He wouldn’t take you like this, the little voice in my head said. I ignored it for a moment but when it came back, I allowed the thought to creep in. How would Connor Locke take me?
Without even thinking about it, I rolled over onto my hands and knees, one arm under me to keep the dildo moving. Immediately, it was better, more real. I had my eyes tightly closed, but I imagined there was a mirror in front of me, and in the reflection I could see Connor, driving into me from behind.
I let my body slump forward onto my shoulders my head awkwardly turned to the side, so I could rub at my clit with my other hand. I was driving the dildo in deep, now, deeper than I normally would. He wouldn’t care. He wouldn’t care that I’m a virgin, he’d drive it in fast and deep and oh God so big—
I imagined those big hands on my hips, hard fingers digging into my flesh. I arched my back and dragged my breasts along the sheet so that it caressed my nipples, burning sparks leaping from them straight down to my groin. I could feel myself teetering on the edge and as I shoved the dildo in one last time, all the way to its root, I gasped, “C—Conner!”
The orgasm ripped through me, starting at my head and rippling down to my core, then exploding outwards to devour me completely. I could feel my legs twitching, my body clenching and squirming around the rubber length buried in me. I was heaving for breath, rivulets of sweat running down my chest to drip from my aching nipples. When the climax passed, I was a shuddering, weak-kneed mess.
***
I woke naked, the comforter dragged half over me in the night, the dildo nestling against my thigh, warm and intimate from my body heat. I could feel the traces of my shameful arousal on my inner thighs, and there was no denying the pleasant soreness. I really had done all that…while thinking about Connor.
I took a long shower and decided that it had been an aberration. Probably I’d been a little drunk from all the champagne. Anyway, it was out of my system. Things could go back to normal.
Only he seemed determined that nothing would be normal at all.
There was a message on my phone, surprisingly early in the morning for Connor to have been up—I wondered if he’d gone to bed at all. Call me about rehearsal.
I was due to meet him the coming Thursday for our next rehearsal. I sighed—did he want to cancel or reschedule?
I dialed him and he answered immediately. “Hi. Sleep well?” he asked.
My face was immediately burning. There’s no way he could know. “Like a baby.”
I heard Connor smile. “I must have tired you out….”
I froze.
“…with all the dancing,” he finished.
I breathed again. “It was only one dance. I have more stamina than that.” Any other time, I would have chosen my words more carefully, but I hadn’t had my coffee yet.
“I’m sure you have lots of stamina.” How did he do that? How did he manage to make absolutely everything into a teasing, flirting mass of innuendo? When I didn’t reply—I was too busy silently seething—he continued. “I thought we’d rehearse at my place on Thursday. More space than a practice room.”
I shook my head, then remembered he couldn’t see it. “I’d prefer Fenbrook,” I said doubtfully.
“Great, that’s settled then.” And he gave me his address, simply steamrollering my dissent.
When I’d hung up, I tried to see a silver lining. His place was a fair distance across town, so I’d have to get a cab—at least that meant I wouldn’t have to lug my cello. But Fenbrook felt familiar and safe. Neutral territory. His place…that was different.
I sighed. I could still see myself in my mind’s eye—on my knees, thrusting the dildo inside me.
“It didn’t happen,” I said, with so much conviction I almost believed it.
Chapter 8
Thursday morning, and the gray sky was lightening minute by minute, the clouds swelling with snow. As the cab drove through gradually worsening neighborhoods, I scanned the skies for the first falling flake. But it felt like the weather was waiting for something.
When we eventually pulled up outside an ancient, towering tenement I could feel the cabbie’s hesitation. It didn’t look like the sort of place a girl with a cello would go.
Connor was waiting outside for me, his leather jacket pulled tight around him against the cold. He took my cello while I got out and then wouldn’t give it back.
“I’m fine, thank you,” I told him. “I’ve carried it for years.”
“Not up these steps, you haven’t.”
“Why do you always think you know what’s best?”
He ran his hand through his hair. “Why do you always have to fight me?”
We glared at each other.
“Fine,” he said, and led the way up the stairs.
I heaved the cello case onto my back and started up after him. After the first flight, I started to see what he’d meant. Whoever had built the steps must have been six foot plus: each step was double the normal height. Climbing them was like hauling yourself up a vertical rock face.
“Okay back there?” he asked sweetly.
“Just fine.”
I could hear the smirk in his voice. “Only five more to go.”
Five? I hadn’t figured on him being on the very top floor. By the third floor, I was panting. By the fourth, my legs were burning and my back and abs were aching from the strain of leaning forward—the only way I could keep from tumbling backwards. When we finally reached the top floor and I saw a blank wall instead of the start of yet another flight, I wanted to kneel down and kiss the floor.
Connor unlocked the door and showed me in. My legs were shaking so much that I didn’t even look at the room—my eyes were locked on the bed, where I could safely drop the cello before I collapsed. I staggered over to it, shrugged out of the shoulder straps and let it thump onto the ugly green blanket. Then I sat down heavily next to it and allowed myself to flop onto my back.
