Concerto Eleven: Sunday
A/N: My favorite drink is lemonade, so I'm going to serve you all a glass this chapter. (In other words, this one is NSFW)
oooOooo
Since as far back as he could remember, Vegeta made it his personal mission to take Sunday's off. No rehearsals, no composing, nothing majorly productive on the well-known day of rest.
Which is exactly why he should've known that this day would be…pecuilar… when he agreed to have an early private rehearsal with Goku on the last Sunday of winter.
He stroked his chin as he watched the taller man unzip the case that wrapped his instrument, and contemplated why he had even allowed this in the first place. In any sort of normal circumstances, Vegeta would have told Goku to fuck off somewhere when the man had texted him in the quiet of the night, begging for a chance to work on his piece. But even with his brain foggy of sleep, and his fingers tingling from being squashed under his head, Vegeta had the right train of thought to respond, "Whatever, be there 10am." And so here he was, an adrenaline spike of an extra-large coffee coursing through his veins, an itch to see what Goku had planned forming in his fingertips, a veil of a scowl masking the anxiety on his face.
"So I was thinking," Goku set up his stand and smiled cheerily, "that maybe we could change some things around a bit?"
Vegeta narrowed his eyes as he let the vague suggestion swim in his tummy. Goku may have been talented, but that didn't mean that Vegeta was willing to let him waltz in and demand changes to an otherwise perfect piece. He crafted a dark expression on his features, and pulled his lips in a tight circle as he said, "Oh?"
"It's nothing like that," Goku waved his hands in front of Vegeta's face and flashed a white flag of a smile, catching on to Vegeta's offended tone, "I think what you've done is absolutely brilliant! It's just that…well…" his voice trailed off as he looked away, his jaw tight.
Vegeta snarled, but the man had caught his attention. To so blatantly throw out a criticism was something he wasn't too familiar with, and while he didn't believe that Goku could actually add something useful, his curiosity needed to be satiated. "Well what?" he barked, "Do you have something to add or not?"
Goku danced his vision back to him, a glimmer of thrill sparkling in his deep brown eyes. "Okay, well if you're up for hearing it then here goes!" Goku grabbed his music sheets and picked up his bass, intently turning to the last page. "Everything about the piece is like a story, right? And that's what makes you such a great composer is because you tell a story through the notes! And this one is sad, like a lost spirit writing to her boyfriend who's still living or something like that. And somewhere around the time where the violas pick up, I feel like there's a confrontation, like a battle between lovers. And then there's a huge crescendo of madness, like an intense fight. And then there's nothing." Goku stopped his rambling and stared at Vegeta sadly, his eyebrows bunched. "All that buildup and then it just ends. I was thinking that maybe we could have a more dramatic finish, you know? Like in the end, both of them get what they want."
Vegeta folded his arms and took a deep breath, feeling a foreign feeling of pessimism wash over him. "Why should they?"
Goku rose an eyebrow in confusion and scratch his head. "Come again?"
"These lovers in this fable you've concocted. Why should they both get what they want?"
"Well, because that's how life works, isn't it? If you fight hard for something, don't you always get what you want? I mean, that's the story of me and Chi Chi, anyways," he chuckled, "She wanted me and went after me relentlessly. And in the end, we're both happy."
Vegeta scoffed and rolled his eyes, shaking his head at the fairytale lifestyle that Goku liked to pretend that he lived. "Sorry to burst your bubble, Kakarot, but life doesn't work that way. Maybe for you, for some reason that I haven't been able to pinpoint, but for the rest of us, we're merely surviving. We don't always get what we want."
"Says who?" Goku frowned and rested his body against the bass, "Why can't you get what you want? Look at you: You're one of the best musicians that I've ever come across, and you have your own orchestra. That sounds pretty fulfilling to me."
Vegeta closed his eyes and took a deep breath, turning his back to Goku. He walked to the piano in the far corner of the room and took a seat, running his fingers over the ivory keys. A heavy weight of silence pressed down in the room, and Vegeta remedied it by clicking on his metronome. He played a simple scale, the notes mocking the whisper of a ghost, and finally drew his eyes up to Goku. A light melody began to trickle from his fingertips, calling out to Goku to pluck the strings of his bass in reply. Vegeta chuckled, impressed –but not surprised-, that Goku had managed to play along with him completely in tune. "Tell me," his voice curved over the steady ticks of the metronome, "What made you start playing?"
