Read Paisley Dreams Part 1 đ” NOW!
Hello, my wonderful darlinâs! (And Happy 1st Bday to Pink Scarf!đ) This week's story is a special request from a dear Sugar Mama regarding Elvisâ sexy yellow shirt from August 6th, 1970 and how it disappeared. Itâs coincidence that I happened to be working on it on the anniversary of him wearing it, but I just take that as a good sign from the universe LOL.
This one definitely got away from me, and because of that, Iâm splitting it into two partsâconsequently, Part 1 is more tension building and not very smutty but I promise Part 2 will have more spice!
Enjoy babies, and let me know what you think!
xoxox, Madi đ
TW: attempted sexual assault, cussing, ass kicking, protective!e, passing reference to his weight/ed/drug issues, masturbation
Paisley Dreams (Part 1) đ”đđ„
August 1970
Elvis has a love-hate relationship with going out on the town, especially when going to his fellow entertainerâs shows. He loves the novelty of it, being able to be out in the world like a (somewhat) normal human being, to be able to interact with people that arenât necessarily there to see him. He likes that the focus is on someone else for a change, and he loves talking with people who arenât part of his immediate circle.
What he hates, however, is pulling focus from the people performing. Itâs the reason he shows up a little late and gets seated after the lights go down. Contrary to what some idiots may believe, he does not want it to be The Elvis Show all the time. And while he likes being around new people, he doesnât always enjoy the hobnobbing that is seemingly required with other celebrities, if in attendance. No, heâd rather talk with people he cares about or regular, everyday folks instead of putting on airs for some Hollywood types.
There is also something to the fact that heâs not in 100% control of those situations when things are not revolving around him, and while a little of that is thrilling and breaks through the boredom that can happen in his insular life, it can also be disconcerting. It leaves him a little more jittery than usual, but the stubborn part of him refuses to let it overcome him tonight.
Somedays, he wishes he could be invisible and could mull about as he pleases in obscurity. Problem is, heâs way too used to the attention being him brings, and whether or not heâd admit it to anyone else, it would make him feel mightily insecure if no one at all knew who he was, if not one person came up to say hi or get an autograph. He had a little taste of that with Steve before the â68 Special, when heâd been told in so many words to get over himself when no one stopped him on the street in front of the studio.
He hadnât liked it, no siree, despite the freedom and lack of pressure it offered in the moment. No, he was much too used to being Elvis Presley. It is the conundrum of his life, of a fame unlike any other, that leaves him to continually pendulum from being trapped by it on one end and unable to live without it on the other.
Tonight, he fortifies himself for a night that wonât be entirely under his control and heads over to Nancy Sinatraâs show at Caesarâs Palace. Something about the unpredictability makes him feel a little more alive, like something exciting is just waiting for just the right moment to happen and bring him along with it. He much prefers thinking in those terms and not in terms of threats of harm.
Since Nancy is a good friend, he keeps himself rather understated for the evening. He knows he looks sharp in his high-collared, well-tailored chocolate suit, with a paisley yellow shirt underneath. His belt is simple (for him, at least). The outfit does not scream âlook at me!â He wants the attention to be on Nancy and not him.
He also refused to bring the whole damn entourage tonight, feeling a little bit smothered by the sea of men heâs cultivated around him. Heâd settled for Charlie, Richard, and Felton as his companions for the evening, despite Joe and Redâs protestations. All he wants is a little fun, a little music that isnât his, and a little break from the pressure of rehearsals for his own engagement that starts in a few daysâcomplete with a movie crew from MGM to film the damn thing.
He likes rising to the challenge of it, but hell, it makes him more nervous than usual. A lot is riding on his ability to deliver a fabulous show, and not only that, but theyâve been filming the rehearsals, too, so he feels like heâs under the microscope even when he normally isnât. That coupled with learning three times as many songs as usual has his brain feeling fuzzy and him sleeping worse than usual. Nothing a pill (or three) canât fix, though.
At least itâs allâŠstimulating. And Lord knows heâs a man that needs stimulation and variety, something that is harder and harder to come by with his life being the way it is.
But tonight isnât about him. And everything seems to be going according to planâthereâs a little attention on him with fans and photos and such, enough to make him feel good, but most of the focus is elsewhere. It feels like he can breathe a little.
The show is great; he enjoys seeing Nance after, though his heart always does a little flip around her. Sheâs been a soft spot for him for a long time, and despite his multiple attempts to endear her a little more intimately to him, sheâs always kept him mostly on the straight and narrow. He loves her even more for keeping him in check, though he still wouldnât mind a tousle in the bedroom with her.
And itâs here he finds himself, ruminating pleasantly, if not a bit hopefully, on the past, when the lot of them sneak out through the back kitchens in order to avoid the crush of people out front waiting for a glimpse of him.
He certainly doesnât expect to come upon some drunken asshole aggressively throwing a young woman up against the wall down the dark alley behind the Palace. His eyes narrow and a surge of adrenaline wafts through him as he tries to figure out what exactly is happening and why. Body standing to attention, heâs grateful his karate training comes in handy in times like theseâwhich is precisely why he keeps up on the craft.
âDonât think we should get involved, EP,â Richard warns, putting his hand out as if to stop him from moving towards the scuffle, but he bats it away like a fly.
âCome on, you little tart. I know you want it. You know youâre jusâ askinâ for it up there in those skimpy costumes, donâtcha?â the guy slurs at her, groping at her breasts.
Elvis hastens his stride down the alley, blood up, nerves tingling, and ready to kick this guyâs ass for assaulting this poor showgirl.
âGet the fuck off me, creep!â she screams back at the guy, slapping his hand away, and looking more angry than afraid, she stomps on the guyâs foot and knees him hard in the nuts.
Elvis canât help but cringe, but the guy deserves it. Good on her.
âYou bitch!â the asshole shrieks, clutching his groin. Unfortunately, in his pain, or maybe just because heâs that much of a dick, the man yanks down on her flimsy top, ripping it apart and right off her chest, exposing her braless breasts. Then, he lunges for her throat.
With a growl, Elvis takes his last few steps quickly, easily knocking the drunk bastard off his feet with a well-placed kick and sending him sprawling onto the dirty pavement. The guy lands with a groan, shaking his head. Elvis goes down on one knee and pulls him up by the shirt.
âHey, fuck you, man! This ainât none of your businessââ the guy starts, flailing up at him drunkenly before his eyes go wide and he stops abruptly. âHoly shit, youâreââ
âIâm the guy whoâs gonna kick your ass from here to Sunday if ya donât apologize to this nice young lady and get your ass back to whatever sewer you crawled outta,â Elvis spits out, quick and cutting, his blue eyes flashing with something the man doesnât want to test. He is self-aware enough to know that his presence is big enough to knock even sober men for a loop, and thatâs when heâs not angry.
The guy opens and closes his mouth like a guppy, looking altogether wrecked and muddled by his predicament.
âBoss?â he hears Charlieâs cautioning voice from behind him, and Elvis puts up a hand to tell him heâs got this. There are some things he can do on his own.
âWell?â Elvis asks, turning his attention back to the jerk on the ground, dragging the guy up by his ugly polyester shirt.
âI-I-Iââ he stutters, looking bleary eyed from Elvis to the young lady.
Elvis uses the toe of his boot and grinds down slowly on the manâs fingers.
The guy yelps, then sobs, then looks helplessly at Elvis, âOkay! Okay! Iâm sorry! Iâm sorry!â
âDonât tell me. Tell her,â Elvis emphasizes, still wanting to make this guy pay. He points up to the young lady, who is standing there frozen against the wall, her arms desperately trying to cover her bared chest.
The manâs eyes narrow, obviously feeling itâs beneath him to apologize to a girl.
âOkay,â Elvis sighs dramatically, easily raising himself from the ground without using his hands, âbut donât say I didnât warn ya.â He brings his foot back as though heâs gonna kick the man in the gut, and it has the intended effect.
âAlright, alright!â the guy shouts, curling in on himself while holding out his hand to stop Elvis. He begrudgingly looks at the woman. âIâm sorry, okay? Iâm sorry!â
âFor what exactly?â Elvis asks, raising an eyebrow. He is getting more of a kick out of playing with this drunkard than he should, but he canât deny he enjoys the pulse of blood through his veins as he gets to be the hero.
âI-I-Iâm sorryâŠforâŠfor touching you a-and ripping your top! Iâm sorry!â he cries defeatedly.
âWas that so hard?â Elvis muses. âNow get the hell outta here before I decide Iâm beinâ too nice and let my boys have a crack atcha.â
The man gulps and nods, then his legs wheel a bit as he tries to get up too fast and clambers clumsily out of the alleyway.
Adrenaline waning, Elvis turns to the woman, immediately softening his features and his voiceâa well-honed skill. âAre you okay, Miss?â
She looks at him like heâs grown two heads. âYes. No. Iâm not sureâŠI had that under control, you know,â she adds a little bitterly.
âOh, didja now?â he replies, amused by her fiery response.
She does not look amused as she shrugs her shoulders defiantly, then remembers sheâs got no top on. Her green eyes widen to saucers, and she grasps her breasts tighter, succeeding in pushing them together and creating ample cleavage that in any other circumstance would have him looking twice. But this is not the time, and he feels guilty for even glancing at her in this state.
âShit. Iâm an idiot,â he mumbles, realizing how uncomfortable she must be half naked in a dark alley full of men she doesnât know. He scrambles to unbutton his already half-open yellow paisley shirt the rest of the way, then shrugs out of his jacket, pulling the shirt along with it.
