Midnight Melodies and Power Ties

The amber glow of the hotel bar wrapped itself around everything like expensive whiskey, and Diana Vandenberg felt it warm her skin as she settled onto the leather stool. Outside, Denver's financial district glittered with corporate ambition, but in here, time moved differently—slower, more deliberate, like the notes of the jazz standard floating from the baby grand in the corner.

She'd chosen the bar deliberately. Not the one on the rooftop with its see-and-be-seen crowd, nor the lobby lounge where deals were dissected over overpriced cocktails. This one hid on the mezzanine level, accessible only by a discreet elevator, with its dark wood and deeper shadows.

The bartender, a man in his fifties with a precisely trimmed beard, saw her approach. His posture shifted from professional ease to focused readiness. He didn’t ask what she wanted; he simply waited, his hands resting on the polished wood. “The usual, Ms. Vandenberg?” he asked, his voice low.

“The usual,” she confirmed, her tone implying the question was unnecessary. She didn’t need to specify Macallan 25; he knew. She watched as he selected the bottle, the ritual of the pour—a silent, practiced dance of deference. He placed the glass before her with a slight, respectful nod. A man two stools down, his tie loosened and his confidence fueled by single malt, leaned over. “Can I buy you a drink? Celebrate… whatever it is you’re celebrating.”

Diana didn’t turn her head. She lifted her glass, took a slow sip, and let the silence stretch. She felt his uncertainty curdle into embarrassment. Finally, she spoke, her gaze still fixed on the piano in the corner. “I’m not celebrating. I’m negotiating.” She let the word hang, heavy with implication. The man retreated, muttering an apology into his own drink. The bartender caught her eye and gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head, a shared dismissal of the clumsy intrusion. Power wasn’t about commas in a net worth; it was in the space between a question and an answer, in the quiet command of a room you’d only just entered.

Her presentation had gone perfectly. Three days of negotiations, of leaning across conference tables in her steel-gray Armani, watching middle-aged men recalibrate their assumptions. Tomorrow she'd fly back to San Francisco and sign the acquisition. But tonight belonged to her.

She loosened the top button of her silk blouse, feeling the cool air kiss her throat. The suit jacket hung on the back of her chair, and she'd kicked off her Louboutins hours ago.

The piano player had fingers that knew their way around keys. Early thirties maybe, with that effortless thing musicians had—dark hair falling across his forehead as he played, shoulders moving under a black shirt. When his set ended, he caught her watching. Held her gaze just long enough for her to feel it between her thighs.

Diana smiled into her whiskey. She recognized hunger when she saw it. This wasn't about business. This was about the way his eyes had traced the line of her throat when she'd tilted her head back to drink.

He approached as the next musician took over—someone younger, less interesting. Up close, he was even more deliciously inappropriate.

"You're not wearing a ring." His voice had that rough-smooth quality, like velvet with gravel underneath.

"Observant." She didn't turn toward him, kept her profile angled just so. Let him work for it. "Though I suspect that's not your most impressive skill."

A slow grin. "Elijah. I play piano here Thursdays through Saturdays when I'm not on tour."

"Diana. I buy companies and make them better." She finally looked at him directly, letting him see exactly what she was thinking. "Though tonight, I'm between acquisitions."

"What are you looking to acquire instead?"

The question hung between them, loaded and perfect. Diana set down her glass and finally gave him her full attention, letting her eyes travel from his talented hands up to his mouth.

"Something temporary. Something that knows how to be exactly what I need for a few hours and then disappears beautifully." She traced the rim of her glass. "Think you can handle that, Elijah?"

His pupils dilated, but his voice stayed steady. "I can handle whatever you're offering, Diana."

"Good boy." She stood, graceful and deliberate, slipping her feet back into her heels. "Room 2408. Give me twenty minutes."

The elevator ride felt endless. Her reflection in the mirrored walls showed a woman in complete control—honey-blonde hair still perfect despite the late hour, lipstick intact. She'd stopped apologizing for wanting things years ago.

