raking down my chest. The orgasm tears through her, and I watch every second of it. I watch her face contort and release. I watch the tears spill from the corners of her eyes and run down into her hair. I watch her surrender.

I don't stop. I drive through her orgasm, my cock slamming into her spasming cunt, and she's sobbing now not from pain, not from grief, but from something else entirely.

The wet sounds are obscene. Her cunt is so slick that each thrust produces a sloppy, squelching noise. My cock is coated in her, her juices running down my shaft, pooling at the base, dripping onto the white sheets.

I flip her over. She doesn't resist her body is limp, pliable, rag dollish and she lands face-down on the mattress. I grab her hips and haul them up. She's on her knees, her face pressed into the pillow, her arse in the air.

I can see everything her cunt, swollen and dripping, the tight pink rosebud of her arse above it.

I line up. I drive back into her cunt from behind, and the new angle makes her scream into the pillow. I grip her hips and fuck her rough, fast, my thighs slapping against hers. Her arse ripples with every impact. I reach forward and grab a fistful of her hair pulling her head back, arching her spine.

"Eyes," she manages, twisting to look back at me over her shoulder.

I meet her gaze. I hold it. I pound into her with everything I have left, and I feel it building that pressure at the base of my cock, the tightening of my balls, the heat spreading through my groin.

"I'm going to cum inside you," I say. It's not a question. A statement.

"Do it, Fill me up." She whispers.

I let go. The orgasm hits me like a wave my cock buried deep inside her, pulsing, and I pump rope after rope of cum into her cunt. Hot, thick, overflowing. I can feel it flooding her, feel her cunt milking me with each spasm.

I groan a raw, animal sound and my hips jerk involuntarily, driving deeper with each pulse.

I collapse forward. My chest presses against her back, my cock still inside her, softening. We're both drenched in sweat. Her hair is damp against my face. I can feel her heartbeat through her back, or maybe that's mine it's impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins.

I pull out slowly. The cum follows a thick white trickle spilling from her swollen cunt onto the white sheets. I roll onto my back beside her. She turns her head to look at me.

We lie there. The surf crashes beyond the windows. The sweat cools on our skin. I can feel the heat radiating off her body, the damp patch beneath us, the sticky wetness between her thighs. The room smells like sex like sweat and cum and the salt of the ocean all mixed together.

She reaches over. Her fingers trace the sweat on my chest dragging through the hair, following the lines of the nail marks she left earlier. Her touch is slow. Deliberate. Almost reverent.

"Now you know what it feels like to be seen," she says.

Her voice is quiet. The gravel is still there, but softer now. Worn smooth. Her blue eyes hold mine, and I can see everything in them the grief, the hunger, the need, the strange and complicated tenderness that has built between us over four days of driving and talking and fucking and arguing and singing.

I don't say anything. I don't have the words. I reach up and brush a strand of damp dark blonde hair from her forehead, and she closes her eyes at the touch.

The surf keeps crashing. The room is dark and warm. Her fingers keep tracing slow circles on my chest, and I let them.

Her fingertips trace the crescent marks her nails carved into my chest, each one is a small, stinging reminder. The room smells of salt, sweat, and the mineral tang of cum. Outside, the ocean keeps its rhythm it is patient, indifferent. I turn my head on the pillow and watch her face. Her eyes are still wet, her lips parted, that husky breath slowing by degrees.

I say.

My voice comes out low, almost swallowed by the thick air of the room. Her fingers pause on my chest.

"Another round?" Diana asks The corner of her mouth lifts. Leaving me wondering what was in the water here.

"Not that." I catch her hand, press my mouth to her knuckles.

Her eyes shift. Something moves behind them a flicker of the woman who sat at that piano two nights ago, smoke curling from a cigar, her voice turning a standard into a confession.

"Come with me." I say.

I pull myself upright. The white duvet sticks to my back, peeling away with a soft sound.

My legs are heavy, muscles slack, but I stand and offer her my hand. She looks at it for a long moment my palm, calloused from garden tools and steering wheels and four days of her body, and then she takes it.

Her bare feet touch the pale carpet. She rises beside me, naked, dried cum still bright on her inner thighs, her dark blonde hair falling loose and tangled over her shoulders. She doesn't reach for a robe. She doesn't cover herself. She walks beside me through the dim hallway, her hand in mine, the floorboards cool under our feet.

The living area opens around us. Moonlight cuts through the wide windows, painting silver rectangles across the polished wood floor. The piano stands where it always has an upright ebony silhouette against the glass, ivory keys catching the light like teeth. The half-empty Jim Beam bottle sits on the kitchen counter where I left it. The camera tripod is still folded in the corner, dark and dormant.

