Playing the Pauses (Sex, Love, and Rock & Roll Book 2)

by Michelle Hazen

  Danny O’Neil is both kinds of my kryptonite—Dominant and musician and everything I never let myself have.

  Deep down, did I know? Is that why I waited until he was alone in his hotel room to mend our fences? Am I doing it again, fooling myself so I will “accidentally” end up just where I want to? I can’t. God, I can’t keep doing this.

  When he moves, the deliberate, precise pull of muscle looks so familiar, but instead of standing to tower over me, he holds out his hand.

  Palm up.

  In the shadows, all the colors of his eyes are just shades of darkness, but they don’t look hard. They are an invitation of night-toned sheets under soft black blankets, crumpled below dampened pillows.

  I take his hand.

  He pulls us both to standing in the same movement and lifts our clasped hands, spinning me away from the table like we’re dancing. He lets go once I’m looking out over the city. The air leaving his lips touches my hair. He seems even taller when we’re so close, his body bare inches behind mine though we don’t touch.

  We could be just two people enjoying the view.

  He smoothes my hair to the side. I wore it down—why the hell did I wear it down tonight?—and I can feel every individual strand that catches on the callouses of his fingertips. My collar is too far open; the flutter of my breastbone purely visible and the shadow of cleavage clear when I glance down. I should have done up the next button, even though it sits weirdly high on this shirt and I only wear it when I’m at work and shit, I’m at work and he is one of my artists and damn it, I don’t do this crap and I need to—

  He bites me.

  Smooth, blunt teeth and no hesitation, the sting of confident pain jagging from the curve of my shoulder all the way down my body. It shocks electricity through every clutching inner muscle that I have, the liquid melting after the squeeze wavering my balance.

  When he releases me, the breeze washes down my collar and touches the tense peaks of my nipples through my bra. The warmth of him teases the back of my body, the narrow margin of air between us rocketing in temperature.

  I don’t move away.

  “Take off your panties,” he murmurs, his voice drifting over me like a too-light touch when I’m already squirming for more. “Right here. Where everyone can see.”

  My hands are cold when they touch my thighs beneath my skirt. I press hard to still their trembling, but it’s been so long since I could let go and I almost can’t believe it’s really happening. The thick stucco balcony railing sits atop closely-spaced pillars and walls block the next suite’s balcony. All the other buildings are far below us. But I can still imagine thousands of pairs of unseen eyes looking up at us as I hook my thumbs into the lacy waistband of my bikini-cuts.

  As I push down, the loosening fabric rakes across sensitive skin. I gasp and reel a little, dangerously lightheaded. Danny’s hands are there immediately, wide palms covering my fingers with the fabric of my skirt in between. His grip steadies my hips and I exhale. His right index finger, the one marked with the bass clef, rests just at the crease of my thigh where the smooth skin of my latest Brazilian wax begins.

  I curse every thread of the material separating me from his fingertip. He lets me go, but before he shifts away, I feel the unmistakable brush of an erection beneath denim. I drag my panties down with numb fingers.

  Lace pools at my ankles. I straighten, lifting my foot carefully so my heel doesn’t snag—heels, why in the hell did I wear heels tonight instead of my flats?—and kick my panties aside, abandoning them on the rough concrete of his balcony.

  And then, standing there with the night air caressing my tight calves, I’m so fucking glad I wore heels.

  Fabric drops to the ground. His shirt, maybe?

  He reaches around me and it’s not a hug, not quite. His chest whispers against my back, the curves of his now-bare biceps brushing my arms as he unhooks the first button of my shirt. His even breath washes across the exposed side of my neck. In and then out. In and then out.

  I close my eyes and let my body unwind into this ghost embrace.

  The last button gives in and my hands hang tense and helpless at my sides. He waits, but it’s all I can do to drag oxygen into my lungs, and there’s no way I would use any of it to tell him to stop. I don’t feel his fingers, but the bra clasp at my spine tugs and releases. And then, finally, his chest supports my shoulder blades and he smoothes my chin up, tilting my head back so it lies on his shoulder.