Goku smiled as he reached for his bow, his staccatos becoming more aggressive and blending in with the high pitched melody Vegeta was forcing out of the piano. "Honestly? I've always played. My grandpa was a great pianist, and he taught me how to read notes. We used to play every Saturday when my dad would drop me off over his house. And I've always had the itch since then."
"Hmph," Vegeta closed his eyes as he let the notes surround him, seeing an explosion of color behind the darkness, "A family affair, I see. We're not so different after all." His fingers waltzed over the keys as he picked up his melodic pace, accompanying the sugar notes with keys of burnt honey. Goku ran his bow over his E string, his fingers meticulously pressing down to create escorting notes for Vegeta.
They played like that for a while, the melody smooth and unwavering, with Vegeta leading and Goku following obediently. Then Vegeta changed the tempo, pressing down on the keys with unrestrained strength as the notes became more aggressive and choppy. Goku sat silent for a minute as he watched Vegeta take on a new rhythm, and the flame haired man looked over the top of his piano and smirked at Goku challengingly. Goku reciprocated the arrogant smile, pressing his bow back to the string as he rose to the test, his notes sounding angry. They were having a musical argument, and it wasn't clear as to who was winning.
"Faster, Kakarot," Vegeta chuckled as he picked up the pace even further, leaving his metronome wallowing as it failed to keep up, and was satisfied as Goku followed suit, "I'd hate to finish this and leave you with your tail between your legs."
"Don't worry about that, Vegeta," Goku grinned, "There's not a tempo you can set that I won't match."
Vegeta's chest puffed out at those words, and he saw to it that Goku was an honest man. He had never been challenged like he was now, and it was exciting in a way that he never dreamed of. He quickened the tempo further, abandoning the light airy notes for more haunting ones, keys that demanded answers instead of questions, the voice for what he didn't say.
How can I get what I want, when everything has already been taken from me?
Goku head dropped as he became lost in his own haze of notes, feeling more alive everytime his fingers changed positions on the strings. He was a mad man, a psychotic musician with no real direction, and yet every chord was a response that he didn't know he was giving.
Then you go get more of what you want. Obsessions never expire.
Vegeta heard the rebuttal through Goku's façade, and he looked down at the contrast of his olive fingers on the ivory keys to focus. His fingers moved in robotic ticks, as if he were merely a spectator instead of an orchestrator, and he fought his brain before he thought too much and fumbled over himself. His fingers pleaded to him to ask another question, and he complied.
What if what I want is unattainable? What if it is already spoken for by another?
Goku looked up again, feeling a tingle wash over his spine as Vegeta's playing became even more intense, some sort of desperation knocking past the walls of his notes. He smiled, realizing that he was in a battle of sorts, and he knew exactly how to reciprocate as his bass spoke for him.
Then it must not be what you really want. What's meant for you, is for you.
Vegeta grit his teeth, feeling his throat tighten. What was happening under the blanket of the music? It had always been therapy for him, even if no one understood it, but this time it was hitting a place that he had not allowed anyone to gaze upon. Who did Goku think he was to march into his theater, criticize his arrangement, and then make him think through his fingers? It infuriated him, it unnerved him.
And it made him confront himself in a way that no one had dared.
His eyes widened as he realized how untrue that was. Goku defied him in the orchestra, challenged who he was a conductor. But she challenged who he was as a person, and he hated it. There was only one woman in his life that he would swallow hell for, and she was long gone, leaving him in a darkened pit with his demons. But something about her made him approach the flames that he had long sworn off, and even though life had long taught him to not get burned, his couldn't help but let his fingers tickle the heat. And when he drew his hand back, he found a warmth instead of a burn. But how could he touch the sun when someone else was already bathing in its light?
So what are you going to do? Don't be a coward.
He glared at Goku as the question swam through his mind, convincing himself that the question came directly from the bass player, and he meshed his fingers against the keys furiously.
I am not a coward. She is not mine to touch as I please.
Goku stared back intensely, as if he was aware of the conversation taking place.
She feels it too. Remember the way she looked at you.
Stop it.