I guide her to the bench. She sits, and the leather cushion sighs under her weight. Her back straightens.

Something shifts in her posture a straightening of the spine, a lifting of the chin muscle memory from a thousand stages, a thousand stools in jazz bars from Toronto to Tokyo.

She settles her feet on the pedals, and her hands rise to the keys but don't land.

I move around behind her. My chest presses against her back, my still-warm skin against hers, and I reach past her shoulder to press a low chord. C minor. The notes bloom into the room, deep and resonant, vibrating through the soundboard and into the bench, into her body, into mine.

She shivers.

"Sing for me," I say against her ear. My lips brush the shell of it.

"Not for a camera. Not for Megan. Not for anyone in some venue who paid for a ticket. Just for me. Right now." I say.

Her throat moves. I see it in profile the swallow, the way her jaw tightens. Then she breathes out, and the first note comes.

Low. Almost a hum at first, the gravel still there from the cigars and the crying and the hours of moaning my name into a pillow.

She finds the melody slowly, a phrase from some old standard I half-recognise

"The Look of Love," the one she rewrote for Megan on the DVD, but different now. Slower. The lyrics shift in her mouth, fragmented, improvised.

"The look of love," she sings, her voice cracking on love like a wave hitting rock,

"is in your eyes... the look of love." She sings.

I slide off the bench and onto my knees. The floor is hard and cool under my kneecaps. I'm between her thighs now, my hands on her knees, and I push them apart.

She resists for a moment it's instinct, not refusal and then opens.

Her cunt is still swollen, still slick with my cum and hers, the lips puffy and dark, her manicured hair matted and glistening.

The scent hits me musk and salt and copper, raw and intimate.

I press my mouth to her inner thigh. She hits a wrong note. I smile against her skin.

"Keep singing," I murmur.

Her voice falters, picks up again. I drag my tongue along the crease where her thigh meets her groin, tasting the cocktail of our fluids, bitter, tangy, unmistakably her underneath it all. My hands slide under her, cupping her arse, tilting her hips forward on the bench. Her fingers find the keys again, searching for the chord progression, landing on something suspended and unresolved.

I lick her cunt. One long, slow stroke from the base to her clit, flat-tongued, deliberate.

She gasps, and the chord she's holding breaks into a dissonant cluster of notes. Her thighs tighten around my head, then relax.

"Don't stop," I say. Not a request. My mouth is still on her, the words vibrating through her flesh.

She sings. Her voice wavers and fractures, rebuilds itself from the rubble of each broken note. She finds the melody again, reaching for it like a hand reaching for a ledge. I close my mouth around her clit and suck, gently, then harder, and she moans mid-phrase the sound braiding into the music, making something new, something that lives in the space between a song and a scream.

My tongue circles her clit, wet and insistent. I can taste myself on her and beneath it, her flavour.

I push two fingers inside her, curling them upward, and her cunt clenches around them. The keys clang under her hands. She's losing the melody, finding it, losing it again.

"The look... the look of--" Her voice breaks entirely. She's panting now, her hips rolling against my face, her fingers mashing keys without rhythm or sense.

I thrust my fingers deeper, crooking them against that rough patch inside her, and my tongue works her clit in tight, relentless circles.

"Sing," I command, and the word is muffled by her flesh.

She tries. God, she tries. A broken note, then another, her voice climbing some invisible scale, reaching for a high place she can't quite touch.

I seal my lips around her clit and I suck hard, her whole body seizes, the bench scrapes across the floor, her hands slam down on the keys in a crashing, ugly, beautiful chord, and she cums.

Her cunt spasms around my fingers, clenching and releasing in waves. Her thighs clamp my head like a vice. A sound tears from her throat not a note, not a word, just a raw, open cry that echoes off the high ceiling and the glass and the black ocean beyond.

I don't stop. My tongue keeps moving, my fingers keep curling, milking every contraction from her until her body goes rigid and then limp, her hands sliding off the keys with a descending glissando that fades into nothing.

The room goes quiet. The ocean fills the silence.

I pull my fingers from her slowly, watching her face. Her eyes are closed, her lips parted, her chest heaving. Her naked body glistens with sweat in the moonlight. I press my mouth to her thigh one last time, tasting the salt of her skin, and then I stand.

She opens her eyes. Blue, wet, stripped of every pretence she's ever worn. She looks at me like she's seeing me for the first time, not the driver, not the hired man, not the cock that filled her. But me.

I kiss her forehead. Her hand comes up and rests on my cheek, her thumb tracing my jaw.

We don't speak. There's nothing left that needs words.