  “Don’t move.” His voice rumbles so low I don’t even know how I picked it up, but I hear every letter. “It’s all right.”

  His arms come around me and there’s a sharp snap as the cheap plastic connector on my bra strap cracks apart. I don’t flinch. He breaks the second connector and pulls the remnants of my bra out through the front of my shirt.

  One big hand flattens on the fabric over my belly, just below the waistband of my skirt.

  His other hand lifts and he places a single fingertip in the hollow of my throat. It’s utterly weightless, but I feel like he holds my whole body in place with that single touch. I open my eyes, my head resting on his shoulder, and maybe there are bleary stars gracing the sky above us. Maybe not.

  I can’t remember how to see as his finger descends, drawing down the narrow line of skin exposed by my unfastened shirt. I wonder if he can feel the pounding of my heart beneath my ribs, if it is written all over the heat of my skin. His hand slides just beneath the waistband of my skirt, and my eyes flutter closed.

  He stops.

  “Do you want this?” he asks me.

  I don’t think about the many reasons I should say no. I just gasp out my real answer, all three letters scratchy and dangling just on the edge of a plea.

  Touch whispers down my arms and then his fingers clamp around my wrists, hard. I whimper, all my muscles clenching deeply along with the squeeze of his grasp. He pulls my arms wide and remands them to the railing, the scrape of the stucco bright against the heels of my hands.

  “Don’t move.”

  He’s gone.

  His heat, his steady breathing, that strange something about him that pulls all the clatter out of my mind.

  I’m bent over in heels and bare beneath my skirt, my nails scraping stucco where he pinned my arms in place before he left me here: too light and too alone on a huge balcony overlooking a strange city.

  And then leather wraps over my wrist and I exhale in a burst of relief. I don’t even open my eyes to see what he tied me with. I just pant along with the liquid pull that accompanies every tug of my bindings until my hands are firmly bound and his are under my skirt, pulling it up and tucking the back into my waistband so there’s no longer anything between us.

  I brace for his first thrust, so I’m left disoriented when his palm settles over the curve of my bottom, very lightly. He wears a ring on the middle finger of his left hand, something wide enough to leave the sensation of cool metal when he strokes all the way down to my knee. He caresses me in long, soothing sweeps that rise up my trembling inner thighs but stop just short of where I want them.

  My chest whirls with the confusion of his gentle touch and my ruthlessly bound hands. I don’t even know how I want it anymore, just know that I need everything that he’s doing to me, and I can’t bear for it to end.

  When his forehead drops to rest between my shoulder blades and he hesitates, we both inhale at the same instant, quick and sharp.

  I know the rules of these encounters, know I’m not supposed to beg unless I’m told to, but my chest split open right along with the buttons on my shirt and the real me is naked on this balcony. After all that, what’s the point in pretending?

  I arch back, the curve of my bottom rubbing against the cool denim of his jeans. I whimper as the edge of his fly catches the more sensitive skin at the center of me.

  He moans, but then it’s all silence and control again. His fingertip finds me, slick and warm as he strokes just my entrance, neither of us breathing. I widen m
y legs and push back against him, stealing the first knuckle of his finger before he denies me again, moving to circle my clit in a punishingly wide arc.

  I drop my forehead to the railing, my arms clenching and pulling against the leather that binds my wrists. I roll my hips to claim the touch I want, and instead of reprimanding me, he sucks a curse in through his teeth. Two wide fingers nudge where I’m hollow and I take them, rising up onto my toes to ride his hand.

  His breathing breaks along with my moan and I don’t hold back, taking everything he’ll give me as I writhe and twist to move his fingers where I need them. He knows, fuck it all, I know he knows. My nails bite merciless stucco and then he finally flexes just the right way for me. I jerk as I start to come. His zipper rips down with the second wave of my orgasm and I squeeze his fingers desperately, not ready to lose them, not yet, not right now, oh sweet mother of...

