The way you handled that upright bass—all thick wood and vibrating tension—should have been a federal travel warning for anyone with a pulse.
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Tuesday, 5:42 AM.
Dear Desmond,
I’m currently sitting on the floor of my Airbnb in LoDo, the one with the exposed brick and the kind of floor-to-ceiling windows that make you feel like you’re on display for the whole city. The sun isn’t even up over the Front Range yet, but the sky is that weird, bruised purple color you only get right before a storm rolls in. I’m drinking lukewarm espresso out of a chipped mug and wearing your white button-down. It smells like woodsmoke, expensive reed-wood, and you. I’m pretty sure I’m not sending this. In fact, I know I’m not. Travel bloggers are supposed to be experts at the 'clean exit,' right? We pack light, we leave no trace, and we move on to the next destination before the locals start learning our middle names. But my skin still feels like it’s humming at the same frequency as your bass strings, and honestly, I’m too wired to sleep.
I didn’t even want to go to Nocturne last night. My legs were lead from a three-day trek through the Maroon Bells, and all I wanted was a face mask and a delivery pizza. But Sarah insisted. You know how she is—she said I was 'stagnating.' So I put on the silk slip dress that takes up zero room in my pack and the boots that make me feel six feet tall, and we ended up in that basement.
The air down there was thick, wasn't it? It felt like it hadn't been changed since 1954. It smelled like bourbon, sweat, and the kind of ambition that only exists after midnight. And then there was you.
I noticed your hands first. I’m a sucker for hands that look like they actually do things. Yours were calloused at the fingertips, long-fingered and steady as you tuned that massive upright bass. When you started playing, I stopped listening to whatever Sarah was saying about her promotion. You weren’t just playing the music; you were wrestling it. The way you leaned into the wood, your cheek almost pressed against the scroll, felt like a private conversation I was eavesdropping on. Your thumb hooked into your belt loop during the piano solo, and that alone was more of a travel advisory than anything I’ve ever published about back-country skiing. It was a warning: *This is going to be a problem.*
You caught me looking during the second set. You didn’t do that cheesy musician wink thing, thank god. You just held my gaze while your fingers did that walking bass line, fast and dirty, and for a second, I forgot to breathe. The air in the club suddenly felt as thin as the oxygen at the top of Longs Peak. I’ve stared down grizzly bears on the trail and felt less hunted than I did under those stage lights.
When the set ended, I was already at the bar ordering a third Old Fashioned—which, for the record, was a terrible idea for someone who had to be up at dawn. You didn’t even wait for the 'good job' pleasantries. You just leaned against the mahogany next to me, smelling like salt and work, and said, 'You’re the one who didn’t clap during the solo.'
'I was busy trying not to fall off my stool,' I told you.
'Altitude?' you asked, grinning.
'Tension,' I said. I’ve always been bad at the subtle stuff. I spend half my life in the wild; I don't have time for the decorative versions of the truth.
We didn't stay for the third set. We didn't even finish our drinks. The walk back to my place was that frantic, stumbling kind of fast where you're trying to be cool but you're mostly just trying to get behind a locked door before you lose your mind. You kept your hand on the small of my back, right where the silk of my dress met the heat of my skin, and every time we crossed a street, your fingers would dig in just a little bit harder. It felt like a set of heavy-duty crampons digging into a sheer ice face—terrifying, but the only thing keeping me from a very long, very messy fall.
In the elevator, I didn't wait. I’ve jumped out of planes and off cliffs in Switzerland, but the rush of shoving you against that mirrored wall was higher than all of it. Your mouth was a shock—not soft, but hungry and tasting of rye whiskey. You tasted like the end of a long journey. My hands were in your hair, which was still damp from the stage lights, and yours were everywhere. You didn't just touch me; you mapped me. You ran your palms down my ribs and hooked your fingers under the hem of that slip dress, pulling it up until I could feel the cold metal of the elevator wall against my bare ass.
'I've been wanting to do that since the first C-minor chord,' you muttered against my neck, and then you bit—just hard enough to leave a mark I'll have to hide with a scarf for the next three days.