He could feel the end approaching, and a small part of him didn't want it to. It wasn't supposed to turn into this per se, but here they were, playing back and forth in a helix of fury, both unaware of each other's intentions. It created an opaque layer of trust that stilled over them, and neither one had become aware of it. The piano groaned in a mellow voice under Vegeta's fingers, begging for Goku to provide it some solace.
Remember the way she hugged you. When's the last time you were embraced like that?
I was a child. But that is irrelevant.
Not to her.
I said stop it!
…And not to you.
Vegeta growled as he brought the melody home, curving into a smooth finish as Goku raced beside him. Their stares met in the middle of the room, landing at Vegeta's podium, perfectly harmonizing into a solid ending. As Goku's bow faded from the strings, he sucked in a tight breath. "Wow," he whispered, wiping his brow, "How did you do that?"
"Tch," Vegeta covered the keys with the black piano lid and slid away, his fingers tingling from his aggressive playing, "Do what?"
"Bring that out of me like that," Goku sat his bass on the floor and sat down in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees, "I mean, I've played without notes before, but I've never done that. That was really something."
"No need to make this into a big deal, Kakarot," Vegeta folded his arms and looked at the wall, "you have talent. And your ear is next to perfection. You need to rely on both of those facts if you want to make it far in this industry. There will always be someone better than you—"
"-So make yourself better than them. I remember you said that in the first rehearsal."
Vegeta nodded, mildly pleased that someone had been paying attention. That same logic had been applied to him directly to get him to his current platform. Musicians were born and bred every day, but it was only the ones who honed in on their craft and perfected it that had managed to make something of themselves. And he refused to be left in the other category of non-believers.
"Hey," Goku broke the silence, "I don't know if I'm overstepping my boundaries, but are you okay? I mean, it felt like something was bothering you during that play through. You wanna talk about it?"
Vegeta sharply turned his head back to Goku, his stomach churning as he watched how genuine and innocent the man's face had become. What did he think, that he would tell the man who was close with Yamcha what was on his mind? That every time he looked at the damned sky he would daydream about what it would be like to fall into her body and run his fingers down her flesh? That he was pissed with himself for even being attracted to her in the first place, and ignoring the laws of his own world?
Absolutely not.
He stood up and walked to the podium and stood on it, gathering his baton. "You are overstepping your boundaries," he said drily, "So take that energy and put it into this piece. If you want me to write a new ending, prove to me that you're worth the effort."
Goku meddled no more, instead smirking and rising swiftly to his feet, picking his bass up in the same breath. "Like I said earlier, Vegeta, don't worry about that. You just let my playing do the talking."
Vegeta rolled his eyes and brought down his baton.
oooOooo
A flash of lightning illuminated Vegeta's living room, and he braced himself for the boom of the accompanying thunder. A heavy rain beat against his rooftop, demanding to come inside, and he relaxed against his sofa. While others may have dreaded the intense storm, Vegeta welcomed it. It was as if mother nature was putting on her own personal concert, and he was the only one in the world that could understand it.
So as usual, he put on his bluesy jazz and classical music, grabbed a beer from his fridge and sat down to rewrite the ending to the piece. When Goku had demonstrated what he thought the finale should be, Vegeta was reluctant to admit that he was blown away. It completely changed the story in his mind, giving the whole 'everybody gets what they want' sentiment life. He ignored the fact that the movie his brain played ended up with him content with his conquest of the battle, a strapping woman on his arm with sapphires for eyes and hair as endless as the sky.
He grunted and swallowed another gulp of his beer, writing another bar on the paper. Louis Armstrong's voice belted from his record player, daydreaming about a perfect world, serenading Vegeta's imagination as he constructed the next bar of notes. His mother loved this song, and would play it on rainy nights as she gathered him and his younger brother in front of the fireplace with snacks galore, her milky voice humming along to the tune. Vegeta remembered the day he was able to play a rendition of the song on his father's saxophone, and how delighted she had been to hear the notes. Now he sat in between the suffocating walls of his all too small space, with only memories of yesteryears to keep him company.
The thunder roared again, washing over the music and his thoughts, shaking the building with its torment. A perfect timing, Vegeta considered, as he wrote a dramatic crescendo for Goku and the cello section. He felt anxious to finish, worrying that the lights would go out before he could perfect it, suddenly wishing for Armstrong to shut up so he could concentrate.