Her mouth parts in what he assumes is disbelief as he becomes as bare as she is from the waist up. Itâs vulnerable and disarming in a way he doesnât initially intendâhe more just wants to give her something she can truly cover up with and his jacket only has the one button. Heâs not in the habit of running around with his shirt off these days, even though heâs slimmed down for his upcoming performances (because God knows the cameras will add ten pounds whether he likes it or not). Years of being shamed about his weight in one way or another by directors, the Colonel, and the gossip magazines always have him self-conscious, even when heâs slim, which is perhaps why he is so readily understanding of the girlâs current predicament. The August Vegas night is hot, and he feels a tinge cooler now when the air hits the sweat beaded over his skin.
âHere, honey, put this on,â he says and holds the shirt out to her.
Her mirth shifts to guarded thanks, but then she shakes her head and tightens her arms around herself. He realizes that she canât take the shirt without exposing herself more.
âOh. Turn around, sweetheart,â he coos at her. âI wonât hurt ya none.â He throws his jacket to Charlie, who is suddenly by his side, and holds his shirt open for her.
She turns cautiously, letting him help her as she slips her shaking arms into the oversized sleeves. âThanks,â she whispers quietly, and he watches as she fumbles unsuccessfully with the buttons because her hands are trembling so badly.
âLemme help, darlinâ,â he says, reassuringly, âI promise I ainât gonna look atcha.â
Seemingly frustrated at herself for needing his continued assistance, she relents and turns back to him, her doe eyes brimming with unshed tears.
He does everything in him to not look at her pretty, soft skin, or her legs that go on for days, focusing the best he can on the task of doing up the highest buttons in order to give her some modesty. Of course, his shirts being designed as they are, specifically for him and his open-chested style, there arenât buttons as high up as there should be. The shirt is already too big on her, so sheâs still showing quite a bit of skin, but is certainly better than it her previous nakedness. He looks up at her as if to say sorry, and she just looks away uncomfortably.
Elvis nods, then races to do up the rest of them, needing to kneel before her to get the lowest ones. The act feels very intimate, him half-undressed but dressing her in this prostrated position, and it sends a warmth spreading across his bare chest. He looks up at her, finding her watching him carefully for any impropriety. He is determined not to give her any, but when her intense, tearful green eyes meet his, he feels a bit off-kilter for the way it makes him feel. His heart drops into his stomach like heâs on a roller coaster.
Uh oh. He knows that feeling all too well, and it usually ends with him neck deep in infatuation at the very least and in love at the most.
âAll set,â he says, looking down almost bashfully. Clearing his throat, he raises effortlessly up to standing, and Charlie hands him his jacket to put back on.
âThank you, Mr. Presley,â she says quietly, the edge in her voice gone now that sheâs swimming in his yellow shirt and the threat is gone. Her pretty pink lip bottom lip wavers.
Then she bursts into tears.
There is nothing that pulls at his heartstrings quite like a pretty young thing weeping. Sheâs proven herself anything but helpless but having been through such an ordeal would be frightening regardless.
âAww, itâs okay, sweetheart, youâre safe now. Letâs get you home,â he says. He suddenly wants nothing more than to swoop her up into the protective cocoon that is his penthouse so no one can ever hurt her again, but he gets the distinct impression that bringing her into a private den full of older men is not the right move in this situation.
Sniffling, she swipes angrily under her stage makeup-smeared eyes as she attempts to get ahold of herself. He recognizes her need to not appear weak, to retain her dignity, so he gives her a minute to collect herself even though he wants to sweep her into his arms and tell her he can make everything alright.
It takes her a moment and he can tell she wants to tell him no, that she can get home on her own, thankyouverymuch, but after closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she finally nods in acceptance.
Something in his heart soars because he likes feeling needed, likes truly helping people, and enjoys the warmhearted feeling it gives him to put others before himself. It is also the least he can do after what sheâs been through.
Though it certainly doesnât hurt that sheâs a looker with her long, caramel colored hair, intelligent jade eyes, and showgirl body. He knows he wouldâve helped her regardless of all of that but, even so, at 35 heâs still a virile man who can see what is plain in front of his face. And thereâs something about her resilience that attracts him beyond her looks. A flash in her eyes that tells him her soul is guarded and complex and beautiful all at once. Thereâs a hint of darkness he can relate to, one that, combined with all the rest, sends his overly romantic heart into overdrive.
As he, Charlie, Richard, and Felton lead her trembling but head-held-high form to the car, he canât help but think God put him in the right place at the right time tonight.
âWhatâs your name, sweetheart?â he asks gently once they are in the car.
âPepper. My name is Pepper.â
*
This night is turning out to be incredibly strange, Pepper thinks as she shakily unlocks the door to her apartment. She hates that she canât seem to stop shivering after the whole ordeal in the alley. No matter how many deep breaths she took in the car, she is still shaking like a leaf and she canât decide if the fact that Elvis Presley is at her elbow is making it better or worse.
Finally jimmying the door open, she nearly falls inside, feeling all too unsteady in her high heels. Exhausted, it doesnât help matters that she canât remember if she ate today, between her waitressing shift at the diner and her showgirl gig at the Palace. She forces herself not to cry the stupid tears that pool stubbornly in her eyes. No, she doesnât think she ate today and sheâs cursing the fact because sheâs quickly turning into an embarrassing pile of weepy nonsense, in front of Elvis Presley, no less.
This isnât like her. She is no damsel in distress. Sheâs a strong, capable young woman whoâs been dealt a bit of a shit hand, but sheâs got it under control. Sheâs always got it under control.
Liar.
Pepper turns in the doorway to say goodnight and thank you to the man who so annoyingly but luckily had her back in that alley. She doesnât want to think too hard about what could have happened if Elvis hadnât appeared when he did, like some sort of movie star hero. Unfortunately, the spin towards him makes her dizzy and her wobbly knees start to give way.
âHey now, little one, letâs get you settled, huh?â Elvis drawls out at her as he puts an arm around her waist and effortlessly ushers her into the apartment. Sheâs suddenly too exhausted to protest. Itâs not often that anyone takes care of her. Honestly, she canât remember the last time someone did, or the last time there was a man in her apartment.
He deposits her on her secondhand couch and its one of the many things tonight that has her embarrassed. Then again, she wasnât expecting an incredibly handsome superstar to be gracing the walls of her tiny, dingy apartment.
Elvis stares down at her for a moment and his gaze is heavy and all-encompassing. Itâs not what she expectsâsheâs used to the heated, horny looks she attracts from menâbecause itâs as if heâs surveying the situation, reading her with an intuitive intelligence she is not prepared for. She knows how to deal with men gawking at herâbut treating her kindly with no expectations in return? This is unfamiliar in every way.
He nods to himself, making some sort of decision. His stance, one hip jutted out, hands on his hips and looking off to the side with his pouty lips parted, makes her feel a little funny in her belly.
Or maybe thatâs just the hunger talking.
Her pride wants him to go, to not survey her poor existence and pity her. But the rest of her, the weak part of her desperate to have someone take care of her for once, wants him to stay.
Surprisingly, his face is devoid of judgement of her circumstance when his oceanic blue eyes meet hers again. There seems to be only concern and a bit of humor there. This confuses her.
âIâm starvinâ,â he declares suddenly. âWhat would you say to some hamburgers?â His eyes sparkleâactually sparkleâwhen they look at her for approval.
Her stomach growls and before she can think better of the strangeness of eating hamburgers with Elvis in her crappy apartment, sheâs nodding her head furiously.
âCharlie! Hey, man, get us some hamburgers and fries and shakes, will ya?â he tells the tiny guy who seems to be some sort of friend/employee, probably part of his infamous Memphis Mafia sheâs read about in magazines.
It comes to her then that the man sheâs read about and listened to and watched on screen for years is now in her home, and she is swimming in his yellow shirt. It smells wonderfulâa heady, spicy mix of cologne and soap and sweatâand a silly part of her never wants to take it off.
Oh, god, heâs seen my tits, she realizes, her cheeks flushing.
âHey, lemme get ya somethinâ to drink, honey,â he says, extraordinarily and infuriatingly observant, as he goes to pilfer around her kitchen.
âOh, Iâm just the worst hostess. I can get it,â she murmurs attempting to push herself off the couch.
He stops abruptly and points at her. âStay.â
Pepper freezes. The command in his deep, drawling baritone is assertive and unarguable, sending a thrilled shiver down her spine that sheâs not ready for. Almost as if her body were not her own, she slides back into the sofa.
âWhatchu got in this here ree-frig-er-a-tor?â he says, rummaging around in what she knows is a sad excuse for one. Her schedule hasnât allowed time for her to go grocery shopping. She can hear him humming a familiar tune as he goes, and thereâs something beautifully domestic about the whole thing that she doesnât feel she deserves. He returns with two cans of Pepsi, popping the tab on hers before handing it to her, then doing his own.
She canât quite bring herself to look him in the eye. âThank you,â she says quietly, suddenly parched. She tries to be ladylike about it but canât help but gulp some of the fizzy cola down as fast as possible. Of course, this all goes awry the moment the carbonation hits her empty stomach, causing an uncontrollable rolling belch to erupt her throat.
âOh my god!â she gasps, throwing a hand over her mouth. âIâm so sorry!â For some reason, this rudeness feels almost more humiliating that her top being ripped off earlier. At least with that, it hadnât been her fault. This was just bad manners.
