“Yes, you do.”
I press my palm against his flat belly, and push him onto the bed. He falls easily, shooting me a quick grin, that playful, mischievous side of him reappearing briefly. He props himself on his elbows, watching me as I take off his jeans, leaving them in a pile on the floor. Then my hands feather their way up his legs, until I reach the waistband of his boxer briefs, and I tug them off, my mouth watering as I see how aroused he is.
I am completely clothed and he’s totally naked lying down on his bed, and this asymmetry is what I need more than air right now. His breathing grows shallow, his eyes widen as he watches me wrap a hand around his hard length. I shudder when I touch him, because I love this. I have missed this terribly. I have very nearly forgotten what it’s like to be with a man who wants me to touch him, who wants my hands on him, my mouth on him.
But this man, my God, it’s the most thrilling and powerful feeling to have him want more of me. He grabs my hand, wraps his fingers around mine, so I can grip him harder. Every little gesture from him sends me spiraling deeper into both desire and power.
He guides my hand up and down, and whispers hoarsely, “God, I fucking love that.”
Pleasure cascades through my body. “Me, too.”
Then he reaches for my face with his other hand, tracing my lips with one finger. First the top, then the bottom. “I want your mouth on me, Jane,” he says, his voice all rough and hungry, as he curves his hand around my neck and tugs me closer to him. I have never wanted anything more in the bedroom than his feverish need for me to get him off.
“I want you to watch me,” I tell him as I bend my head closer.
“That can be arranged.” His words turn into a loud and glorious moan when I run my tongue up his hard length, teasing him, toying with him, licking every fabulous inch, as I trail hot wet kisses along him, until he’s grabbing for me, and practically begging with his body for me to take him all the way. He threads his fingers in my hair, and that move alone sends me soaring.
I am powerful. I am sexy. I am beautiful.
To a man. To the man I want.
His breathing quickens as I bring him deeper, enjoying every inch of him with my lips, my mouth, my tongue, all while exploring his thighs, his flat abs, even the fabulous firm swell of his ass with my hands. He groans louder, biting off a string of curse words as I roam my tongue up and down him, and I grin—as much as I’m able to right now—as I delight in his response to me.
“Fuck,” he hisses, and then slowly starts to rock his hips into me, as his breathing turns erratic and stilted. Then faster, heavier breaths, his chest rising and falling rapidly. I glance up at him, and as promised he’s watching me, his gorgeous blue eyes wild with desire right now. His mouth is open, he runs his tongue along his teeth, and I quicken my pace, wanting to devastate him with a powerful orgasm. I want to make his vision go blurry, reduce him to only the tremors in his body as the world around him is obliterated.
This is nothing like getting back on a bike. This is a million fucking times better because I’m about to send him off the cliff with my mouth and my lips and my hands and the fact that I’m the woman he wants.
He grasps my hair, and groans my name so loudly that his neighbors might hear him, and nothing in the world could thrill me more than this reaction as I make him come, his hands gripping my head tight as I finish him off, and he shudders once more.
Then, I crawl up to him, and flop next to him on the bed, feeling the greatest sense of accomplishment.
Fine, it was only a blow job.
But still, for a woman who was unwanted by her man for years, it’s like I got my groove back, and hell if that isn’t absolutely fantastic to me.
He shifts on his side. Runs his hand from my breasts to my waist to my hips. “So, yeah,” he says in a deadpan voice, nodding several times. “That worked pretty well for me. What do you think?”
I laugh. “Glad to hear that.”
He wiggles his eyebrows, and plays with the waistband on my jeans. “My turn?”
I shake my head.
His eyes widen with surprise. “You deny me the great and absolute pleasure of going down on you?”
I laugh deeply, loving the way he talks. “You have no idea how much I want that. But I need today, right now, to be one-sided, okay?”
He loops his hand around my neck. “You little American vixen. You broke down all my resistance in a second. You found a way to turn me into a completely one hundred percent, biased journalist who can barely do his job properly anymore by offering me a fantastic fucking blow job,” he teases. “And you won’t even let me bury my face between your gorgeous legs and taste you?”
I’m dying for him to do that, and the sweet ache in my body nearly answers for me. But I remain resolute. “Maybe holding out will help me write and that will be good for us,” I say.
“You better write really fast, then.”
Matthew: How many songs have you written since this morning? Please say enough for a whole album.
Jane: None. But I am lying down in bed now, thinking about what I denied you. And maybe doing more than thinking ;)
Matthew: Funny, because the exact same thing is on my mind, too…
Matthew: Still thinking?