The knock came exactly twenty-one minutes later. She opened the door to find him holding a bottle of champagne and wearing a smile that suggested he understood the rules perfectly.

"I thought we might want something to celebrate with," he said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. "After."

"Confident." She locked the door behind him. "I like that."

But instead of moving closer, he walked to the window, looking out at the view. "You've done well for yourself. This suite costs more than I make in a month."

"Jealous?"

"Impressed." He turned back to her, and the hunger was sharper now, more focused. "There's something about a woman who knows exactly what she's worth."

"And what am I worth, Elijah?"

"More than I could afford, which makes this even better." He set down the champagne and moved toward her slowly, like she was something he wanted to savor. "The question is, what are you going to do with me now that you've got me here?"

Diana met him halfway, close enough to smell his cologne—something expensive that sat wrong on his skin in the best way. "First, you're going to take off that shirt. Slowly. I want to see what the piano has done to your body."

He obeyed, fingers working each button with the same precision he brought to the keys. The shirt fell away to reveal a torso that spoke of hotel gyms and good genetics. She could see the flutter of his pulse at his throat.

"Now what?"

"Now you stand there while I decide how I want to ruin you." She circled him slowly, letting her fingertips trail across his shoulders, down his spine. "Tell me, Elijah—when you saw me watching you play, what did you imagine doing to me?"

His breath hitched as her hand settled on the small of his back. "I thought about you bent over that piano. Thought about how you'd sound when I made you sing."

"Mmm." She pressed against him from behind, letting him feel her breasts through the silk of her blouse. "And here I thought you might be creative."

"I can be whatever you want."

"Can you?" Her hand moved around to his chest, nails dragging lightly. "Can you be quiet while I use your mouth? Can you stay hard while I take my time? Can you make me come three times before you beg for release?"

"Jesus." His head fell back against her shoulder.

"That's not an answer." She bit his earlobe, just hard enough. "I asked you a question."

"Yes. To all of it. Fuck, Diana, yes."

"Better." She stepped back, already missing the heat of him. "Take off the rest. Everything. Then kneel."

Watching him strip was its own pleasure—the way his hands shook slightly as he unbuckled his belt, the reveal of hips narrow enough to grip. But it was his cock that made her mouth water—thick and already dripping, curving up toward his stomach like it was reaching for her.

"Gorgeous." She kept her voice clinical despite the wetness pooling between her legs. "Now, on your knees. Hands behind your back."

The carpet was soft, expensive. He knelt beautifully, back straight, eyes dark with submission that had nothing to do with age and everything to do with recognition. He saw her power and wanted to worship it. Perfect.

Diana stepped closer, close enough that her skirt brushed his chest. "You may touch me. Only through the fabric. And only with your mouth."

His groan was obscene as he leaned forward, pressing his face against her silk-covered thigh. His breath was hot through the material as he mouthed at her leg, working upward with devastating patience. When he reached the hem of her skirt, he paused.

"May I?"

"Such manners." She gathered the material slowly, revealing inch after inch of stockings, the lace tops, the bare skin above. "You may."

His mouth on her thigh was reverent—open, wet kisses that made her grip his hair. He worked upward with single-minded focus, finding the edge of her panties and tracing it with his tongue. The lace was already soaked through, and when he breathed against her, she felt it everywhere.

"Please." The word escaped before she could stop it.

"Please what, Diana? Please taste you? Please make you come on my tongue? Please let me drown in you?"

"All of it. Now."

He didn't need more encouragement. Strong hands gripped her hips, holding her in place as he mouthed at her through the lace. The barrier made everything sharper, more desperate—his tongue finding her clit through the material, the wet fabric dragging across sensitive skin. When he finally pulled her panties aside, she was shaking.

"Fuck, you're beautiful." One finger traced her entrance, spreading wetness. "Soaked."