  I lose my balance and stagger a little but the ropes catch me. His fingers leave my body and the feeling is so like loneliness that for a second, I can’t think at all. But then I hear the rip of foil and the smooth head of his cock toys with me and it’s slick and hot hot hot.

  His hands grip my hips and he slams inside. I clamp down around the delicious width of him, my knees trembling in that first long moment when I realize he’s taking me in the open air, in front of an entire city.

  The man fucks like he’s writing poetry, with nothing careless, nothing wasted.

  He uses the friction like syllables of color, painting the world the exact shade of pleasure I’m gasping for, punctuating it with mind-erasing thrusts that slam home precisely where I need them to, but never often enough. Between each one I find myself straining, his cock drenched with my need, my hips pleading back toward him.

  I can’t control any of it, can only take every sensation he chooses to open for me, and it makes everything feel pristinely new.

  I can tell we’re not moving to his rhythm: he’s slowing just for me. But for all his control, he starts to break right along with me, even before we start to come. I’m not sure how I know, if it’s in our breath, in his fist locked over my heart, in the tension of his forehead where it presses alongside my cheek.

  All I know is this is raw and so fucking real, and I can sense the jaggedness of it in him, too.

  The head of his cock swells. I gasp as my whole body tightens, the waves of my orgasm following his every retreat and melting to receive him when he drives deep once again. I think I could hang here forever and never have to entirely finish, but the thought is interrupted when a growl vibrates against my back, ripping up and out from behind his teeth, and pleasure hits me like a fist squeezing at the base of my brain.

  Stucco dents the heels of my bound hands as I sag forward, panting and trying to hold myself up with the balcony railing.

  Danny’s hold on me gentles as his muscles unwind, the fist between my breasts flattening until my heart thunders against the comfort of the wide heel of his hand. His other arm wraps around my waist, supporting my weight when I start to relax. His thumb rubs once over the delicate hollow at the front of my hipbone, and tears leap to my eyes.

  I catch my breath and something throbs through my body, a single pulse that eases the touch of the world on my skin until everything feels as kind as his arms.

  The tears streak freely down my face and when one touches his forehead, nuzzled against my cheek, I don’t mind because it feels perfectly right.

  He stiffens when the wetness hits his skin, and so carefully, he pulls out of me. I take a breath to say something—his name, a question, I have no idea—but the sound of the patio door sliding open stops me. His footsteps take the silence with him.

  A siren wails from far away and the whoosh of traffic below suddenly sounds like it’s traveling dangerously fast.

  I swallow, the toe of my pump crinkling something that turns out to be a condom wrapper. I turn my head, and have to blink to clear my eyes when I spot Danny through the patio door. His pants are buttoned again, and he paces across the room, muscles snapping-tight as he rakes both hands back through his hair, the dark ink straining beneath his skin.

  I let my head sag on my neck as my body lists to the side, my hip coming to rest against the railing while the touch of the breeze reminds me my skirt is still crumpled up in the back.

  Right.

  That was sex. For a moment, it felt like something they don’t even make words for. But the look on Danny’s face made it perfectly clear that what just happened between us was only sex. With someone who is both my flavors of forbidden and my employer to boot. I don’t do relationships much anymore because I like my freedom too much to bother with the long-distance crap, but for Doms and musicians, I don’t even risk affairs.

  I suppose there’s no point in regretting what’s already done. We’re both adults and the only thing to do now is to pick up my panties, thank the guy for a good time, and let him know we’ll be talking about this again exactly never.

  Except the moisture trembling behind my lashes stings a little more than it should. I clench my jaw against it, my fingers curling into my palms where my hands are still tied to the railing. The sounds from inside stop, and when my eyes come open, my head is turned enough that Danny’s gaze slaps straight into mine.

  There is one thin sheet of glass and twelve thousand electrified miles in between us.

  He whips around and in three agitated strides, he disappears, the hotel room door falling closed behind him.

  I choke down a breath, the traffic sounds from below rattling through my head. And then I start my mental checklist.