Elvis looks at her seriously, blue eyes narrowed as if he might scold her, and she holds her breath, wanting to crawl into a hole and die. Then he starts laughing.
Itâs a giggling, hiccupping, musical sound that immediately disarms her in its contagiousness. She canât help the way her own giggles bubble up. Suddenly, the absolute ridiculousness of this entire night has her doubled over with exhausted, hungry laughter, and he follows right along with her.
They are just starting to get themselves under control when she snorts. Elvis completely loses it and falls apart all over again.
Tears are pouring down her face now, and sheâs grateful for this release in this way. Itâs better than her weak and frustrated tears from earlier, and as she watches Elvis, she sees just how utterly beautiful, unselfconscious, and almost innocent he seems in his laughter.
She wonders if he laughs often. She hopes so.
Eventually, they are both wiping their faces and the giggle fits are dying down.
âPeppercorn, you are too much,â he smiles, shaking his head with a few lingering chuckles. âWho knew such sounds could come from such a pretty little girl like you?â
Peppercorn? She smiles at the nickname. If anyone else had called her that, she might have their head, but ElvisâŠwell, he can call her anything he wants. Butterflies start rolling in her empty stomach when she realizes heâs called her pretty in such a way that it sounds like an obvious fact and not a come-on. Oh, heâs skilled.
The fact is, itâs almost bashful the way he looks down and then his eyelashes flutter back up to meet hers from the other end of the couch. As if she had called him pretty and not the other way around.
He opens his mouth to speak, and she thinks he just might say something profoundly charming, but his friend Charlie chooses that moment to reemerge with an arm full of food and shakes. And her stomach chooses that moment to growl loud enough for the room to hear, sending Elvis and her back into peals of laughter.
Charlie looks confused, but laughs along anyway, pretending to get the joke as he sets the food down on the rickety second-hand coffee table in front of the sofa. Then, without a word, he makes himself scarce.
Elvis digs right into the bag, taking everything out of it, handing her a wrapped burger and then tearing the bag apart to make a sort of makeshift tray on the table.
âI do have plates, you know,â she says with a lingering chuckle, moving to get up. Sheâd certainly never seen a man of his caliber of celebrityâprobably one of the richest in this townâeat off a greasy paper bag before.
âDonât you worry yourself. Iâm just fine,â he says, unwrapping and taking a giant bite of his hamburger, followed by a handful of fries. âEat your food, Peppercorn.â
Sheâs way too hungry to argue. After the burp and the snort, she doesnât put on too many airs about eating daintily, either.
âTell me about yourself,â he says in such an earnest way that she cannot stop herself from doing so. As they devour the food, he asks her questions, and she finds herself telling him about how sheâd moved here because there wasnât much work in her small town, about how she sends most of what she makes back to her house-bound mama and little sister.
These are things she doesnât tell people here, preferring to tell a common tale of wanting the glitz and glamour of being a famous showgirl, instead of sharing that sheâs using what God gave her only to support her kin. But by the haunted look in his eyes, itâs as if he knows, like he truly understandswhat it means to keep family at the forefront and tell the world something different. So her mouth keeps moving and she shares too much, but sheâs weary and hungry and Elvis Presley is in her damn living room eating burgers like itâs a completely normal occurrence.
âSo, youâre tellinâ me what youâre doinâ now ainât your dream?â he asks.
She canât help but choke a little at that. âUm, no,â she says, wiping sauce off her lip with a finger. âWaitressing all day and being eyed-up all night is not my dream. Itâs a means to an end. And Iâm happy to do it.â
âFor your family.â
âYes, for my family.â
âAnd what about you, honey? Whatâs your dream?â He says it in such a perfunctory way that it takes her aback. Itâs a question no oneâs ever bothered to ask her.
âIâŠI donât know,â she says, looking away from his curious, reading stare.
âMmm, not sure thatâs true, baby. Evârybodyâs got a dream,â he says. âHell, I was just a poor boy drivinâ a truck âfore all this took off. Could barely sing in front of anyone but there was thisâŠthis thinginside me I canât explain, pushinâ me forward in spite of it all.â
âReally?â she says, shocked at this revelation. She didnât know those things about him, and they make him seem more human and all the more unique all at once.
He nods. âSo, whatâs your dream?â he says, looking at her with a curious expectation she canât deny.
She gulps down a mouthful of burger. âOkay, well, this is probably stupid, but Iâve always liked numbers.â
âNumbers?â he questions, confused.
âYeah, I like solving problems. Making everything add up. Numbers areâŠcalm, predictable, I guess. Iâm sure that sounds strange, a showgirl telling you she likes math. Most menâŠwell, they think itâs weird,â she rambles, feeling her face get hot.
He shakes his head. âNaw, it just werenât what I was expectinâ, is all. Usually pretty girls like you, theyâŠâ he trails off, not needing to finish the sentence to get the point across, âbut I like that youâre different. Special.â He looks at her with a sort of pride, like heâs discovered some treasure in her she canât see in herself.
This sends a wave of appreciation over her that she isnât prepared for, and she smiles broadly. âSo, I suppose my dream is to work with numbers. Money, maybe? I guess Iâve never really let myself think that far into it. I havenât been able to, with everything elseâŠThat must sound silly,â she says, feeling too exposed all the sudden.
âNot at all, honey,â he reassures her, finishing off his burger and fries. She gets caught up in looking at his full, pouty lips covered in grease and has the inappropriate urge to touch them. Blinking, she looks away, hoping he didnât catch her staring.
âSorry Iâm talking too much. I usually donât tell people...I donâtâŠIâm not one toâŠâ She hides the floundering embarrassment of both her circumstance and her attraction behind the last loud slurp of her milkshake.
âNaw, Peppercorn, donât go beinâ ashamed of doinâ what it takes to take care of your family or about havinâ dreams for yourself. Weâre more alike than you think, darlinâ,â he says, wiping his hands on the paper napkins from the bag.
She quirks her eyebrow at him.
He sighs, as though heâs been holding a weight on his shoulders. âIâm know Iâm lucky. My dream came true andâs put me in a position that most donât ever get to. Iâve spent a long time makinâ sure my people are taken care of, and I love to be able to do it, but I also know it can beâŠâ he trails off, a look of guilt flashing over his features as he waves his hand in the air.
All she can do is nod at this confession. He doesnât need to finish for her to know exactly what he means. Burdensome. Difficult. Soul-sucking.
He shakes himself off, whistling lowly, a shy smile curving up on his face.
Pepperâs heart starts pounding in her chest partially because heâs trusted her with this knowledge of himself and sheâs trusted him with her own. The vulnerability of that is strange and somewhat uncomfortable to sit with. But it pounds also because she realizes with chagrin the meal is over and she doesnât know what he expects of her next.
Despite her job, she does not have a habit of spending the night with men sheâs just met, but Elvis is not just any man. There have only been a handful of boyfriends, half of which were back at home, and certainly none recently with what little free time she has. Sheâs no prude but sheâs not exactly experienced, either. And one-night stands are not her thing.
He has been nothing but a gentleman this whole night and didnât even ogle her when her top had been ripped. There was no reason to even think that he wanted such a thing from her, yet there is tension building in the air that she doesnât know what to do with. Maybe itâs because when she looks at him in his well-cut suit with no shirt underneath (shivering at the fact itâs because itâs on her) and sees the sweaty tuft of chest hair that is exposed against his tan skin, something deeply primal rises in her and she wants more than anything to feel it beneath her hands.
Pepper blinks and quickly looks away. She knows what itâs like to be eyed up and down by the opposite sex and thinks itâs a little strange that they share that in common, too. Making him uncomfortable is the last thing she wants to do but now she is not sure what to do with her eyes and finds herself staring at a tear in the fabric of the sofa instead.
Elvis coughs, and she canât help but look up at him then. Getting caught in those endless, sparkling eyes, mere feet from her, she wonders how in the hell the world is supposed to go back to normal after tonight. How she is supposed to go back to working her multiple soul-sucking jobs, to try to forget the way he is looking at her now, like she is actually something special? That she matters enough to save her in a back alley and is worth him literally giving her the shirt off his back?
Her body betrays her, then, a huge yawn escaping her mouth of its own accord. It reminds her it has been an extraordinarily long day and that she has the monotony of another tomorrow, despite everything that has happened in the last few hours.
âI think itâs time for me to go and let you get some rest, little one,â he says quietly, that little smile of his pulling at his mouth in a way that makes her think he doesnât want to leave but will anyway because that is the kind of man he really isânot some sex-crazed superstar locked in an ivory tower that the magazines might try and make him out to be. He stands and makes for the door.
Jumping up abruptly, Pepper follows him to the door. She is not ready for this to end. She is not ready for this to be the last time she ever sees Elvis Presley. But she is also realistic and practical. Her life is no fairy tale, nor does she need a prince to save her, as tempting as it all may seem in the moment.
âT-thank youâŠfor earlier. As much as Iâm loathe to admit it, I donât want to think about what might have happened if you hadnât come along,â she says quietly, feeling utterly caught in his blue-eyed gaze. âAnd thanks for the food, too. Iâm feeling much better.â
There is a twinkle in his eye. âIâm glad I could be there for you when you needed it, Peppercorn,â he says with such kindness that she thinks she might cry.