We have a quick glass of Whiskey and discuss our trip away. Then I carry Diana back to bed, in my arms. We go to bed and we sleep. Any further thoughts of amorous activities ceased, we are both too exhausted.

In the morning we awake, have a quick filling and hearty breakfast and the bathroom is a blur of hot water and steam. I stand under the shower's spray, watching the cum and sweat swirl down the drain. Diana steps in behind me, and for a moment we just stand there, the water running between our bodies, not touching. Then she reaches past me for the soap, and her breast brushes my arm, and she washes herself with the same precise, methodical movements she used when she packed her suitcase. She's already leaving, even here, even now.

I dry off and pull on my clothes from yesterday white shirt, black suit, black tie. The collar smells like her perfume, something woody and expensive. I don't bother with the tie, just stuff it in my jacket pocket. My boots are where I kicked them, against the wall. I sit on the edge of the bed to lace them. I wear my work uniform, because I may get a fare from the airport, and you never know who might see you.

Diana emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, her hair pinned up in a wet twist. She dresses with the efficiency of a woman who has done this a thousand times in dressing rooms and hotel suites. White blouse first, buttoned to the throat. Black lace bra visible through the fabric, a shadow of what was. Black trousers, wide-legged, falling over her heels. The jacket last, one button done up. She checks herself in the bathroom mirror, runs a finger under each eye, presses her lips together. The woman who emerges is polished, professional, impenetrable. Diana Krall, jazz vocalist, world tour, husband and children waiting in another hemisphere.

Only I can see the faint tremor in her fingers as she clips her earrings back on.

Her suitcases are already packed by the door. Three are being picked up later by a courier, one is going with her back to Vancouver.

She retrieves it, and I take the handle from her without asking. Our fingers brush. She doesn't look at me.

The drive to Auckland International Airport takes two and a half hours.

I know because I count every minute

The Skoda's engine hums on the motorway, and Diana sits in the passenger seat with her hands folded in her lap, watching the landscape scroll past strip malls, then suburbs, then the flat industrial sprawl near the airport. She doesn't turn on the radio. Neither do I.

"You're quiet," she says, somewhere around Manukau.

"So are you." I reply.

"I've said enough." Diana replies with a half-smile, her right hand reaching over to rest on my crotch.

I grip the steering wheel. My knuckles are white. The motorway sign for the airport appears ahead, green and clinical, and I take the exit.

Terminal B. Arrivals lane. I pull the Skoda into the curb space, the engine still running. Sliding glass doors reflect the afternoon sun, and beyond them I can see the river of bodies flowing through the terminal, backpacks, rolling suitcases, children being dragged by the wrist. The heat outside is thick and tropical, the car's air conditioning fighting a losing battle.

I turn off the engine. The silence is sudden and enormous.

Diana unclasps her seatbelt. She doesn't move to get out. Instead, she turns in her seat to face me, her blue eyes level and unblinking.

"Jon." Diana says matter of factly. Her public image her persona showing. Not the lustful, horny one I've seen in private.

"Diana." I reply back.

She leans across the console and kisses me. Not the soft, careful kiss of a goodbye. A deep one, her tongue in my mouth, her hand gripping the back of my neck, her teeth catching my lower lip. I can taste the mint of her toothpaste and underneath it the ghost of everything we've done. She holds me there, her mouth moving against mine, and when she pulls back, her breath is unsteady.

She reaches into her jacket pocket and produces a CD in a clear jewel case, and then the DVD a plain case with nothing written on it but 'For Megan.' She places them both in my hands.

"The CD is for you. The DVD is for Megan." She straightens her jacket.

"Maybe play the song at your wedding. She'll understand." Diana continues, she is upset but she won't admit it.

I look at the cases in my palm.

"What's on the CD?" I ask.

"My personal recordings. Things that never made it onto an album. Things I sang in hotel rooms at three in the morning when I couldn't sleep." Her mouth quirks.

"You'll recognise one of them." She explains.

I close my hand around the cases.

"Thank you." I say back to her.

"There's more." Diana says.

She reaches into her handbag and pulls out a folded slip of paper. An email address, written in her looping handwriting. She tucks it into my shirt pocket, her fingers lingering against my chest. "Personal. Not my management's, not Declan's. Mine. If you ever need to reach me." Diana explains and runs her hand down my lapel.

"I won't." I say.

"You might." She says.

She withdraws her hand.

"I'll be back in March. A show at the Civic. Three nights." She pauses.

"I might need a driver." She muses.

The words hang in the air. I don't answer, because answering either way would be a lie, and we've been too honest with each other to start lying now.

She reaches into her bag one final time and produces a cream-coloured envelope. It's heavy. She holds it out to me.

"What is this?" I ask.

"Open it." Diana says with authority.