"Less talking." But her hands were in his hair, guiding him where she needed. "More—"

His tongue inside her cut off whatever she'd been about to say. He fucked her with it slowly, thoroughly, like he was learning her shape. Then his mouth moved to her clit, sucking gently while two fingers slid inside, curling up to find that spot that made her see stars.

"That's it." She was riding his face now, unable to stop herself. "Just like that. Don't you dare stop."

He didn't. Couldn't, maybe—his moans vibrating through her as he worked her with mouth and fingers, adding a third when she started to clench around him. The orgasm built slow and devastating, starting in her toes and rolling up her body like a wave. She came crying out his name, thighs clamped around his head as he licked her through it.

When she finally released him, his face was slick and shining, lips swollen. He looked debauched and proud of it.

"One," he said, voice rough. "Though I think that was more like one and a half."

Diana laughed, the sound surprised out of her. "Cocky."

"About some things." He stayed on his knees, hands still behind his back like a good boy. "About making you come. About knowing you want more."

She did. God, she did. But she also wanted to see him fall apart, wanted to watch that beautiful composure shatter. "Stand up."

He moved gracefully for someone who had to be aching—his cock was purple at the tip, dripping steadily. Diana toed off her heels and let her skirt pool at her feet. Stepped out of her panties but kept the blouse, the stockings. Let him look.

"Tell me what you want."

"You know what I want."

"Say it."

"To be inside you. To fuck you until you forget every other man who's ever touched you."

"Good boy." She walked to the armchair by the window, settling into it with deliberate slowness. "Bring me that mouth again first. I want to see how well you follow instructions."

He crossed the room in three strides, dropping to his knees again. This time she guided him exactly where she wanted—his tongue soft and giving as she used his face, taking her time. The second orgasm was slower, deeper, rolling through her like thunder while he made desperate sounds against her pussy.

"Please, Diana, I need—"

"What do you need?"

"To fuck you. To be inside you. I'm dying here."

She could see it—the way his hands clenched behind his back to keep from touching, the pre-come painting his stomach. But she wasn't done with him yet.

"There's a condom in my purse. Bring it."

He moved like his life depended on it, finding the purse, the foil packet. Held it like an offering.

"Put it on. Slowly. Let me watch."

His hands shook as he rolled it down, hissing when he touched himself. Diana stood, unbuttoning her blouse and letting it fall. Unhooked her bra and enjoyed the way his breath stopped.

"Where do you want me?"

"Anywhere. Everywhere. Fuck, Diana, just—"

She turned, bending over the arm of the chair. "Here. Now. And don't you dare come until I tell you to."

He was on her in seconds, hands gripping her hips as he lined up. But he paused at her entrance, teasing them both.

"Is this what you wanted when you watched me play? When you sat there in your power suit looking like you owned the world? Did you imagine me fucking you from behind while you looked out at the city you conquered?"

"Yes." The admission felt like surrender. "Now fuck me like you mean it."

He pushed in slowly, splitting her open inch by inch. Diana felt every bit of it—the stretch, the burn, the way he bottomed out and stayed there, pulsing inside her. Then he started to move, and coherent thought became impossible.

He fucked her like he played—intuitive and skilled, finding her rhythm and building on it. One hand reached around to circle her clit while the other gripped her hip hard enough to bruise. She could see their reflection in the window—her in stockings and nothing else, bent over and taking it, him behind her like some pagan god, muscles shifting as he drove into her.

"Touch yourself," he growled. "I want to feel you come on my cock."

She did, fingers working her clit as he pounded into her. The third orgasm hit like a train, making her clamp down on him so hard he groaned.

"Fuck, I can feel you. So fucking perfect—"

"Don't stop. Don't you dare stop."

He didn't, fucking her through it and beyond, building her up again with ruthless precision. She was babbling now, words that weren't words, pushing back against him to take him deeper.

"Can I—Diana, please, I'm—"

"Come for me. Come inside me."