Silence sits heavily between them and she canât seem to tear her eyes away from his. He finally turns to go, hand on the knob, and she moves closer to hold the door, but suddenly he pauses and turns back. She nearly runs into him. This close, she can feel the heat radiating off his body and it scares her how much she craves the comfort of it.
âMy show o-opens this w-week,â he says, stammering endearingly. âIâd like you to be there.â
Her heart jumps into her throat and her limbs feel tingly. âI would love to,â she gushes but then reality hits her and her face falls, âbut I have to work. I-I canât afford to lose my job. Iâm so sorry.â She wants to cry, but that would be even worse than rejecting his offer. Donât be a baby.
Pepper thinks she might imagine it, but Elvis seems defeated, too, for a split second before he smiles knowingly. âWell, weâll see what happens, honey. The universe works in mysterious ways, donât it?â
Cocking her head to the side, she wonders what he means by this, but she is too disappointed to try to piece it out now. She is also distracted by his bare chest rising and falling so close, the scent of him permeating her senses. The air in the room feels thick and hot, despite the whirring of the air conditioner in the window. He starts to turn again towards the door.
I donât want him to go.
âWait!â she shouts, a little too loudly for the proximity and he jumps a bit. âYour shirtâlet me get changed real quick and I can give you back your shirt,â she rambles out, making for her bedroom.
His hand encompasses her small wrist, his firm touch branding her in such a pleasurable way that she gasps. He turns her back around to face him, bringing her closer towards him. She goes willingly, too enthralled by the nearness of him to keep her distance. Sheâs usually better than this, keeping a safe distance from the wiles of men, but she has never felt the pull of someone so strongly. Itâs like heâs magnetized. And heâs succeeded in making her feel safe and valued in a way sheâs not used to, leaving her rather defenseless against his charms.
âDonât bother, sweetheart. It looks better on you anyway,â he says, his lips curling up into a grin that melts her heart into a pile of goo. He runs his fingers along and down the tall collar of the shirt, and the action, while innocent, sends a glorious heat into her belly.
âOh,â is all she can manage to get out, her tongue tied into knots. She desperately doesnât want this to end. She considers asking him to stay, but both courage and words fail her.
His eyes scan her face and then he brushes her long hair back over her shoulder. âDonât worry, Peppercorn, I have a feeling weâll be seeing more of each other soon,â he says, as if reading her mind, as if he doesnât want this to end either.
She nods, as if this makes all the sense in the world. It sets her heart galloping. She feels like it is about to beat out of her body when his long finger tilts her chin up to him, and he leans in and kisses her ever-so-gently on the cheek.
Her breath catches at the feel of his soft lips on her skin. It is somehow chaste yet incredibly erotic all at the same time. As a long-neglected warmth pools between her legs, a giddiness that washes over her that makes her feel like a schoolgirl.
Elvis lingers perhaps a moment too long before pulling back. âGoodnight, honey,â he whispers, then turns and leaves.
âGoodnight, Elvis,â she manages to squeak out before he disappears into darkness.
Once heâs out of sight, Pepper closes and locks the door, befuddled and hopeful and confused all at once. Her forehead lands on the wood as she closes her eyes, trying to reconcile this whole night with some semblance of reality.
He surprised her, truly, in his ability to be so down to earth. She is astonished (though perhaps she shouldnât be) that he seems so complex, and she canât help feeling connected to him because of all the small ways they are unpredictably alike. There is a part of her that very much wants to believe him when he said they would see each other again, but she knows her life isnât build on wishes and dreams. It never has been, and she doesnât expect that will change anytime soon, despite the bizarre fact that she can still smell the lingering scent of Elvisâ cologne in her living room.
Just be glad you had any time with him at all, she tells herself to try and manage her expectations. It would take a miracle for us to cross paths again.
Suddenly exhausted, she floats through her bedtime routine in a daze. But her doubts about the future donât stop her from sleeping in his shirt, though, savoring the lingering scent of him on her skin and in her bed. And the feel of his lips on her cheek replays in her mind over and over as she reaches into her already damp panties to relive the ache heâs left her with. It doesnât take much to bring her over the edgeâimagining his sweet, pouty lips on her and his long fingers deep inside her does the trickâbefore she arches up with a strangled cry, clenching around nothing but a fantasy.
Breathing hard and barely sated, she collapses into the bed, wishing sheâd been bold enough to invite him in with her. Refusing to wallow in regret, she finally manages to drift off to sleep with the unrealistically hopeful thought that his knowing smile means sheâll get to see him again someday soon, just as he promised.
Era One-Shot
A/N: This one has been sitting in my drafts unfinished for quite a while. Sweet Symphony started as a special request for '68 Special era Elvis from my Get to Know Me Gala way back in March! I also included the prompt, "Do it again, please." Nothing like a good two-fer!
A professional violinist Reader gets a little more than she bargains for after rehearsal for Elvis Presley's '68 Special...
Mature 18+ || Word count: 9.2k
TW: Sexxx in various forms, fluff, cussing, dubious use of a piano
For my most patient baby, @savedrebelcreation đ
(If you want to get stories like this early, come join my Patreon!)
GIF by seredelgi
Sweet Symphony
A â68 Special Era Request
Youâre early. Too early, in fact, but your mother always said, âIf youâre on time, youâre late,â so it goes to reason that for such an important job, you find yourself clicking your heels into the rehearsal room a full hour before itâs set to start.
The only reason they allowed you in this early is that your brother-in-law, Billy, is the one in charge of this portion of the production rehearsal, arranging the music for Elvis Presleyâs television special due out in December. He had been tasked, rather last minute, to take over the musical arrangements. When your sister called on Billyâs behalf, saying he desperately needed a professional violinist to fill in for the one whoâd been suddenly struck with a bout of appendicitis, you were a little confused at first. Why in the world would Elvis Presley need a violinist? had been the first thought in your head, but a job is a job, and you figure a television special of this magnitude wouldnât hurt your classical resume.
Sure, why not? youâd thought, then packed up your violin and got a ticket for the next plane out to LA. If nothing else, Iâll get some sun.
Since your plane arrived late, you made the executive decision to go straight to the studio rather than chance the traffic by checking into your hotel first. Which is how you find yourself in the near-dark rehearsal space before anyone else has even thought to arrive, violin and suitcase in tow. At least youâll get a chance to look over the score Billy just handed you before anyone else arrives, you think, finding a chair and settling in to unpack and prepare your instrument.
So focused are you that you donât really register the door opening and then latching closed. You figure it is just Billy, who had been frantically going over sheet music up in the booth. When the piano begins to play, softly, you nearly jump out of your skin with surprise, having been so lost in sight reading and humming your part that you were oblivious to the presence of another in the room.
âOh my god!â you gasp in surprise, managing to knock the loose pages of the score off the music stand as your hand flies up to your chest. âDamnit,â you mutter under your breath, scurrying to pick up the pages and put them back in order.
âIâm sorry, honey, I didnât mean to startle ya,â you hear a gentle voice drawl out from the darkness.
âOh, no, I just wasnât expecting anyone in here so early and I was so caught up inâŠâ you taper off, furrowing your brow and trying to get your sheet music situated.
âHere, lemme help you with that,â the voice says, kneeling to pick up loose pages.
âOh, thankâŠâ your voice hitches when you look down at the man holding up more music that had fluttered away across the floor.
Itâs the sparkling sapphire blue eyes that catch you first, framed in criminally long, dark lashes, blinking up at you from where heâs kneeling on the floor next to your chair. They are utterly mesmerizing in the way they search your face apologetically. Your voice dies in your suddenly dry throat, and so mesmerized are you with those eyes that it takes you much too long to take in the rest of him.
Thatâs when you realize that the man with the pretty eyes on his knees near your feet is the one and only Elvis Presley.
ââŠyou. Thank you,â you manage to finish, gingerly taking the pages from his grasp.
Elvis smiles up at you so bashfully, so charmingly, that it takes your breath away.
It doesnât hit you until this very moment that you are playing for the Elvis Presley. Between everything happening so quickly and you assuming you wouldnât get to meet the man himself, you just hadnât considered the magnitude of the job.
Youâd just hit your teenage years when Elvis came into his stardom, the timing perfect for swooning over the Southern boy with the rebellious good looks and the completely unique sound. But your parents had been strict and conservative, opting for your upbringing to be filled with learning and playing classical music, so the only chance youâd had to listen to Elvis was when you went to your girlfriendâs house. There you could swoon over him unimpeded, but it was more vicarious than anything else. And by the time you were old enough to properly swoon to your heartâs content, you were so busy with your music degree that it hadnât really crossed your mind to ogle over Elvis.
To be quite honest, you had become a bit of a music snob at that point, so Elvis wasnât really on your radar, though you had been impressed by his reworked English version of O Solo Mio. His Itâs Now or Never had been a massive hit, and he had amazed you with his vocal talent, which you were convinced was wasted on silly pop songs. Needless to say, Elvis and his music had been off your radar for a long, long time.
You certainly hadnât realized the man had only gotten more attractive as time went on. Magazine pictures and even his movies (which you hadnât cared to watch since the beginning of the decade) donât do him justice, which is saying something since youâd never once seen the man look anything less than handsome. But those damn eyes pop against his tanned skin and raven hair, and that curved-lip smile has butterflies flying in your stomach like a schoolgirl.
âWhatâs your name, sweetheart?â he asks quietly, still kneeling at your feet.