I do. Inside, bundled in a folded sheet of letterhead, is cash. New Zealand banknotes, thick and crisp. I flip through them.

Hundreds, fifties, the stack dense in my hand. My brain does the arithmetic before my mouth can form the question.

"Ten thousand, A wedding gift. For you and Megan." she says.

"Diana, I can't." I say.

"Don't." She says.

Her voice is sharp. Not angry, firm. The voice of a woman who has made a decision and will not be argued out of it.

"You spent four days with me. You drove me everywhere. You were kind when you didn't have to be. You saw me." She says.

Her throat moves.

"That's worth more than money. But money is what I have, so money is what I'm giving. Take it. Use it. Make your wedding something beautiful." Diana explains.

I close the envelope. My hands are steady, but something inside my chest is cracking, a fault line spreading.

She opens the passenger door. The heat rolls in. She steps out, her heels clicking on the concrete, and reaches back for her suitcase handle. I step out of my side and round the car. I want to carry it for her, one last time, but she's already rolling it toward the sliding glass doors.

She stops. Turns.

The afternoon light catches her hair, her face, the single button on her jacket. She looks at me with those blue eyes, red-rimmed still, despite the shower, despite the makeup, and she smiles. Not the stage smile. Not the polished, professional mask. A real one, small and lopsided and utterly devastating.

"I've enjoyed my break," she says.

Her voice is the husky growl I'll hear in my sleep for months.

"Megan is a very lucky lady." She says

She pauses. The smile falters for a fraction of a second, something raw flickering beneath.

Then she leans forward and kisses me on the lips.

"Treat her right, Jon." Diana says as she looks me in the face.

She turns before I can respond. The glass doors slide apart, and she steps through, her black suit disappearing into the river of bodies. I watch her until the crowd swallows her the dark blonde head, the rolling suitcase, the straight spine. She doesn't look back.

The glass doors slide shut.

I stand in the heat, the envelope heavy in my jacket pocket, the CD and DVD in my hand. The smell of jet fuel and hot tarmac mixes with the salt that still clings to my shirt. A family pushes past me, a father carrying a sleeping child, a mother wrestling three passports, and the noise of the terminal washes over me.

I get back in the Skoda. I start the engine.

There is nothing happening work wise so I text Megan and tell her on my way.

I pull out of the arrivals lane and merge into the traffic crawling toward the motorway on-ramp.

The drive home takes forty-seven minutes. I count every one again.

The house is warm when I open the door. The smell of something cooking, garlic, tomatoes, basil. I drop my bag in the hallway and follow the sound of the kitchen radio playing some oldies station, the volume low. Maybe Megan is broadening her musical horizons I think.

Megan is at the stove, her back to me, her red hair piled in a messy bun. She's wearing one of my old t-shirts the grey one with the faded logo and a pair of cotton shorts. Her feet are bare. She's stirring something in a pot, and she's humming along to the radio, off-key, the way she always does when she doesn't know I'm listening.

"Hey," she says, without turning around. She must have heard the door.

"How was the gig? Was the client a nightmare?" Megan asks.

I stand in the kitchen doorway. The envelope presses against my ribs. The DVD sits in my hand.

"It was fine," I say.

"She was fine." I continue, admitting no truths but yet telling no lies.

"Good." She turns then, and her face breaks into that wide, uncomplicated smile--the one that makes the room brighter, the one I came home to because I chose it.

"I missed you. Dinner's almost ready. Go wash up." Megan says as she turns to face me.

She crosses the kitchen and kisses me, quick, warm, the taste of tomato sauce on her lips. Her hand lingers on my chest, over the pocket where the email address is tucked. She smells like the kitchen and the house and everything that is mine.

I hold her. A beat too long, maybe. She looks up at me, her white eyes searching.

"Jon? You okay?" She asks.

"Yeah." I brush a strand of red hair from her face.

"Yeah, I'm good. Just glad to be back." I say.

She squeezes my arm and turns back to the stove. The pot bubbles. The radio plays. I set the DVD on the counter and look at it.

I think about a piano in the moonlight. A voice breaking and rebuilding. A mouth on me, and a cry that echoed off the ceiling. I think about hands on ivory keys, and a woman who told me to treat this one right.

I put the DVD in the drawer by the television. I'll show Megan later. Not tonight. Tonight, I'm home.

I go wash up.

And as I walk down the hallway, my taxi app on the phone chimes. I open it.

'Booking: Client name Diana K. four days. March 14th to 18th. Booked by client, requested you.'

I laugh. Diana didn't waste much time I muse and walk down the hallway.

I am here with Megan, this is my here and now. But I can't help but think of Diana sitting in the airport lounge smiling as she booked me again.