By the time we got the door open, I was vibrating. You kicked it shut and didn't even make it to the bedroom. We were on the rug, the expensive Persian one that came with the rental, and you were stripping that white shirt off like it was on fire. I wanted to see every inch of you. Musicians always have this lean, wiry strength, but you were broader than I expected. Your chest was solid, and when I ran my tongue over your collarbone, I could feel your heart hammering. It was the same rhythm as the bass—fast, syncopated, relentless.
I pushed your trousers down, my fingers fumbling with the belt because I was shaking, and when you finally kicked them off, I realized I was in way over my head. You were already hard, thick and heavy, straining against your boxers. I reached out and wrapped my hand around you, feeling the heat of you, the way your pulse throbbed against my palm. You let out this low, ragged growl that made my stomach do a backflip.
'Chloe,' you said, and the way you said my name made it sound like a destination.
You pushed me down onto the rug, my hair spreading out like a dark fan. You didn't waste time with the poetic stuff. You knelt between my legs, pushing my knees up toward my shoulders, and just looked at me. The light from the streetlamps outside was hitting your face, making your eyes look like dark glass. Then you leaned down and buried your face between my thighs.
I wasn't prepared for how precise you were. It shouldn't have surprised me—you spend your life manipulating strings—but the way your tongue found my clit was like a masterclass. You were steady, focused, using your fingers to spread my lips wide so you could get deep into me. I was arching off the floor, my fingers digging into your shoulders, making little gasping sounds that I’m sure the neighbors heard. You didn't stop until I was slick and sobbing, my body wound so tight I thought I’d snap.
And then you were over me. You reached into your wallet for a condom, your movements quick and efficient, and then you were hovering at my entrance.
'Look at me,' you whispered.
I opened my eyes, and you slid inside.
It wasn't a cinematic glide. It was heavy and real and a little bit desperate. You filled me up so completely that for a second, I couldn't even find my voice. You were thick, stretching me, and when you started to move, it was with that same rhythmic, driving force you had on stage. Each thrust was deliberate, hitting that spot deep inside me that usually requires a lot more map-work to find. I wrapped my legs around your waist, pulling you closer, wanting the friction, wanting the weight of you to crush the breath out of me.
'Fuck, you're so tight,' you groaned, your face buried in the crook of my neck. Your sweat was dripping onto my chest, and I loved the salt of it. I loved the way your hips slammed against mine, the sound of skin hitting skin in the quiet of the room.
I was close, so close I could feel the edges of my vision starting to blur. I reached down, my thumb finding my own clit while you hammered into me, and that was the catalyst. The world narrowed down to the feeling of you inside me and the friction of my own hand. I came hard, my internal muscles clamping down on your cock so tight you let out a choked-off shout. You stayed deep inside me, your body rigid, your head thrown back as you followed me over the edge. I could feel the heat of your release through the latex, the way you shuddered against me like you were breaking apart.
We stayed like that for a long time, tangled on the rug, the only sound the hum of the refrigerator and our own wrecked breathing.
You eventually carried me to the bed, which was nice. A little bit of chivalry after the carnage. You fell asleep almost instantly, your arm heavy across my waist, looking completely different in repose—less like a storm, more like the aftermath.
I watched you for an hour before I got up. I watched the way your hand curled in your sleep, those musician’s fingers still twitching slightly as if you were playing a dream-set. I realized then that I couldn't stay for the 'morning after' coffee. I can handle a lot of things—missed flights, food poisoning in Morocco, broken bones in the Andes—but I don't think I can handle the way you’d look at me in the daylight. I don't do 'quiet.' I do 'intense' and then I do 'gone.'
So, I took your shirt. I needed something to remember the way the bass felt in the floorboards and the way you felt inside me. I’m leaving this note—well, I’m writing it, anyway—on the back of a receipt for a jazz club that I’ll probably never go back to.
I’m heading out now. I have a 9 AM flight to Durango, and there’s a trailhead with my name on it. By the time you wake up and realize your shirt is missing, I’ll be 30,000 feet up, looking down at the mountains and trying to pretend my heart isn't still keeping time with your music.
Thanks for the encore, Desmond. It was the best part of the show.
Chloe
