The pen tickled her skin, leaving behind inked notes and lyrics. She wanted to cry, but didn't. He was the most extraordinary man she'd ever met and with each sketch of his pen, each new ink blot that he skillfully crafted on her flesh, she fell deeper and harder then she could've ever imagined. He was masculine yet soft, aggressive yet pliable. Hard work left his hands calloused, yet each stroke of the pen was precise and swift.
And then he sang without playing as he continued to compose on her skin. Hands down, no comparison, it was the most sensual moment of her adult life.
As he shaded notes and wrote lyrics, her arousal heightened until her nipples were hard. If she thought her well of lust had run dry, she was mistaken. It pooled between her legs and if the growing size of his erection was any indication, he was just as turned on by their artistic moment as she was.
He picked and strummed the strings of her heart as capably as he handled his instrument.
When the music died, he nodded approval. "You inspire me," he said.
"If that's what this is, I'll always aspire to inspire you," she whispered.