He stood and stretched, determined to shut off the record player before it could do any more damage on his psyche or his composition. A small repetition of knocks called for his attention at the door, and he turned to face it with an eyebrow raised. He glanced over to the clock on the wall. It read a quarter after ten, reminding him that it was too late for visitors, unexpected ones at that, and he shook his head as he prepared to ignore it. They would get the hint and leave him in solitude.
Or so he thought, because the knocks became more forceful, causing him to slide his palm down his face. He wasn't sure what the universe wanted from him today so badly, but he was so close from telling it to fuck off. How could he spend a Sunday in peace, if everyone was so hell bent on destroying it?
He marched to the door as he clenched his fists, his long sweatpants dragging under his feet. He had every mind to immediately curse the unwanted guest to oblivion. He jerked the lock from its place and swung the door open, his scowl that had stolen his face immediately smoothing out into confusion.
He took a deep breath and shook his head. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Can I come in? It's really wet out."
He took stock of the wet hair that clung to her cheeks like babes to their mother, her crystal eyes sparkling in the blue of the night. He sighed and moved out of the way, motioning for her to step over the threshold.
He sighed irritatingly and looked out of the doorway, watching the spray of water that fell over the side gutters and stained the walk way. He shut it and turned to face her, catching her running her fingers through her damp, frizzy hair.
"When I said to stay away from me, Bulma," he grit his teeth, "I meant that literally. Not show up to my doorstep in the middle of a night on a Sunday."
She shrugged off her coat and tied it around her waist, and only then did he notice she had a canvas wrapped in newspaper with her. She was moving around frantically, as if someone had stirred her to life by way of electrocution. "I know, I have no right to just barge in on you like this, especially after getting your address from your application," she tucked her hair behind her ear and licked her lips, "but this is important, Vegeta. And it couldn't wait for 'maybe I'll see you around.'"
He took a deep breath and pinched his nose, squeezing his eyes together tightly. "What the hell is so important? Shouldn't you be with Yamcha?"
She looked down at her feet sadly, reaching for the canvas. "Yeah, about that…oh! Is that Louis Armstrong? I didn't take you for a jazz fan."
"I like music," he crossed his arms and burned his stare into her, "not that it's any of your business. Now will you get on with why you're here?"
It was her turn to take a deep breath, and she slowly brought her face up to meet his as she did so, as if she was waiting for permission to speak. She tore the newspaper away from the canvas, letting it litter around her feet. "I'll clean that up before I go, but I have to show you this." When the last piece of paper butterflied to the ground, she turned it around to him, her eyes clearer than he ever remembered. "I stayed up all night painting this, and just finished it about an hour ago. And the first thing I did was bring it here to show it to you."
Vegeta let his eyes slowly drift away from hers and roam over the art in her hands. An apprehensive looking woman was readying herself to leap over a balcony, one knee over the ledge already, the other planted firmly on the ground. One hand played upon her bottom lip while the other was extended, attempting to grab onto a cloud. Her face was the perfect mixture of fear and excitement, and Vegeta found himself wanting to tell her to just jump already and take the risk. Was that the point? "It's a nice painting, Bulma," he drew his eyes back to hers, "But I fail to understand why you had to show me this."
"Just hear me out, okay?" She sat the painting down and closed her eyes, as if she were trying to muster some sort of courage behind her words. "I've never really met someone like you before, Vegeta. You're such an asshole, and it drives me crazy!"
"I won't be insulted in my own home!"
"Wait a second!" Her eyes opened, coming alive with gasoline fire, and she continued as the flames threatened to engulf him. "But you've made me realize a lot of things about myself. I've always played it safe. I got good grades because I'm smart, not because I wanted to, and I went to school every day even though it bored me with a lack of a challenge. And I went to college and changed my major from fine arts to engineering because I'm Bulma Briefs, heir to Capsule Corps. The media didn't like my hair? I changed it. No one looked at my art? I stopped painting. I even met a boy and decided to pursue a relationship with him even though he doesn't set my soul on fire." She looked away in shame, shaking her head as she sighed. He wanted to demand that she keep her eyes locked with his and show some assertion, but he wanted her to also get to her point.