He thrust once, twice more and then froze, buried to the hilt as he pulsed inside her. His groan was animal, possessive, and she felt it in her bones.

They stayed like that for long moments, joined and shaking. When he finally pulled out, they both made sounds of loss.

"Jesus Christ." He collapsed into the chair, pulling her down onto his lap. "That was—"

"Not done." She kissed him, tasting herself on his tongue. "We're not even close to done."

The night blurred after that—moving to the bed, losing the condom and gaining his mouth again. He ate her like a man starved, bringing her off twice more with fingers and tongue before she finally took pity and sucked him hard again. Rode him reverse cowgirl while he watched in the mirror, her stockings finally torn and ruined.

They fucked against the window, her breasts pressed to the glass as he took her from behind again. In the shower, water cascading over them as she knelt and swallowed him down, loving the way his hands fisted in her wet hair. Back in bed, sixty-nine with her on top, both of them too greedy to wait turns.

The room was a wreck of discarded clothes, empty glasses, and the heavy scent of sex. Elijah lay sprawled on his back, the sheet tangled around his legs, watching Diana as she stood by the window, a silhouette against the city’s fading lights. Her skin was sheened with sweat, marked here and there by his mouth, his hands. He felt a strange, hollow ache beneath the physical exhaustion. For a few hours, in this room, the constant motion of his life—the tour buses, the anonymous hotel rooms, the applause that evaporated as soon as he left the stage—had stopped. Her world was one of permanence, of assets and legacies. He had given her a night of sensation; she had given him a temporary anchor. He thought of a chord progression he’d been struggling with for weeks, something that never resolved, always leaving you wanting. Tonight felt like a resolution he hadn’t known he needed, and already he could feel the dissonance returning, the prelude to moving on.

“You’re thinking too loudly,” she said, not turning from the window.

“Just wondering what song I’ll play tomorrow,” he lied softly.

She turned, a knowing smile on her lips. “Liar.”

He sat up, the sheet falling to his waist. “Okay. I was thinking that tomorrow you’ll be in a boardroom, and I’ll be on a plane to Cleveland. And we’ll both be sitting there, feeling… this.” He gestured vaguely at the space between them, at the charged air of the room.

Diana walked back to the bed, her movements still predatory but softened at the edges by spent passion. She sat on the edge, her hand coming to rest on his thigh. “That’s the point, Elijah. To feel it. To carry it. Not to build a monument to it.”

He covered her hand with his. “I know. It’s just… you’re a hell of a monument.”

He pulled her down for a kiss that started soft but quickly deepened, a rekindling of embers. His hands mapped her body with a new familiarity, finding the curve of her waist, the sensitive spot just behind her knee. She shifted, straddling him, feeling him harden again beneath her. But this time, the dynamic shifted subtly. He rolled her onto her back, not with force, but with a deliberate gentleness that surprised her. He hovered over her, his weight on his elbows, and just looked at her—at the faint lines by her eyes, at the pulse in her throat, at the raw, well-fucked beauty of her.

“My turn,” he murmured, and it wasn’t a challenge, but a statement.

He kissed her slowly, deeply, a conversation without words. He worshipped her breasts, not with frantic hunger, but with a lingering appreciation that made her arch into his mouth. He moved down her body, his hands spreading her thighs, but instead of diving in, he simply rested his cheek against her inner thigh, his breath warm on her damp skin. The tenderness of the gesture was more disarming than any command he’d obeyed.

“Elijah,” she breathed, a question in his name.

He looked up, his eyes dark and serious. “Just… let me.”

He didn’t use his mouth to conquer, but to explore. He traced patterns with his tongue that had no goal but sensation, learning her reactions all over again. He brought her to the edge not with relentless pressure, but with a maddening, exquisite build of tension, his fingers working inside her in a slow, syncopated rhythm that mirrored the jazz from the bar. When she finally came, it was with a deep, shuddering sigh, her body melting into the mattress, her hands tangling softly in his hair. It wasn’t the explosive release he’d wrung from her before; it was a surrender, a giving over.

