No.

Beneath the golden veil cast by the setting sun, Bianca shook her head gently, sending waves cascading down her shoulders. "No, I can't say I have." Her words were barely louder than the quiet rustle of fabric shifting underneath her as she adjusted her position on the bed, crossing her delicate legs beneath her.

The corners of Harry's mouth curled upward in amusement, fostering an inviting ambiance that enticed Bianca to participate in whatever impromptu lesson might unfold. Scooting imperceptibly nearer, eliminating what little gap existed previously, Harry assumed control without hesitation, utter confidence radiating off his personage much akin to magnetic forces attracting loose metal filings.

His eyes gleamed mischievously while being watched intently during these proceedings, perhaps intuitively comprehending precisely why people couldn’t resist embarking on novel journeys presented unexpectedly. “Watch closely,” came his whispered command directed squarely toward those marvelous lime flecks embedded deeply among the translucent depths visible beneath Bianca’s eyelids.

Harry nodded thoughtfully, the corners of his mouth curving upward into a reassuring grin. "That's alright," he replied smoothly, his free hand absently tracing patterns on the worn wood of the guitar. "Music isn't something you need to **** yourself into. It comes naturally, like breathing or laughing..."

He paused briefly, letting his words hang heavily in the charged air between them. His tone earnestly persuasive. "Here, try this. Lean back and just let the notes wash over you. Close your eyes if it helps. This is your first lesson."

Taking his advice to heart, Bianca slowly inclined backward, sinking into the embrace of Harry's bed. The springs gave way beneath her, creating a nest of warmth and intimacy that wrapped around her form like a lover's arms. She hesitated for a brief moment, feeling somewhat **** with her guard lowered, but the sincere encouragement reflected in Harry's upturned gaze bolstered her confidence. Languidly, she extended her limbs, spreading out like a cat basking in sunlight filtered through leaves.

Then, obeying an impulse fueled by the tranquility permeating the room, Bianca closed her emerald eyes.

At once, the world outside faded into obscurity, replaced by the growing nearness of Harry and the scent of his life lived among these walls. As her lids fluttered shut, Harry's fingers found purchase on the frets of his beloved Gibson, initiating a tender dialogue between flesh and string. The initial chords emerged shyly, blooming into existence like nightflowers seeking the moon's caress. Each note hung in the air, a delicate latticework forming a cocoon around Bianca's prone figure stretched out upon the bed.

The melody unfurling from Harry's instrument began to resonate deep within Bianca's chest—a familiar tune whose rhythm tugged at the edges of memory. Without realizing it, Bianca parted her lips; a soft hum escaped, harmonizing effortlessly with the refrain filling the room. Her body swayed subtly to the beat, caught somewhere between conscious movement and involuntary reaction to the musical spell being woven around them both.

Intrigued yet careful not to disrupt the serene tableau before him, Harry watched Bianca closely, gauging her reactions to ensure she remained comfortably ensconced in the experience.

The gentle undulation of her torso kept tempo with the ebb and flow of his melodious creation. A subtle flush colored her cheeks, painting a picture of peaceful surrender against the canvas of rumpled sheets and afternoon shadows.

As the final notes lingered in the air, **** to dissipate, Harry allowed the vibrato of the last chord to fade away completely before lowering the neck of his cherished Gibson. Silence reclaimed its dominion over the space, save for the faint ticking of an old analogue clock mounted on the far wall, marking moments slipping quietly into history.

With exquisite care, Harry placed the guitar aside, ensuring its safety amidst the scattered pillows and crumpled blankets of his disheveled sanctuary. Bianca lay there, enveloped in the echoes of sound, her breath synchronized with the pulse of residual harmony that seemed to dance along her exposed collarbone and graceful neckline.

Feeling emboldened by the intimate ambiance, Harry leaned back onto the mattress, allowing gravity to guide him toward Bianca's waiting silhouette. The distance between them shrank until mere inches separated their bodies, the heat emanating from his frame mingled with hers, promising closeness without demanding more.

Bianca's eyes open slowly and are met with...