"And he never pushed me, you know? He told me to play it safe by staying in a field that I'm not passionate about. And I let him because I love him, and that's what you do when you love someone, right? You do things to help make them a little happier, and then one day you look up and you're a completely different person."
"That's stupid," Vegeta scoffed, "To change yourself for the sake of another. Where do you fit in all of this?"
"Exactly," she sniffled, shivering due to her soaked wardrobe, "Where do I fit in? I kept asking myself this all night, wondering why I hold my own self back. So I picked up a brush and got to painting out my feelings, and I came up with this," she pointed to the canvas, her eyes still in a heated dance with his, "And I realized that I'm the girl in the picture. Too afraid to take risks even when the opportunity is in front of you. I don't want to be that person anymore, and you showed me that."
Vegeta swallowed hard, feeling uneasy. If he was confused before, he was certainly unsure of where this conversation was headed now. "What is your point, Bulma?" His question came out softer and deeper than intended, and he cleared his throat to rectify himself.
"My point is, that after you told me to stay away from you, my feelings were really hurt. And why should they be? I mean, I'm in a relationship with a guy who, although flawed in so many ways, is otherwise good to me. And yet here I've been these past few days in a rut because you told me to stay away. All I can think of is why? What did I do to make him want me to go away? You kissed me, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it ever since, and now I'm here having insecurities like a teenager, and all for someone who doesn't give a damn."
Vegeta felt his face go hot, and he watched her intently, feeling like he was watching a movie, unsure who to root for.
"Vegeta, you told me I don't take risks. And I know this makes me such a shitty girlfriend, but for the first time in my life, I want to take a risk that's for my benefit. And if you tell me to go away again, I will, and we can pretend this conversation never happened."
He watched her fluffy lips part, watching the words spill from her lips before she could vocalize them. A part of him wanted to tell her to stop, make her aware of the consequences of whatever she was about to ask and how it could affect them both. And the other part of him, the part that was currently winning, told him to shut up and let her sentence fall from her pretty mouth so he could hear them with his own ears.
"I…I want…," she continued slowly, taste testing her words, "I want to give in to this desire I have that won't go away. I want to kiss you again, Vegeta. And I don't want to stop."
There it was. There was the pang of anxiety that he knew would come with her statement. The confusion of him taking his own risk, or telling her to leave and take her drama with her. He watched her swallow hard and mimicked her actions, unsure of what to do. The crisp scratch of a new song starting on his record player cut off his breath. Duke Ellington was playing now, the sweet piano rift of In a Sentimental Mood providing the soundtrack to their current mood. Bulma had not given her eyes permission to glance anywhere else, a hunger burning through sapphires. She was waiting on him, he could tell from her heavily blushed cheeks and her lidded eyes, but his feet were cement blocks and he was too weak to lift them.
She caught her breath and looked down, nodding in a saddened understanding. "Say no more," she grabbed her canvas and tucked it under her arm, not bothering to put on her coat, "I'm sorry I interrupted your evening like this. At least I took the chance, right?" She chuckled lightly, although he could tell it was pained, and began walking towards the door, stopping just in front of him. She put on the best plastered smile she could manage, making him wonder how many times she had perfected it, and simply said, "Goodnight, Vegeta," before stepping around him.
Don't be a coward.
Before he could rationalize further, his arm reached out and grabbed her, keeping them both still. He heard her gasp, and he tightened his loose grip around her forearm. Duke Ellington urged him on with his silky saxophone, and Vegeta nodded to no one.
He circled her around slowly in front of him, so that he was able to look her in the face. Her chest was rising and falling, her eyes showing a small shade of hope that she was trying to mask. He darted his glance back and forth between hers, trying to find a reason to make all of this stop.
He couldn't find any.
Instead he said in a husky tone, "Are you aware of the consequences? You do realize what you're asking for is selfish."
She nodded without hesitation. "I know it's selfish. I've already given myself that pep talk. Tomorrow morning when I wake up, I might really hate myself. But I don't want to live for tomorrow. I just want to be present in the now."
"What about Yamcha?"
She looked down, and only then did he see a reluctance in her eyes. But with a voice so small, the pitch of a mouse, she replied, "What about Bulma?" Her eyes slowly rose to his, and she continued with a, "What about Vegeta? That's all I want to focus on right now."
