Beckenham Beauty | NEON LIT

Marcus had always wanted to play piano. At forty, he finally started lessons. Efua made him believe he could.

She was Ghanaian-British, a former concert pianist who now taught from her elegant Beckenham home. Her thick curves sat gracefully on the piano bench, her fingers dancing over keys like magic.

"You have the talent," she said after his third lesson. "But you're fighting the rhythm. Music needs to flow through you."

"How do I let it flow?"

"Stay late tonight. I'll teach you."

The house was quiet after sunset, just them and the piano. Efua sat behind him on the bench, her thick body pressed against his back.

"Feel my breathing. Let it set the tempo."

Her chest rose and fell against him. He tried to focus on the keys.

"Better. Now feel this."

Her hands covered his, guiding them through the piece. Her breath was warm on his neck.

The piece dissolved into something else—her lips on his neck, his hands on her thighs, the piano forgotten.

"I shouldn't," she breathed. "Student and teacher..."

"Teach me something else."

She turned him around on the bench and straddled him, her thick body filling his arms.

"This is about rhythm too. Match me."

They made love on the piano bench, then on the floor beside the grand piano, then bent over the instrument itself, the keys sounding wild chords beneath her hands.

"Yes... there... keep the rhythm..."

She came with a sound like music, and he followed, both of them breathing hard against the polished wood.

"Next lesson," she said afterward, "we work on that Chopin piece."

"And after?"

"After..." She kissed him softly. "We work on our own composition. The one we started tonight."

"How long will that take?"

"A lifetime." Her smile was a melody. "Some pieces are worth practicing forever."

His Beckenham beauty had taught him more than piano. And Marcus had found the rhythm he'd been missing all his life.