I heard Connor close the door. He regarded me for a moment and then said, “I always knew I’d have you flat on your back on my bed, someday.”
I groaned and struggled up to sitting, the muscles in my legs still burning. I gave him a glare and then finally focused on the room.
It was surprisingly big, for a bedroom. Then I realized it wasn’t a bedroom at all—it was his entire apartment and it was tiny. There was a kitchenette in one corner and what I assumed must be a bathroom behind a flimsy partition wall in the other. You could pretty much cook a meal while sitting on the edge of the bed.
Pizza boxes and more than a few empty beer cans were in a heap in the corner—and I got the impression they’d been scattered across the floor only a few minutes before I arrived. His amp and guitar sat next to an old wooden kitchen chair—it and the bed were the only furniture. It was barely warmer or less draughty than the corridor outside.
Connor saw me looking and shrugged. “Probably not what you’re used to,” he said with a smirk.
“No, no. My place is….” I tried to think of something to say that wasn’t a lie. Bigger? Cleaner? In an area where you’re less likely to get mugged? “…not so different,” I finished weakly. I was cursing myself for not hiding my surprise better. What had I expected? I’d known he was at Fenbrook on a scholarship.
There was a mirror on the wall, a long crack splitting it into two uneven pieces. Wedged into the side of it was a strip of photos from an instant photo booth, all showing the same woman. She had midnight black hair tonged ultra-straight, flowing down over her shoulders like oil. She was smiling as if in victory, as if she’d let her guard down in the privacy of the booth and allowed herself a moment to crow about something, her thin lips pressed even thinner. Anyone else would have tried for at least a few different expressions as the camera flashed, but she’d stayed in the same frozen pose for all of them.
“Ruth. Like in the song,” said Connor. He seemed to be watching me very carefully.
I looked away and massaged my aching legs. “Shall we start?”
I sat on the edge of his bed with the cello between my knees. He picked up his guitar and sat across from me on the kitchen chair. We had more space than in the tiny practice room, but it was somehow more intimate. He’d invited me into his home....
He started to play the first of the sections he’d be leading. I stopped him on the first note. “Wait: where’s the music?”
He looked at me as if I was mad. “In my head.”
I blinked. “It can’t be in your head. This has to be perfect.” I’d spent the week since our last rehearsal composing my first section and practicing the hell out of it.
“And so it will be.” He started to play again and it was...beautiful. Sad, but with a thread of hope running through it. On the second pass through, I did my best to follow along with a harmony.
“See? All without music,” he told me.
I sighed. “Please write it down for next time.” I could feel the stress coiling and building inside me, cold snakes twisting in the pit of my stomach. He had to have all his sections written and be note-perfect on them in just over nine weeks…and the worst part was, I couldn’t get angry at him about it. He could walk away at any time and kill my future stone dead.
I pulled out my own first section—clean black lines on snow white paper. He didn’t have a music stand, so he made an impromptu one on the bed out of a couple of pizza boxes and propped it there.
As we played my section, I felt the stress begin to gradually ease—this part, at least, was under my control. But then my mind started to wander. I kept looking at his hands and the way they moved over the strings, fingertips sensitive but firm. Imagining them on my nipples. On my clit. Playing me the way he played me last night.
That was just your imagination, I reminded myself. He’s not interested in you, except as someone to tease. And even if he had been, I certainly wasn’t interested in him…not beyond the physical, anyway.
I felt myself flushing. I’d never been attracted to someone that way before—not so strongly. Especially not a person I didn’t like!
We tried his section again, which meant I had to concentrate like hell to play it from memory. It was hard to focus, though, with Connor glancing up at me, blue-gray eyes under his thick, dark brows. He was cradling his guitar, one hand strumming while the other wrapped around its neck, and I started to imagine it was me in his arms. If I was turned away from him, in exactly the same position, one hand would be on my cheek, his fingers toying with my lips. The other arm would be wrapping around my hips, his hand right on my groin. Maybe sliding under my clothes, his fingers gently opening me—
The bow slid off the strings at a strange angle, shrieking in protest, and I stopped. Connor stopped, too, and looked at me. “Problem?”
I flushed. “No. Not at all. Just new to it.” I cast about for an excuse. “This would be easier with it written down.”
He grinned. “I don’t believe in writing stuff down. I like to let it flow.”
That pretty much summed up the differences between us. His life was a disordered, chaotic jumble...and yet somehow he was happy. Mine was perfectly regimented and disciplined...and yet I was stressed out of my mind.
As we tried his section again, I noticed something. Before, I’d thought that he was uncertain of the piece because there were slight variations each time. But watching how confidently his fingers toyed with the strings, it came to me that it was deliberate. He knew the piece just fine; he was tweaking it because he wanted to. And there was no way he could know it that well unless....
“You’ve been practicing,” I said, astonished.
He kept playing for a few seconds and then stopped, letting the notes fade away before he spoke. “You don’t have to sound that amazed.”
“But you don’t practice. I mean, I’m in those practice rooms every day, and I haven’t once seen you coming in or going out the whole time I’ve been at Fenbrook.”