He brought his face closer to hers, feeling that familiar tug in his chest. "You're sure?" he whispered.
She nodded once, smiling briefly. "I have no plans of backing out now."
And with that, under the umbrella of a hypnotizing saxophone on a Sunday night, he drew her bottom lip into his mouth, kissing her again.
She immediately dropped her canvas and threw her arms around his neck, pressing her chest against his. He wrapped his arms around her waist, holding on to her territorially, even though for the moment she belonged to no one but herself. He took his time in tasting the cherries of her lips, sinking into her soft skin like he was a dying man, and she was the cure to his ailment. Her tongue pressed against his lips, demanding permission, and he submissively obliged.
He pushed them back to his couch as they tasted each other, their bodies falling over the edge of the sofa as one. Bulma squealed as his heavy weight was pressed down on top of hers, and he pulled back to make sure she was fine. Her aqua hair, still damp from the rain, puddled around her in a halo, making her appear even more ethereal than she already was. He just had to watch her, had to feast his eyes on her or else she would be taken away from him by a selfish god demanding his creation back.
"Is everything okay?" She asked, still trying to catch her breath from their heated kiss, "Do you want to stop?"
He snarled before dipping his head back down, letting his breath ghost over her lips. "Don't ask too many questions. Just enjoy the moment you desire so much," he smirked and ravished her mouth again. She sighed beneath him and ran her fingers up his chiseled back, drawing circles over his shoulder blades. He broke their kiss to feed on her neck, tasting her floral perfume and her sweet skin. She moaned lightly as the music changed, her delicate breaths folding into the soothing chords of Debussy's Claire de Lune. It was the perfect fitting: such a pretty melody for a pretty woman, who was warm and inviting under his chest. He got the urgent desire to let his fingertips convey how pretty he thought she was. He brought his head up to remove her shirt swiftly, before bringing it back down to taste her again, his hand cupping her ample breast, his palm rolling over her pebbled nipple.
"Vegeta…"She gasped, arching her back and feeding him more of her breast. Impatiently, he removed the thin fabric that covered her alabaster skin, providing the hardened nipple warmth by way of his mouth. She mewled under him as he sucked and pulled, and he wondered when was the last time he had been with a woman so intimately. More importantly, when was the last time he wanted to as badly as he did with Bulma.
His tongue trailed to her other neglected nipple, showing it as much affection as the other one. Her deft fingers ran through his hair, and she tugged gently as she pleaded with him to bring his head back to hers. Although he wasn't exactly ready to give up his current prizes, he granted her request anyways, stealing her lips.
Her hand found their way to the hem of his tank top, and he allowed her to pull it off of him. She shrugged her wet jeans off, eyeing his sweatpants as he did the same, and she gobbled up the sight of him, if the look of lust in her eyes had anything to say about it. He blushed, turning away, and she grabbed his head and turned it back to her.
"Don't be shy," she smiled, "You look too delicious to be shy."
I should be saying that to you, he wanted to say, but instead he wrapped her thick thighs around his waist and sucked at her neck again.
Debussy continued his serenading as Bulma moaned and shifted her pelvis against his, urging him to enter. He let his fingers glide down the smooth curve of her stomach, past her soft, blue tuft of hair, just above her most private of places. A surge of arrogance jolted through him as he flicked over her swollen nub, his fingers drenched with her wetness. She breathed his name with a need that he hadn't heard before, making his own erection become impossibly stiffer. Her body reacted to him as he pressed a finger into her silkened core, and Vegeta felt himself growing undone. How could anything feel as soft, as pure, as right as her? She squeezed her muscles over his finger, and he elicited a groan. His free hand ran through her hair, caressing her cheek, and he swore he could hear notes leap from her skin every time he touched her. Everything about her was poetic, and even though she wanted this moment, he was the one left feeling honored.
He removed his hand from her, wanting to feel her around him. She gazed at him through the lustful slits of her eyes, placing a palm on his chest. He locked eye contact with her and she smiled sweetly, making an ache pull in Vegeta's chest. Vegeta conducted symphonies, he wrote them, but never in his life had he seen a masterpiece come to life before.