âMy name? Oh, um, my name is y/n,â you stammer out. You could kick yourself for how gobsmacked you sound, a grown professional woman nearly forgetting her own name in the presence of an attractive man. But the thing is he isnât just attractiveâheâs ethereal.
âWell, hello there, y/n. Iâm Elvis,â he says, as if he were just some regular Joe and not one of the most famous men alive. âWhat do you play?â He motions to your music.
âUh, violin. Well, and piano, but violin professionally,â you reply, unable to take your eyes off him.
His eyes light up at this. âI play piano, too,â he says, with such a little boy quality that you canât help but smile.
âOh?â This surprises you quite a bit since he is so synonymous with the birth of rock and roll and youâd only ever seen him with an acoustic guitar.
âYeah, a lotta people donât know that, but between you and me, I like playinâ piano more,â he says, with a wink. Elvis stands up from his crouch with little effort, so lithely that you equate it to a dancer. Your eyes follow up, up, up his lean frame, and you try not to notice just how well his tailored outfit fits him.
He walks back towards the piano he came from, and you blush when you catch yourself staring at his backside, like some sort of lecherous creep. Quickly turning your attention back to the pages of music in your lap, you force yourself to try and make sense of page numbers, shuffling them back into order.
âDo you know this one?â Elvis suddenly asks, shocking you by playing the opening notes of a well-known Beethoven piece.
âYeah, I mean, yes. I do,â you respond, still stumbling over your words. âThatâs Moonlight Sonata.â
âWhat happens after this part?â he asks, playing the beginning again. The question seems quite honest, still having that curious, young quality about it. Before you think better of it, youâre walking over to the piano.
âMay I?â you say, standing near the bench. Music is your language. Youâve always been better with an instrument at your fingertips than with your words. It makes you feel bolder, so when Elvis only scoots over instead of yielding the bench, it doesnât stop you from perching next to him.
It only takes a second for the movement to come back to you and you place your hands on the keys, letting them speak for you. Youâve done your share of teaching, so it doesnât take but a moment to fall into that role. You just try not to think too hard on that fact that itâs Elvis Presley that youâre teaching.
Heâs nodding along, eyes focused solely on your hands. So close to him, you can feel the way the music affects his body. Itâs something you can relate to.
You stop yourself from speeding too far ahead in the music and pull your hands away from the keys. âIs thatâŠdo you want me to go again, or do you want to try it?â you ask.
âDo it again. Please?â he asks watching your hands with incredible focus.
You do, trying to keep it simple and without too much flourish.
âOkay, so itâs like this then?â he says after you finish, and as his long, slender fingers glide across the keys, you realize they are musicianâs fingers. They may be dripping with jewels that are likely more expensive than your apartment, but they are quite perfect for the kind of instruments he plays. It strikes you he was made to do this.
You recognize then that Elvis is truly a musician and not just a performer. The way he concentrates, learning and adapting quickly as you show him more of the song, only by ear and sight, amazes you.
It's through the music that you begin to calm. Talking one musician to another is much more manageable than considering the magnitude of the person youâre speaking with. Frankly, you are completely amazed by how incredibly gentle and disarming the man is.
When the door opens again, both of you are consumed enough in the music that it doesnât faze you much.
âOh, hey Elvis! Just the man I needed to see. I hope y/n isnât bothering you,â Billy says, in a teasing tone only a family member could produce.
âHello to you, too, Billy,â you say, a bit annoyed at the interruption and at feeling put in your place as if you were still a child.
âOh, no, not at all. Sheâs a great teacher,â Elvis grins, bumping your shoulder. âYou twoâŠknow each other?â he then asks, his smile faltering in the slightest as he looks from you to Billy. The question is innocent enough, but the way he says it gives you pause and your heart flips.
âSince she was practically in diapers. Sheâs my sister-in-law,â Billy says.
âTwelve isnât in diapers, Billy,â you scoff at him, then turn to Elvis. âHeâs married to my older sister yet has never hesitated to treat me like a baby. Lucky me.â
âAw, you know I only put up with you because youâre too talented for your own good,â Billy ribs, making to muss your hair.
You duck swiftly out of the way, bumping into Elvis in the process. âOh, sorry!â you breath out.
Elvis just chuckles at the two of you, looking pleased as punch, though youâre not exactly sure why.
âI think what you meant to say is, âThank you for dropping everything to fly across the country last minute to help me, dearest sister-in-law,ââ you throw at Billy, batting your lashes.
âYeah, yeah, Iâm sure Iâll never hear the end of it. Now, skedaddle. I need to talk to Elvis,â Billy shoos you.
You suppress the urge to stomp your foot and pout, but you realize you really should act more professional than you are. Settling for a huff at Billy, you turn to Elvis. âIt was nice to meet you,â you say, all the spunkiness you had towards Billy deflating into shyness the moment you look into those dark blue eyes again.
âOh, I have no doubt weâll be talkinâ again soon, honey, and thank you for the lesson,â Elvis drawls softly.
His words send a cascade of shivers through your limbs. You feel heady as you stand from the bench, shooting a familial glare Billyâs way, noticing the frown on his face as you do so. God, even with you being 27, Billy had the ability to make you feel like a scolded younger sister.
You force yourself not to look back as you head to your chair. Be a professional. Just because Elvis is handsome doesnât mean heâs not the man youâre ultimately working for. Busying yourself with rearranging your music, you hear Billy usher Elvis out and up into the booth.
Well, thatâs that, you think, rosining your bow, and you get to practicing.
*
Youâve been at your share of long rehearsals, but you will admit this one is both long and intense. The music Billy has arrangedâthis âGuitar Manâ medley of some of Elvisâ songsâisnât difficult music to play, per say, but you can now sense an underlying importance around this entire operation. Part of it is the barely held back frantic look in Billyâs eyes, and knowing him as you do, for him to be this frazzled means thereâs a lot on the line. However, itâs when Elvis comes back, much later, to run through the medley with the orchestra, that you realize you can sense it in him, too. Itâs well-hidden, to be sure, when the man introduces himself and shakes hands with the members of the orchestra, and you probably wouldnât even have noticed if it werenât for the relaxed way heâd been with you earlier in the day, but itâs an undercurrent all the same. Then, they send him into the booth to do his thing.
And, boy, does he. Youâve worked your share of Broadway musicals and operas, but youâve never seen a man completely give himself over to the work in just a rehearsal quite the way Elvis does with this medley. Itâs like heâs singing for his life. By the time itâs all through, Elvis exits the booth, dripping with sweat, exhausted but exuberant. His eyes sparkle and his body hums, some part of him tapping or jiggling or wiggling every moment, as though the music had become electricity in his veins.
You try not to stare as you slowly put away your bow, your violin, collecting your music from the black stand. You try not to, but you keep stealing glances because not only does he look enticing, but itâs also more that you connect with the feelings he seems to be having. The way the music can just take over and become something else inside you, as if you are the conduit to something much bigger than yourself. This you understand. And youâd never imagined a sensation like Elvis Presley would feel the music that way, too. Perhaps this is the secret to his massive success.
Almost all the other musicians have packed and left by now. You tell yourself youâre stalling so you can say goodnight to Billy before hailing a cab and finally checking into your hotel by midnight. You are exhausted, after a day of traveling and frenetic rehearsal, yet you are buzzing with the excitement only music seems to bring you. And you canât help that the part of you that feels that way is being drawn towards Elvis like a magnet.
When Elvis catches your less-than-sly stare, a million-dollar smile spreads over his face and your heart flip-flops in your chest so hard it takes your breath away. Caught, you quickly and conspicuously look up and away, as though that will save the burning embarrassment on your cheeks. Suddenly, all you can think of is how fast you can get out of here, and you finish packing up like a fire has been lit under you. You scurry towards the door, hoping to escape before making a fool of yourself further.
âHey, Miss Moonlight,â Elvis says, fingers light on your arm, stopping you before you reach the door, âwhaddya say you join us back at my place for a little get together?â
The nickname would usually make you roll your eyes, but coming from him so sweetly, you balk under the attention. It distracts you so much that it takes a full second to realize that heâs just invited you to his place.
âIâŠuh, itâs been a long day. I-I havenât even checked into my hotel yet,â you stammer, the excuse so unconvincing you might laugh if you werenât so befuddled and nervous that Elvis is asking youâŠwell, youâre not exactly sure what heâs asking you.
He quirks a perfect raven brow at you. When he steps in closer, you can feel the heat radiating off him.
âWell, I can have Joe swing you by your hotel before headinâ over, if youâd like, though thereâs plenty of space at the house. We can set up a room for yaâŠsâprobably more comfortable than a hotel,â Elvis drawls quietly in your ear.
Youâve never heard a man make a pass so naturally in your life, so much so that you almost hesitate to believe it is one. His low voice and the open suggestiveness spear straight into your core, threatening to melt you into a puddle on the spot.
In any other circumstance, you would laugh in a manâs face for suggesting such a thing. Generally shy, reserved, and cerebral, youâre certainly not the kind of woman who just spends the night at a strange manâs place. But this isnât any other circumstance. This is Elvis Presley asking you to stay the night with him.
And maybe he does just mean it casuallyâa âhey, come party with us and you can sleep on the couchââbut at the moment, your body doesnât know the difference. Your inner pragmatist begins listing off all the ways this is a terrible idea, but the only thing that cuts through the noise is the regret you know youâll feel if you donât accept this invitation.
âUmâŠwell, okay. I mean, I wouldnât want to impose, of course,â you manage to breathe back.