“I don’t practice there.”
“Why?”
He shifted uneasily, but I didn’t want to let him off the hook. A suspicion was forming in my mind.
“Why, Connor?”
He sighed and then looked right into my eyes. I could tell that he wanted to lie, to come out with some easy quip or flirty comment. But then his expression softened. “Because everyone can hear you when they walk past.”
I looked at him blankly. “But...you’re good. I mean, you’re really good.”
He just looked at me.
I almost laughed. “Connor, the whole academy knows how good you are. You know that!”
He kept staring at me, and there was a flicker of something, something I never thought I’d inspire in anyone. Hope.
“Oh my God....” I said slowly. “You really didn’t know that. Did you?”
He shrugged. This uber-confident, arrogant loudmouth, this guy who got to Fenbrook on a scholarship, who everyone talked about being the next Hendrix...he was just as insecure as the rest of us. He just kept it hidden away on the inside.
And yet he’d revealed it to me.
I moved about a millimeter towards him, and it went through my head that I’m about to hug him. Fortunately, I caught myself before I threw my arms around him, and managed to make it look like I was just leaning forward.
“Look,” I told him. “Everyone thinks they’re no good. Everyone. That’s called being a musician. Didn’t anyone ever explain that to you?” I could see in his face that they hadn’t. I tried to imagine what it would be like, to live with that daily, hammering dread that maybe I’m just no good, but to not even know that it was normal.
Those beautiful, blue-gray eyes were fixed on me, and for just a second he looked vulnerable, like he had on stage. Was it possible that the Connor I knew was just a mask?
I waited for him to look away, and he didn’t. I could feel my breathing getting faster and faster, and I felt like I was cresting the brow of a hill on a rollercoaster. I had to do something, quick, or something was going to happen.
Part of me wanted it to.
“So you practice right here?” I asked, breaking his gaze and looking around the room. “Don’t your neighbors mind?”
He stared at me for a split-second longer and then seemed to shake himself. “Not here,” he said, his voice a little strained. I heard him take a deep breath, and when he continued he was back to his usual, cocky self. “I’ll show you where.”
He unplugged the amp and then took the extension lead it was plugged into and leaned out of the window. I saw him tie it to a piece of string that dangled down from above. Then he picked up his guitar and amp and motioned me to follow him.
I picked up my cello and followed.
At the end of the hall was a door with a ragged hole where its lock used to be. Cold outside air whistled down from the dark stairwell beyond, and I began to see why the place was so draughty. He held the door and nodded for me to go first.
The stairs were dank concrete and just as steep as the ones up to his apartment, but there was only one flight. I’d figured out where we were going, but when I emerged it was still a shock.
New York lay spread out around me. We were six stories up and the tallest building for several blocks so there was nothing to get in the way. I could see for miles in every direction: cabs picking up passengers, a couple arguing in the street, even what looked worryingly like a guy selling drugs on a street corner. It was like being God, even if only of this neighborhood.
He showed me where to sit, on the edge of a rusted air conditioning unit. Then he went over to the edge of the building and hauled on the string, lifting the extension lead so he could plug into it. The amp crackled into life.
I looked at him in amazement. “You sit here and play?”
He shrugged. “It’s big and open and…it feels like I can breathe up here, you know? And no one’s listening. No one who cares.” He played a few notes, and they soared away over the rooftops.
The wind roared overhead and I shivered.
�
�Cold?” he asked.
I looked up at the clouds. “A little. But more…I don’t know…I’m not used to being exposed.”
I felt him looking at me, and I realized I’d just given him a great lead-in for yet another jokey comment about sex. But he just said, “Yeah. I know.”
More of that tension, the silence swelling and building—
“You must freeze, up here,” I said quickly. I actually was starting to get cold—my coat was down in his apartment.
I heard him step up behind me, his body sheltering me from the worst of the wind, and I caught my breath. Was he about to wrap his arms around me, like I’d imagined downstairs?
“Here. Put your arms up.”
I lifted my arms above my head, and then something soft and warm was pushing down over them, blocking out my view. He must have grabbed it, just as we left his apartment. It was a weirdly comforting feeling, having someone pull a sweatshirt onto you.
When my head popped out and I looked down at it, I saw it was a black Fenbrook one, the sort we’d all been given in freshman year. I wore mine, sometimes, but I had trouble getting my head around the idea of Connor hanging onto his for all that time.
My hair was all bunched up under the sweatshirt and I suddenly felt his hands, warm against my neck as he scooped it up and then let it flop down my back. Little prickles of energy crackled down my spine. I was wearing a bra and a vest top and my own sweatshirt and then his Fenbrook one, yet all I could think about was my naked skin, so close to his palms.
“Thank you.” His voice was shockingly close. I could feel the heat of his breath on my neck.
“For what?” My toes were trying to curl up inside my shoes and my nails were digging into my palms.
I could hear how difficult it was for him to say it. “Letting me know it’s okay to be…y’know. Not sure of yourself.”
We stayed like that, silently looking out over New York, for a long time.
***
In Harmony Page 10