  One is the ropes. My left wrist is secured by a worn leather belt, but my right is clasped by a spare guitar strap. It’s got a little give to it, and with some wriggling I work myself free, wincing at my stucco-scraped skin. One-handed, I manage to free the belt buckle. Folding the belt and guitar strap together, I leave them on the patio table.

  Two is my skirt, smoothed into place.

  Three for my buttons, each one fastened in a neat line.

  Four is my purse, solid strap looped across my body.

  Five is the condom wrapper, scooped up along with my ruined bra and panties and tossed into the trash on my way out of the room.

  Six is the door. I open it silently, just barely leaning out to check the hall beyond.

  My heart slams into a panicky sprint when I spot him, and I duck back behind the safety of the doorframe.

  He is only a couple of rooms away, fists and forehead laid flat against someone’s door. The rest of the crew and I have spots on the next floor down. Our group only rented two other rooms on the penthouse floor, and the door Danny is sagging against does not belong to Jax.

  I close my eyes, the knob still gripped in my dampening fist. If he’s going to Jera, please just let him get inside so I can escape.

  He doesn’t knock on her door. I don’t hear anything for so long I finally lean out, just a little. He’s still there, shirtless with his head low and motionless like he might be listening, or—please no—maybe even crying?

  Abruptly, he shoves off the door, digging his hands back through his hair in what looks like a shout of frustration but has no sound. He crams his fists into his jeans pockets and takes off, long legs eating up acres of hallway as he strides away from me.

  Did Jera turn him away? Or did he even ask?

  When I finally hear the elevator doors whoosh closed, I head for the stairs at the fastest clip I can manage.

  My room is 1622. I find the card key zipped into the small square pocket on the outside of my purse. I swipe it three times, but get the red light every time. I set the broken key aside in an inner pocket of my purse and take out my spare.

  Green light.

  I get inside and step out of my heels, my shoulders sagging as tears start to well. Whatever Danny tore open in my chest, I can’t quite seem to get it closed again, even now when I know he wasn’t feeling it along with me.

  When a knock sounds behind me,
I flinch so hard I nearly stumble. It could be anyone. I give a copy of the room assignments to every band and crew member when we check in.

  I dart to my suitcase, snatching out fresh panties and pulling them on before I tug my skirt neatly over the top, snagging my leather jacket to cover my lack of a bra. At the door, I pause and squint through the peephole, saying a silent prayer of gratitude when I see dark blond hair and a designer jacket.

  Opening the door, I swallow and manufacture a polite smile. “Hi, Jax. What can I do for you?”

  He greets me with a self-conscious but cheerful grin. “So I know it’s really late but hey, you’re up anyway and I was just wondering, you know, I was looking at the flight itineraries and when we fly out of Miami? The layover was only an hour and eighteen minutes and this is hurricane season so tropical storms can delay things and so I thought...” He trails off, his brow creasing. “Hey, are you okay?”

  The last word claps into me and I realize with a jolt that I didn’t put on shoes. My hand squeezes on the door handle to steady myself. I probably should have put on shoes. I’d feel more like myself right now if I had some shoes.

  Jax puts a hand on my shoulder and gives it an awkward squeeze. “Did you get bad news from home or something? Is everything all right?”

  It’s all right.

  It’s what Danny said to me.

  “Whoa, whoa there.” Jax wraps his other arm around my shoulders and pulls me into a tentative hug that gets stronger when I sag a little. “Do you need me to get Jera?”

  Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

  Jax drops his stubbly chin to the top of my head, and wow, there is actually no way I can quit this job. Even if I could live with myself after doing the walk of shame all the way back to San Francisco, Jax and Jera are counting on my connections to land them amphitheatre-sized shows on a screamingly tight time schedule. Not to mention the total overhaul of their tour budget that I’m not finished with.

  This is so stupid. I’ve had one-night stands before. Protected, consensual, and nobody was fuzzy on what meant what. I have never had trouble looking a guy in the eye the next morning but right now, the northern hemisphere feels a little too cozy to be sharing it with Danny O’Neil.