His lip curves up into an almost bashful smile. âOh, Moonlight, you couldnât be an imposition if you tried. Plus, you hafta show me how to play the rest of that piece,â he says, running a calloused fingertip down your pointer finger.
You canât help the shudder that runs through you or the way your heart catches in your throat. âWell, how could I possibly refuse?â you finally get out.
âFantastic! Hey, Joe, this is my new friend, y/n,â he says enthusiastically, calling over the shorter man. âSheâs gonna be joining us tonight.â
Joe seems kind enough, albeit barely looks or speaks to you after the main introductions. Before you know it, you, your violin, and your suitcase are packed into the back of what you assume is a ridiculously expensive vehicle. Elvis slides in behind you, and you, now sandwiched between him and the car door, think you ought to feel apprehensive about the situation, but all your attention is fixed on how Elvisâ side is pressed up against yours. The heat radiates off him, bleeding into you, his leg bouncing so quickly that you think he might need to get out and run laps. He makes conversation, asking about how you came to be a musician and you uncharacteristically and nervously start rambling about yourself. Youâve got to give him credit for the way he nods and hums, truly seeming to listen to you even though your mouth is running almost uncontrollably.
By the time you arrive at the house, you feel as if youâve told Elvis your life story and you abruptly shutter your mouth closed. God, I am such an idiot. Way to play it cool, y/n, you berate yourself.
Elvis kindly helps you out of the car, walking you toward the house as Joe follows with your violin and suitcase in tow. The way your heart pounds against your ribcage threatens to do you inâitâs all suddenly become very real that Elvis Presley is leading you into his house where you are going to surreptitiously spend the night. His hand is guiding you so gently at the small of your back, but the heat of it blazes through you.
Oh, get a grip! The man has probably touched thousands of women, youâre no different. Youâre not special.
Realizing youâre holding your breath, you force yourself to take in air as inconspicuously as possible.
âYou donât gotta be nervous, baby,â he says, a cheeky little smile gracing those luscious lips of his.
âSorry, IâŠthis just isnât where I thought Iâd be at the end of this very long day,â you chuckle.
âWell, letâs make you at home then.â His smile turns reassuring and warm.
He spends the next hour getting you comfortable and fed, having the most amazing ability to relax your normally nervous nature without hardly trying. You canât help but feel butterflies in your stomach at the way he seems to be continuously touching youâthe press of his leg, an arm around your shoulders, the graze of a finger against yoursâin a familiar way, even though youâve known him less than a day. If it were anyone else, you would have leapt off the couch and run for the hills.
What surprises you the most is that you arenât uncomfortable at all. Excited and nervous, yes. But you donât feel preyed upon or anything of the sort. Frankly, you are trying not to get ahead of yourself about what the rest of the night might bring.
An impromptu jam session with his old bandmates has you feeling even more surreal. If someone had told you yesterday that you would get a private concert with Elvis Presley and his former band, you would have laughed at them. You find yourself unable to take your eyes off him and how he seems to get completely lost in the music, and you right along with him. His gritty baritone combined with the sensual way he tackles each song has warmth pooling in your belly. Despite the cranked-up air conditioning, you find yourself sweating and parched, especially in the moments he smiles in your direction.
You arenât sure how much time passes, only that you feel the heady exhaustion of being up too long coupled with an uncharacteristic hungry adrenaline running through your veins. When the jam session ends, you are both disappointed and exhilarated for what might come next.
Donât get your hopes up, you remind yourself. This night has been amazing no matter what happens next.
âDid you enjoy that, Moonlight?â he leans over and whispers in your ear. It tickles you and sends a shiver down your spine.
You nod. âOh, yes.â It comes out more breathless than youâd like.
You feel him smile against your cheek. âAre you up for teaching me more of that sonata, honey?â he asks. Itâs an innocent enough request but you canât tell exactly what his motivations are, though for the first time in your life, youâre not sure it matters.
âOf course,â you say quietly, starting for the piano in the corner of the living space.
His warm hand catches yours, and you look back, surprised, as he shakes his head and pulls you in the opposite direction.
Your heart threatens to beat out of your ribcage as he leads you down the hall and into what you assume is his private suite. Itâs not until he closes the door and you realize that you are utterly alone with him that you feel a glimmer of trepidation.
It must read on your face because he jumps in to reassure you. âOh, honey, I just want to get to know you better, away from the rest of them. Iâd never hurt you or make you do anything you didnât want to do. Honestly, I donât want the other guys ribbing meâŠthey donât go for the classical stuff,â he says quietly, looking away, and you think there might be a little pink rising on his cheeks.
His sincerity is palpable, and you certainly never expected him to be bashful about playing classical music. Thereâs a softness to him now, almost a shyness, that wasnât present moments ago around all his entourage. It is like a yearning for one-on-one connection, and this part of him melts all your reservations and tugs at your heartstrings.
âWell, I doâŠgo for the classical stuff, I mean,â you say quietly. You smile and squeeze his hand reassuringly as his deep blue eyes find yours again.
He looks giddy as he leads you to the second piano in the house, a baby grand in the far corner of the large suite. You sit down, opening the lid, and he slides in beside you. The heat of him rolls around you, the smell of his cologne and a dayâs worth of sweat combining into an alluring combination that perks up your senses.
âShow me what you remember,â you say, and he starts to play, long, nimble fingers gliding gracefully over the keys. It amazes you that he committed everything you showed him earlier to memory so fast and so accurately. Something about it tightens a coil low in your belly. Unsure whether itâs your attraction to him physically or musically that has you so aroused, you swallow hard as he finishes abruptly.
You shake it off as best you can as you show him more of the movement, hoping the music might quell the buzzing in your veins. You go through it a few times, getting a little lost in the notes, as you tend to do. It only serves to stoke the fire in you when he picks up what youâve shown him so quickly.
He finishes a phrase, and you move to show him the next, but his hand suddenly covers yours. Surprised, you look over at him to find his oceanic eyes searching your face so intimately that warmth blooms across your chest and your breath catches in the silence.
Slowly, Elvis leans over, cups your cheek gently, and kisses you. Itâs almost chaste the way his incredibly soft lips press into yours and your surprise is so great that by the time you register what is happening, he is already pulling away.
His eyes open slowly, those lashes fluttering along with the fluttering in your heart and belly. Shock has you outwardly frozen but itâs as if he lit every one of your nerve endings on fire with the touch of his lips.
He must register your surprise as hesitance because his gaze changes to something akin to apologetic.
âIâm sorry, I didnât mean to scare ya. I shouldnâtâveââ
Before he can get the rest of that sentence out, your body miraculously obeys you and you unfreeze. Boldly cupping his jaw with both hands, you pull him back to you and plant your lips on his.
It surprises both of you, and itâs a second before either of you relaxes into the kiss. This permission is all it takes, however, and then his mouth is languidly searching yours and his arms are wrapping around you to pull you close. Soft, short kisses alternate with longer more passionate ones, and you feel utterly spellbound by him, every inch of your body aware and alert to his.
Never in your life have you been kissed so well or so thoroughly. Itâs as if the music in his soul must find a physical outlet, and the way he explores and opens you up to him is like him playing a new instrument. When his tongue rolls softly against your lower lip, you canât suppress the low moan that comes out of you, causing you to open your mouth. He accepts the invitation readily, expertly, and the wet plushness of his tongue slowly begins exploring.
The warmth that sparkles and blooms across your chest travels lower still, sparking fires as it goes, until you feel your pulse throbbing between your legs. Itâs nearly unbearable the way he stokes you without hardly trying. Youâve never felt so aroused so quickly or so completely.
Your eagerness is impossible to contain, your fingers buried in that luxuriously soft hair at the base of his neck, your body rolling towards his of its own accord, as if magnetized. You follow his rhythm, meeting his music with your own.
When he pulls back to trail kisses down your jaw, you are left breathless and clutching the lapels of his half-unbuttoned shirt. The nuzzle of his nose on your cheek as he finds and licks the tender spot behind your ear leaves you gasping. Pleased, he does it again and your entire body shudders.
Every inch of you yearns to be consumed by him. Itâs never felt like this, not with any man youâve been with. Those were fumbling amateurs playing one handed melodies in comparison to the symphony Elvis is invoking. While he is leading and in control, you sense as much eagerness from him as there is in you. Itâs reassuring and flattering all at once.
There is an embarrassing amount of slick between your legs already, soaking the cotton of your panties and leaving you clenching your thighs together in search of friction. He must notice this as he kisses down your throat and across your dĂ©colletage because then heâs looking up at you for permission with those pink, swollen lips and dreamy bedroom eyes.
Itâs unspoken, but you nod and he continues his sweet journey, one hand deftly unzipping the back of your dress while his lips follow gravity as it slips down your arms and reveals your chest. Pushing the fabric off and to your waist, his hand is then hot against your bare stomach. He hums in approval when his mouth finds the swell of your breasts that spill from your simple, beige bra.
A low whine escapes you. His apt response is to thumb your nipple to attention through the thin satin before lapping at the bud with his tongue. The result is a jolt of electricity shooting straight into your core, sending you clutching his neck and writhing against him. Expertly, he undoes the clasp in the back and abandons your bra to the floor in what must be a well-practiced motion based on the speed of it.
Goosebumps rise across your now fully exposed flesh, both from the cool air in the room and the way his fingers brush so lightly over your breasts. He seems pleased with the way your nipples stand at attention under his heated gaze. You donât have the wherewithal to feel your usual self-consciousness; instead, the sight of his pupils blown black with arousal has you shivering with nothing but anticipation.