Not until Bulma lay sprawled beneath him, her breath hitched in her chest as he entered her gently. She held on to her inhale, releasing it slowly as she relaxed around him. Vegeta felt like the universe made sense in that moment, as if he was supposed to be here, as if he was supposed to be inside of her. She brought his face down and pressed their foreheads together as he moved slowly at first, struggling to keep himself from climaxing already. She was just too warm, and he felt more at home inside of her then he did in his own apartment.
Their breaths became quicker, steadier, urging him to quicken his rhythmic strokes. His name fell from her lips with purpose, and he knew that he had to be careful under her spell. Neither one of them had prepared with protection, and Vegeta was in no means ready for that sort of commitment. But if she kept moaning and saying his name like that, he was sure he'd slip up.
Her hips rolled against his as she met his pace, their bodies in rhythm with a new Debussy composition, Rêverie. "I love this piece," she panted, moving her hips quicker, "I paint to Debussy." Vegeta grunted as she moved with him, stilling briefly as he tried to contain himself. He needed to satisfy her, and quickly, because she was a temptress, and her body against his was making him so infuriatingly close to-
"Oh my god," she squealed, tightening her grip around his neck, "I'm gonna…"
Oh, thank God.
Bulma stiffened underneath him, and then relaxed into a pool of jelly, completely spent as the orgasm washed her away. Vegeta studied her face, how serene and beautiful she looked as she came, his name stained on her lips as she fell from nirvana. Her hips were still moving, clearly trying to make sure that she wasn't the only one who could feel such pleasure, and he clenched his eyes tightly as a white hot burn of his own climax pooled in his belly. He pulled out of her quickly, reaching for his tank top and spilling himself into the black fabric with an intensity that he couldn't give himself if he tried.
He gathered his breath before looking back at the woman sprawled on his couch, completely flushed and spent. He expected to see her face immediately contort into shame, realizing exactly what she had done, what they had done. Instead, she looked happy. Content.
"Vegeta," she said lazily, his name dripping off of her tongue like honey, "Can you lay with me before I go?"
He watched her momentarily, the cloudy orgasm still pulling at his brain, and he couldn't reject his body from wanting to feel her pressed against him. So he climbed behind her, a little apprehensive as to what to do, but she grabbed his arm and threw it around her waist, snuggling close to his bare chest, her butt rubbing against his flaccid member.
Something about this moment was comforting to him, but he didn't want to spend the energy in trying to decipher exactly what, so he took a deep breath and simply asked, "So what now? You've had your way with me."
She chuckled, shaking her head and getting his chest with her moist hair. "I told you," she said sleepily, "I'll worry about that tomorrow. Can we just lay in the bliss of how amazing that was?"
"Hmph," he held his head up by his hand and watched her, noting how her chest was falling more slowly, and her eyes were not opening as easily through her blinks. He grabbed a blanket that laid on the back of the sofa and tossed it over them, knowing that she most likely wouldn't be leaving tonight. He bent down to her ear, smelling the soft fragrance of her hair. "I suppose making you stay away is impossible now, isn't it?"
"Mmmhmm," she smiled drowsily. "Can I sleep here?"
"What will you tell Yamcha?"
She shrugged her shoulders, and even through her haze he could tell she meant it. "Yamcha doesn't deserve me," she said in a whisper, "And I'm tired of it."
"I won't be your excuse, Bulma," he said sternly, running a finger down her side, "You won't string me along while you figure out your relationship issues."
"I won't. I promise, I think I know what I have to do," she snuggled closer to him, making him tighten his hold around her. "Goodnight, Vegeta."
He watched her as she drifted off into sleep before laying his head down beside her. He knew this Sunday would be off, but he didn't imagine this would be the ending to his day. He reached to turn the lamp off on the desk behind them, letting Debussy lull them to sleep under night's embrace. He rested his chin in the curve of her neck, closing his eyes to drift off with her.
"Goodnight, Bulma."
oooOooo
A/N
Well….that escalated quickly.
Also, I definitely don't Condone cheating, but I never promised Bulma would be a Mary Sue.
Thank you guys for the feedback on the last chapter. I'm glad you all didn't think it was boring! I hope you are as enthuastic about this one as I am. SmutFest really killed my smutty writing, but I definitely like a lemon fresh story, so I hope this was okay!
You guys are amazing!
Please R&R! Until next time!
