Piano Lessons
"At 32, Derek decides to finally learn piano. His instructor is a voluptuous widow who teaches him far more than scales."
The ad had been simple: "Piano lessons for adults. All levels. Patient instruction." Derek had called the number expecting some retired professor. Instead, a voice like honey and smoke had answered, and he'd found himself agreeing to lessons he wasn't sure he needed.
Margaret Chen opened the door wearing a flowing caftan that did nothing to hide her generous proportions. She was somewhere in her mid-fifties, her black hair streaked with elegant silver, her face unlined except for the smile creases around dark, knowing eyes. She was the most beautiful woman Derek had seen in years.
"You're my three o'clock." She stepped aside to let him in. "Derek, yes?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Margaret. Or Maggie, if we become friends." Her smile was warm. "The piano is this way."
Her home was elegant and cluttered with a life well-lived—photographs on every surface, books stacked in corners, a cat watching him suspiciously from a velvet armchair. The grand piano dominated the living room, its black surface gleaming.
"Sit," she instructed, settling beside him on the bench. The space was intimate, her thigh pressing against his. She smelled like jasmine and something richer underneath. "Show me your hands."
He held them out, and she took them in her own—soft hands, plump fingers, warm against his skin. She examined his fingers with professional interest.
"Good reach. You've never played?"
"My mother tried to teach me when I was young. I was too stubborn to learn."
"And now you're less stubborn?"
"Now I know what I've been missing."
She met his eyes, and something electric passed between them. Then she turned back to the keys, all business.
"We'll start with scales."
The lessons continued weekly. Derek learned finger positioning, basic chords, simple melodies. But more than that, he learned Margaret.
She'd been a concert pianist before marriage, touring internationally until she was thirty. Then she'd met William Chen, and suddenly the world seemed smaller than the life she could build with him. Twenty-three years of happiness, ended by a heart attack on a Tuesday morning.
"Three years now," she told him during their fifth lesson, her fingers demonstrating a complicated passage. "Some days it feels like yesterday. Others like a different lifetime."
"You must miss him."
"Every day. But grief isn't meant to be a cage." She played a melancholy chord. "William would have hated seeing me locked away in this house, turning into a museum piece."
"Is that what you've been doing?"
Her hands stilled on the keys. "Perhaps. Until recently."
The air grew thick between them. Derek was aware of every place their bodies touched—thigh to thigh, her shoulder brushing his arm as she reached for the higher octaves. She was wearing a wrap dress today, and it gaped slightly, revealing the swell of her breasts in a simple white bra.
"Margaret—"
"Play the piece I taught you." Her voice was husky. "The Chopin."
His hands were shaking slightly as he positioned them on the keys. The nocturne flowed from his fingers—imperfect, halting, but recognizable. Margaret moved closer, her breath warm on his neck.
"Better," she murmured. "Again. And this time, feel it."
He played again. This time, she was practically pressed against him, her lips brushing his ear.
"Music is emotion given form." Her hand covered his, guiding him through a difficult transition. "You're holding back. Don't."
The final note hung in the air. Derek turned to face her, and she was right there, close enough to kiss.
"I don't want to hold back anymore," he said.
"Then don't."
He kissed her soft and slow, the way a woman like her deserved to be kissed. She melted into him, her hands clutching his shirt, a small sound of need escaping her throat. When they finally broke apart, her eyes were bright with unshed tears.
"It's been so long," she whispered. "I'd forgotten how..."
"Let me remind you."
He led her to the couch, laying her back against the cushions. Her caftan fell open easily, revealing a body that time had treated kindly—full breasts barely contained by white lace, a soft belly, wide hips made for holding. He undressed her slowly, kissing each new expanse of skin.
"You're beautiful," he told her, and meant it.
"I'm old—"
"You're beautiful."
He proved it with his mouth, working his way down her body until he found her center, already wet with wanting. She cried out when his tongue touched her, her hands flying to his hair. He took his time, learning what she liked, bringing her to the edge and backing off until she was begging.
"Please, Derek, I need—"
He gave her what she needed. His fingers joined his tongue, finding the spot inside her that made her scream. She came hard and long, her thighs clamping around his head, her whole body shaking.
Before she could recover, he was sheathing himself and pressing inside her. She was tight despite her wetness, her body adjusting to him with little gasps of pleasure.
"Tell me if it's too much," he said.
"It's not enough." She pulled him closer. "More. Give me more."
He thrust deeper, setting a rhythm that had them both gasping. The couch creaked beneath them, but neither cared. Margaret's nails raked his back as she urged him faster, harder, deeper.
"I'm going to—" she gasped.
"Come for me. Come for me, Maggie."
She shattered around him, and the feeling of her walls pulsing sent him over the edge. He buried himself to the hilt as he came, feeling her body milk every last drop.
They lay tangled together afterward, the late afternoon light turning golden through the windows.
"Same time next week?" she asked, a smile playing on her lips.
Derek laughed, pulling her closer. "I think I need extra lessons."
"Oh, there's so much more I can teach you."
And she did.