The combination of the way his tongue darts between his lips as he lightly pinches the hardened buds has you begging for more. âPlease,â you moan and thatâs all it takes before heâs lathing his tongue over and around the sensitive nubs, palming the fullness of your breasts. You can hardly stand it, how everything he does makes your body sing and want to scream his praises.
A quizzical look crosses your features though when he stops his ministrations and slides to his knees on the carpet on his side of the bench. For a second you are worried something youâve done something to hurt or displease him, but when he beckons you towards him at the end of the bench with such arousal in his eyes it nearly knocks you over, you obey without a thought.
Elvis scoots you forward and kisses your belly, sending a new wave of tingles over you. He removes one of your low-heeled pumps and then the other, ghosting kisses along your ankles before running his large hands up the smoothness of your pantyhose, pushing your dress up with them. As if under a spell, you canât help the way your legs fall open for him when his thumbs drag up the insides of your thighs. The little coy smirk that graces that beautiful face when he feels the damp that has soaked through to the gusset of your hose has your cheeks flushing and your lips parting.
You canât bring yourself to be too embarrassed at how wet you are because the pleased look on his face at the discovery makes you feel like youâve won the lottery. He pulls on the waistband, forcing you to lift your hips, before gently rolling the hose down your legs until they are off and discarded on the floor.
What you donât expect is how he begins peppering soft kisses up your now bare calves, at the inside of your knees, and then up your inner thighs.
A swell of panic hits the farther up he goes, and you jerk up, unsure of what exactly heâs meaning to do. The men youâd been with in the past had been rather direct about the whole thingâonce the clothes were off, they buried their pecker inside you and thrust above you, all with varying levels of success in getting you off as they did so.
But not a single one had kissed up your thighs and spread them open with a hungry and expectant look like the one Elvis had now.
Looking down at him, confused, you ask, âWhat are you doing?â in a voice that is a little too apprehensive for your liking, but you need to know.
He cocks his head at you a moment, as if trying to determine your level of seriousness. Then his eyes shine with understanding and in that low, Southern drawl of his says the downright naughtiest thing youâve ever had a man say to you: âYou ainât never had a man take good care of your kitty before, have ya? Give her all the love and attention she deserves?â He runs a fingertip lightly over the wet cotton at your center and you shiver.
He canât possibly mean what you think he means.
You must be gaping because he rises on his knees and catches your lips with his own before breathing, âClose that pretty mouth baby or youâre liable to catch flies up in there.â
You are speechless, unable to form words, but the question is written all over your face.
He leans back on his knees with a contemplative smile. âThat sweet little kitty of yours ainât never been eaten, has she, baby?â
Oh my god.
Itâs all you can do to bite back a moan and shake your head at him.
He looks positively gleeful about this development, his shining eyes taking on a whole new level of arousal. Then he seems to notice your trepidation and reigns himself in.
âThat okay with you, baby?â he asks.
You had never even considered it an option before, or that a man might like to do such a thing. Maybe heâs teasing you? Suddenly you feel very conscious of the mechanics of the act and breathlessly mumble, âYou donâtâŠyouâre sure?â
âOh, I am.â The smile of anticipation on his face seems to echo the sentiment.
The enticing thought of that beautiful mouth of his being down there on you outweighs your uncertainty and prudishness. You nod your head. âO-Okay.â
Youâve never seen a man look so thrilled at the thought of being between your legs as Elvis Presley is. âDonâtcha worry, Iâm gonna take real good care of ya,â he says comfortingly. âYou just lie back and relax and let me make you feel good, honey.â Then he places a kiss just under the waistband of your panties and you let out a little sigh.
The piano bench feels slightly warm on you bare back as you lay down. Elvis, grabbing under your thighs, pulls you to the edge, and your heart resumes its pounding. You truly canât believe any of this is about to happen and steel yourself for him to rip off your underwear and go to town.
But he doesnât.
No, he takes his time warming you up, as if heâs trying to get you used to the idea. He kisses down one hip then trails down the panty line. You tense the closer he gets to your core but then he only ghosts a breath over it before jumping to the other leg and kisses up the crease on that side. The ticklish sensation is almost too much to bear as he works his way up to the waistband again.
You are panting by the time his mouth is grazing from your belly button downwards, pressing into the soft curls beneath the fabric. He stops just short of that forbidden little spot where your aching clit resides, and you push up on your elbows to shoot him a look.
A grin spreads over his features, his eyes narrowed like a crocodileâs and full of desire and he watches you intently as he finally places a light kiss over that sensitive little button.
The sensation is nothing like anything youâve felt before and the whole scene has your body flaming white hot. You donât recognize the low mewl that erupts from your lips and the only thing keeping you from throwing your head back is the way his eyes are locked on yours, as if feeding off your reaction. Then he uses his perfect nose to nuzzle into it before placing a firmer kiss there.
âElvissss,â you whine, unable to keep from throwing your head back this time.
âYou like that, baby? I barely even started,â he speaks, his hot breath puffing over the slicked core of your panties. He kisses down, down until over your entrance, where he then tongues the fabric, pressing it up and into you.
âHoney, youâve done soaked right through,â he murmurs.
Youâre not sure if heâs speaking to you or directly to your pussy. Youâre not sure you care for the way you moan, the way your body shudders and writhes, suddenly starving for anything heâs willing to give.
âLemme see how pretty she is,â he says, and God, if his filthy yet somehow sweet words arenât stroking you in such a way that you wonder if you could come from his lilting voice alone. He pulls your underwear to the side, finally baring yourself to him, and he whistles.
âJust lovely, and all weepy for me, too,â he says, voice thick with lust now.
The anticipation has your heart racing and your fingers clawing at the wooden bench with a whimper.
âOkay, baby, I hear ya,â he murmurs kindly, then hooks his fingers in the sides of your panties and finally slides them down and off your legs. Then his hands are pushing them apart and his tongue is lightly skimming up your folds.
You gasp at the soft and silky feeling, unready even despite his preparations. When he circles your clit and then kisses it, bare this time, you are so aroused youâre afraid you might weep. But the teasing is done, and he tests you expertly. His tongue flattens and takes in the full breadth of you, licking a stripe up your pussy that sends your hips rolling.
He seems to gauge every reaction carefully, giving equal and alternating attention to every piece of you. Nipping, suckling, and kissing your swollen clit into submission and just when you think that heated coil in your belly might snap you in two, he moves down and kisses through your folds. When he laps at the arousal dripping from your tight little hole, tongues it, and then plunges it inside of you, you find yourself screaming out his name.
You can feel him smile and hum at your response, the vibrations adding entirely new sensations to the slew of new sensations you are feeling. He thumbs at your clit as he laps at your hole, and you think you might hyperventilate with how fast youâre breathing and how hot you feel.
So completely attuned to you, he pulls back and gives you a break, despite your whimpering protests. His full lips are swollen pink and slick down to his chin with you, and when his lip curls up into a knowing but almost bashful smile, you think this might be the eighth wonder of the world.
âYou alright? Iâm doinâ okay?â he asks, his left eyebrow quirking.
You giggle, almost drunkenly even though youâre entirely sober, because the question is so absurd but sweet of him. âYes, yes, yes,â you say, words slurring.
âOkay, good,â he says, nodding. Then he rises on up on his knees and commands you forward with a come-hither motion so deft and quick, it has you drooling.
You are powerless to resist and push your dazed self to your elbows on the bench. He meets you halfway, kissing you deeply, lewdly letting you taste the tang of yourself on his lips. Distracted as you are by his wandering mouth, you arenât ready for the way he slides two of those perfectly long musicianâs fingers up through your silky folds and deep into your wet heat.
A shocked gasp quickly turns into a moan that he swallows with another kiss. He begins ever-so-slowly pumping those fingers into you and the rough pad of his thumb circles that sensitive bundle of nerves at the hood of your sex.
âGoddamn, youâre so perfect, so tight,â he breathes into your mouth.
You canât stop the shiver that ripples through you. âI-Itâs been a-awhile,â you pant. You canât help but look down and watch the way he works you.
âDonât you worry, baby. I gotchu,â he purrs, then curves his fingers just so and the pleasure that courses through you has you crying out.
Your brain is fuzzy, with only one thing on its mind. Luckily, Elvis seems to be reading it because he smiles that coy smile and returns those full lips of his to your clit.
For a moment you think you might die from the intensity of the sensations heâs procuring from you. Seems an awful lot like God gave him long fingers and a full mouth not only for music, you think. Though the way heâs playing you right now and the noises heâs coaxing out of you makes it seem like a whole different type of song heâs expert at.
The way he traces and flicks and suckles your clit, coupled with the obscene sounds coming from the way heâs fingering your pussy has you writhing on the bench and gripping his beautiful hair in your hands.
More, more, more, is the only thought left.
He hums against you with one last kiss and a wildly accurate thrust and curve of his fingers. The coil inside you explodes, then white-hot, full-body shudders violently overtake you as you silently scream and hold onto him for dear life as to not fly away into the stratosphere.
Your orgasm is utterly mind altering and earth shattering.
âGood job, lilâ girl,â Elvis coos, soothing you through the aftershocks with a lathing tongue.
You canât think straight enough to respond, only whimpering from the empty feeling when he removes his fingers, then gasping again when he laps at the arousal pouring out of your core.