He moved up her body, kissing her stomach, her sternum, the hollow of her throat. He slid into her with a smooth, deep stroke that felt like a homecoming. They moved together in a slow, grinding rhythm, foreheads touching, breaths mingling. The frantic energy of the night was gone, replaced by something dense and profound. He watched her face, every flicker of pleasure, every unguarded expression. He saw the CEO fade, leaving only the woman beneath.

“Look at me,” he whispered, and she did. Her gaze, usually so controlled, was wide and vulnerable. He felt his own control slipping, not into abandon, but into something dangerously close to feeling. He buried his face in her neck as his climax took him, a quiet, intense wave that left him trembling against her.

For a long time, they lay entwined, the silence between them full and complete. The first grey light of dawn began to outline the skyline.

“When's your flight?” His voice was a rasp against her skin.

“Three hours.”

“Mine too. Different gate, probably.”

“Probably.”

The comfortable silence returned, but it was different now. Laden with the unspoken truth of the shift that had just occurred. They had broken their own rule, had ventured beyond the transaction into a moment of genuine connection. It made the impending parting sharper, sweeter.

“You know what the best part is?” Elijah said eventually, his fingers tracing the line of her spine.

“What’s that?”

“Tomorrow, when I’m playing somewhere else, I’ll look out at the audience and remember how the most powerful woman I’ve ever met lost the rhythm for me. And you’ll be somewhere making million-dollar decisions, and you’ll feel my fingerprints on your skin and remember how you let go of the tempo.”

Diana smiled, but it was softer now, less predatory. “You think you’ll be memorable?”

“I know I will.” He turned his head to kiss her, soft and certain. “Just like I’ll remember the CEO who taught me that a rest in the music can be as powerful as the note.”

They showered together one last time, hands moving with a slow, soap-slicked reverence, rediscovering the landscape they had memorized. Diana dressed in her power suit like armor, every button a return to herself, the fabric feeling unfamiliar against her sensitized skin. Elijah pulled on his jeans and t-shirt, the uniform of a man who lived out of suitcases and hotel rooms, the soft cotton a stark contrast to the memory of her nails on his back.

At the door, she pressed one last kiss to his mouth, tasting goodbye and whiskey and something else, something unnamed.

“Play something beautiful tonight,” she said, her thumb brushing his lower lip. “Something with a complicated rhythm.”

“Only if you destroy someone in a board meeting,” he replied, a ghost of his earlier grin returning. “Make them feel every note.”

She laughed softly and walked away, not looking back because that was still the game. But as she rode the elevator down, the cool metal of the railing under her palm, she knew the memory of his mouth, of that unexpected tenderness, would linger far longer than any bruise. It would be there when she signed the acquisition papers, a quiet, resonant chord beneath the dry text of the contract, making her pause for a half-second before her pen hit the page.

The hotel lobby was busy with morning departures—business people heading to airports, tourists beginning adventures. Diana checked her reflection one last time. Perfect. Untouchable. Except for the faint, knowing smile she couldn’t quite suppress and the deep, cellular satisfaction that hummed beneath her skin.

Her car was waiting. As it pulled away from the curb, she saw him emerge from the elevator, guitar case in hand. Their eyes met through the glass—just a moment of perfect, complicated understanding between two people who’d taken exactly what they wanted and had, unexpectedly, given something real.

Then the car turned the corner, and he was gone.

Diana pulled out her phone, the screen lighting up with the first of the day’s emails. But her mind was already composing its own melody—one of power and pleasure and the beautiful, temporary silence between notes, found in hotel bars where CEOs and musicians could be exactly what the other needed, if only for the space between midnight and dawn. She took a deep breath, the scent of him and sex and expensive soap still clinging faintly to her skin, and began to review her notes. The day awaited, full of its own rhythms. But beneath it all, a new and persistent beat had taken hold.