For his first major solo performance after his wife's death, why on earth did he insist on Paganini of all people? Kara wondered as she watched Chris, standing at the front of the stage, shake out his arms and nod at Rolfe, the conductor. Rolfe turned, scowled over the entire group to get their attention, and raised his baton. Kara hastily looked down at her music, but couldn't resist looking up again just before Chris's entrance. She watched anxiously as he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and set his bow on the strings of his violin. In another moment, she heard him play and relaxed her shoulders. It was going to be all right.
Although she'd asked herself the question, she really knew that the reason he'd chosen this piece over a romantic composer was because he could handle the technically exhausting challenge—but the emotional effort of Beethoven or Tchaikovsky or Bruch would have broken him before he was through the first movement. Any concerti but Paganini's would have crushed him with the suddenly contracted memory of his marriage to Rachel and her untimely death from cancer.
The Paganini highlighted Chris's virtuoso skills perfectly, and as the piece progressed Kara found herself caught up in Chris's performance. Knowing how difficult the solo was contributed to her appreciation. But she always loved to watch him and listen to him play; this time it was different somehow. I wonder why, she thought as she sat listening to an especially acrobatic cadenza. At the end of the cadenza, there was a pause, and in that split second, Chris looked over to where Kara sat in the bass section, caught her eye, and winked. Then he resumed playing.
It was so fast that Kara found herself wondering what had just happened, but she grinned at her music all the same. He didn't wink at anyone else in the middle of a concerto like that. And that was it; Kara blinked as she realized it. That was the difference. Tonight, she thought, I'm the one who'll be going home with him and I'll be going to bed with all that incredible talent. He'd warned her before they left the hotel room that after a performance he always was left with excess energy, but hadn't mentioned how he wound down enough to sleep. Now, however, she thought she could make a pretty accurate guess, and she grew flushed thinking about the energy he'd be bringing to bed with him tonight.
As she thought, the music and Chris's passionate performance both began to work on her. The stage grew smaller and the room grew warmer until everything seemed to dissolve into darkness and moist heat, leaving her with only the pure tonality of the violin to cling to like a life preserver in a vast, dark sea. She shifted in her chair and hoped there wouldn't be a wet spot on her dress when she stood up. Then, of course, awareness of how her arousal was manifesting itself--and during a performance of all things--only made her think further in the same direction: of her nipples in Chris's mouth, her legs wrapped around him, that delicious moment when his erection was poised at the entrance of her vagina. Just how enthusiastic would he be later? She stopped playing.
"Are you all right?" the bassist next to her whispered.
Her breathing had accelerated and she had to make a conscious effort to slow it again. "Yes, thanks," she whispered back, not taking her eyes off her own music. How embarrassing. She found her place in the music and started playing again.
"It's just that you looked flushed," the man next to her said at the end of the concerto under cover of the audience's applause.
Kara smiled feebly at him as she watched Chris take a bow. "Thanks," she said again, momentarily distracted by a slow trickle of her juice down her thigh. God, how long was it going to be before she and Chris could leave?