Itâs all too much, and, overstimulated, you whine and clench and pull at him.
He sits up again, between your legs, looking mighty pleased with himself. âCome âere, darlinâ,â he says, pulling you up by your arms and sliding you onto his lap. Boneless and naked (save for the dress bunched in a ring around your waist), your legs fall open, easily straddling his hips. Your hands grip at his shirt and you bury your head into his neck, still dizzy with release.
He holds you steady. âDidja like that? Your kitty all happy and purrinâ now?â he whispers in your ear, sending a new set of shivers down your spine. All you can manage is a pleased hum and a nod. You kiss his neck, tasting salt on his tanned skin.
A soft moan escapes his lips at that. Suddenly, you become quite aware of the hardness in his slacks, pressing up near your swollen folds. The embers of your arousal have not died, and you kiss his neck again while slowly rolling your hips into his.
Groaning, he tightens his arms around you, holding you to him. You nip at the throbbing pulse point on his neck and are reminded just how talented and famous these hips of his are when he rolls them back into you in response. Heâs rock hard, straining against his zipper, the tip of him bumping against your sensitive clit. You moan and find his rhythm, feeling the wetness between your thighs start to soak through the fabric of his slacks, creating a delicious friction.
Elvis pants heavily in your ear, murmuring curses and praises as he grinds into you. At this rate, you think he might come in his pants, which just wonât do. Not with the way your pussy is buzzing, and that coil is tightening again in your belly. No, you need him inside you. You need him to fill you.
You use what little returning strength you have and rise on your knees, away from his needy cock. The man actually pouts, his lower lip jutting out with a desperate little whine and it is so alluring you almost forget what youâre trying to do. You place a finger over his lips to quiet him, then set to the task of trying to undo his lavish belt and zipper.
Once he understands, he races to help, making much quicker work of the whole thing and finally his cock springs free. Itâs quite long, and the deep pink tip peeking out of his silky foreskin is already shiny and weeping with precum. Of its own accord, your finger slides over his slit, circling the slick tip and spreading the wetness gathered there. He hisses. You bring your finger to your mouth, tasting the salty musk of him.
âOh, fuck,â he breathes, his hand palming his length. He gives it a pointed tug, then another, his lips falling open as he watches you.
Heâs gorgeous in every way and itâs almost intimidating the way he looks at you with such open and vulnerable lust. You canât bring yourself hold back or tease any longer, needing desperately to give him all of you, to give him what he needs. Hovering over him, you help line him up, then slowly descend onto his cock.
You are plenty wetâheâs seen to thatâbut even still, the stretch of him burns. Itâs been too long since a man has been inside you like this and he is much longer than you anticipated.
A quiet, âOh, oh, oh,â is all you manage to puff out as you bob slightly up and down, taking a little bit more of him with each tiny pump. He presses gentle kisses everywhere he can reach and murmurs encouraging praises with each inch that you conquer.
By the time you settle on the hilt of him, snug in his lap, youâre both groaning. Your fingernails dig into his shoulders because you are so full of him you donât know what to do. Youâve never been so gorged and the pressure is a little frightening.
âSnug as a bug in a rug,â he slurs happily, letting you adjust around him. âLittle Elvis likes you lots and lots, baby. Sâlike you were made just for him.â
âLittle Elvis? H-Heâs not so little,â you say with wide eyes, then giggle a little, which causes you to gasp from the tightness below and how it makes you clench even harder around him.
He groans. âIf ya keep doing that, heâs not gonna last very long, darlinâ.â
You try to move, but in this position and after that orgasm, you feel weak and a little like heâs spearing you in two. Youâre almost too full, and the angle is not quite right. You wiggle in his lap, your brow furrowed, as your arms grow tighter around his neck. A low whine escapes your throat.
He notices your distress. Petting your hair, he babytalks at you, which under other circumstances might be strange for a grown man, but it comes so naturally to him somehow it both comforts and arouses you, âOh, shh, shh, baby, sâokay. Heâs a widdle much for ya, ainât he? Sometimes he gets too âcited and gets ahead of âimself. But heâs gonna take real good care of ya, I promise.â
And with that, he gingerly shifts sideways, leans forward, and lays you down on the plush carpet under the piano. The movement has him sliding partially out of you, giving you some relief from the bursting sensation, and you let out a breath you hadnât known you were holding. Your body relaxes.
He looks so gorgeous above you, with his raven hair falling in his eyes and a soft, bashful smile gracing his lips. You canât help but smile back at him.
âThat better?â he asks.
You nod.
Leaning down, he nuzzles your nose, then places soft kisses on your mouth. He coaxes you back to him, the heat building between you with each deepening kiss. So focused on the rolling of his tongue against yours, you donât even realize heâs pressing deeper into you until heâs nestled almost completely, but much more comfortably between your legs.
You sigh contentedly into his mouth. The pressure still has you feeling full, but in a delicious, silky way this time as you finally relax around him. He rolls his hips smoothly, the strokes slow and deliberate, in time with the movement of his lips. Each stroke is better than the last as your increased arousal combined with his own slickens your inner walls.
âThere she is,â he moans quietly into the crook of your neck.
That feeling is back, a chant of want, want, want running through your brain as the tension and fire in your belly begin to grow once more. When he bottoms out this time, your punctuated, âAh!â is from pleasure and not discomfort. Heâs managing to hit places inside you that you didnât know existed.
You writhe under him, starting to meet his thrusts with your own, trying as you might to find that perfect spot he keeps slipping past. If only you had the right leverageâŠ
It comes to you once youâve hitched your legs up around his svelte waist. You lift your hips and plant your bare feet against the grainy wooden underside of the piano, meeting his next thrust with your leveraged one. It sends him deeper, driving into that little spot just perfectly. You keen.
âOh, goddamn,â he moans along with you.
Each thrust seems deeper than the last with your legs pressing up like this. They shake from the exertion, but itâs worth every ounce of effort for the way you feel driven into the earth by his cock. Sweat drips off his face and onto yours as he showers your body with pleasure you didnât know existed.
He thumbs your clit, timed perfectly with the piston of his hips, and you can barely breathe at the sensation. Gasping, your entire body shudders of its own accord as you hurtle towards another release.
âIâŠIâŠIâŠâ is all you can seem to manage as your second climax starts to crest, and he grunts with effort above you, his eyes glassy with unbridled desire.
He mutters a string sweet filth that only fuels you forward, slurring and panting, âOh, fuck, yesâŠsuch a good yittle kittyâŠgood girl for meâŠlook atchu taking âim so deepâŠnever been sâdeepâŠJesus, I can see âim in your belly.â
You both look at the swell of your abdomen on the next thrust and this time he holds you flush against him so you can see the tip of Little Elvis bulge out the slightest bit. The moan you let out is obscene. Holding you at the waist, he doesnât let your hips down, instead running the palm of his hand over the protrusion while he flicks your clit furiously. Then he presses down at the same time he thrusts as hard and as deep as possible.
Your climax hits so hard and so fast that it knocks the breath out of you, leaving you gasping his name, âElvis, Elvis, Elvis!â Flaming white stars flash behind your eyelids as you flutter and clench around his length. Molten fire spreads from your core outward. You shudder and claw at him, at the bottom of the piano, at anything that will keep you tethered to reality while the rest of you shatters into a million pieces beneath him.
âGood girl, sâgood foâme,â he praises you through it, losing himself to you as you come apart.
You feel his hips start to stutter into you again because a primal need has him beyond the point of waiting any longer. Somehow, through shivering aftershocks, you have the wherewithal to force your eyes open, even as the rest of your body goes slack. He looks like Adonis in the throes of passion, his full and swollen lips falling open. In one fell swoop, he drops your hips and pulls his considerable length from you, his knowing hand pumping his slick-covered cock with expert precision.
Watching him come is a marvel and you make yourself commit this moment to memory, knowing it will fuel your arousal for years to come. He tenses above you, those sapphire eyes fluttering closed. Shivering tension ripples over him with a choked cry and through gritted teeth. Thick and warm white ropes erupt and splatter over your torso and you moan along with him. Then his eyes pop open pointedly as he watches himself cover you with his seed. The poignant, dramatic end of a brilliant symphony.
âF-fuck,â he pants, finishing off with another shiver. Exhausted, he catches himself just before crushing you with his weight, instead pressing his sweaty brow into yours. Your hot, heavy breaths mingle as you both try to come back down to Earth. He nuzzles his nose into yours before kissing your cheeks and your mouth.
Eventually, you find your words. âThat wasâŠincredible,â you say breathlessly, with no exaggeration.
He pulls back to look at you, with a goofy, pleased grin. âI told you Iâd take care of you, Moonlight. And boy oh boy, was that a neat trick with the piano thereâŠthat part of your classical traininâ?â he says, blowing a lock of hair out of his eyes.
âPutting that college degree to good use,â you say with a giggle.
His eyes go wide and then he laughsâa musical, beautiful, contagious soundâwhich fills your heart up in a way you donât quite understand.
He crawls back and helps you out from under the piano. Your back is rubbed raw from the carpet, which he kisses gently with apology, but you barely feel the sting. You are too dazed and relaxed to worry about much of anything.
When he helps clean you up and pulls you into his big bed, slotting you in next to him, you want to savor every minute. How he smells delicious and masculine, how the heat of his long body envelops your ownâyou want to remember everything.
Exhausted, you fall fast asleep, sated and cared for, knowing that youâll never, ever be the same.
*
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