Matthew: I hope I’m doing a good job
Matthew: I trust the imaginary me is representing well?
Matthew: He better not have put you to sleep.
Jane: I lied…I was thinking and doing more than thinking about what I denied you, and what I did to you…both kept me occupied…perhaps tomorrow I will wake up singing.
Matthew: A man can dream.
Chapter Nineteen
Jane
Jeremy stands like a sentry outside the door to Gnarled Sunrise Studios, one floor below Glass Slipper. His beefy arms are bare as usual and crossed in front of his chest. The underbelly of the blue dragon tattoo on his forearm has started to fade over the years. “Another day at the office,” he says, then gives me a burly sort of a hug and a clap on the back.
“Rough life as a cubicle dweller, is it?”
He holds the door. We walk into the studio, where Owen is already parked in his regular swivel chair, massive earphones resting around his neck. His feet, swathed in lace-up, scuffed-up, beat-up black boots are perched on the soundboard.
“Let’s review the plan,” Jeremy says, laying out the dates he needs—mixing and mastering, then pressing the album, then shipping it to stores even though the bulk of business is digital, and online. Music videos for YouTube are de rigueur and on the agenda, too, he adds. I gulp as he rattles off details. I have less than two months to write an album I’ve only just begun. An album I should have finished before I even went into the studio.
“You have three solid songs now. Get another six or more and we’ll be good to go. Maybe even revisit those earlier ones you were working on. See if you can make them good. We have a major marketing campaign for this one. We’re placing ads in Beat, Rolling Stone, Spin, Interview, People, Entertainment Weekly before the release. I also talked to my Apple guy this morning—these California dudes are up at five thirty in the morning. Can you believe he called me while riding his bike up Redwood Gulch or something? And he wasn’t even winded. Anyway, we’re gonna release a single on iTunes two months before.”
My head is suddenly spinning. Everything is so serious. I was a middling little indie singer a year ago.
Jeremy gives me a light punch on the shoulder. “Jane, I know you can do this. I know you will do this,” he adds in a firm voice. “Besides, would I ask you to do this if you couldn’t do this?”
He doesn’t wait for me to answer. He shakes his head, answering his own question. “The Beatles released Please, Please Me and With the Beatles in sixty-three, A Hard Day’s Night and Beatles for Sale in sixty-four, Help! and Rubber Soul in sixty-five, Revolver in sixty-six, Sgt. Pepper’s and Magical Mystery Tour in sixty-seven,” he says, clearly impressed with that feat from the band from Liverpoo
l. “The White Album in sixty-eight, Yellow Submarine and Abbey Road in sixty-nine, and Let it Be in seventy.”
He stands up, cocking his head to the side and running a hand through his spiky, gray hair. “You know, I haven’t listened to Rubber Soul in a while. I’m going to put that on when I get to my office.” He lumbers to the door. “Besides, that British journalist is coming in ten minutes. Bet he likes The Beatles. I’ll send him down when I’m done.”
I fiddle with a bracelet, so he doesn’t see me grin in excitement over seeing that British journalist.
Jeremy leaves. I make eye contact with Owen for the first time and he’s staring hard at me, a knowing look in his eyes.
“What?”
“Why do you have a stupid smile on your face?”
“I have no idea what you mean,” I bluff.
“Yeah, right. You’re excited to see Matthew.”
I roll my eyes as if that’s the most ludicrous idea.
He shakes his head, proud that he busted me. “Jeremy gave us an insane deadline and you’re all googly-eyed over your boyfriend,” Owen zings back at me.
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“You keep telling yourself that.”
“Why would you even say that?” I counter, since I haven’t mentioned any of my extracurricular activities with Matthew to anyone, and certainly not to my brother.
He rolls his eyes. “I’m not into guys, but it’s not like you invited some ugly reporter into the studio with us. Besides, Natalie told me you were into him and to keep an eye on you.” He hangs his head as he admits the truth.
I huff. “She is such a know-it-all.”
“I believe that’s the official definition of big sister. Anyway, let’s make a plan for this insane schedule. You came up with three good songs in two weeks, ‘Don’t Ask’ and ‘Mixed Messages’ plus your cover tune. We have two months to do this, so that’s a song a week or so.”
“Don’t know if you noticed this, but I didn’t write ‘Physical.’”
Owen shrugs it off. “You wrote two songs in two weeks. I know a guy who can get you a continuous caffeine drip for just a couple grand. Come to a dark back alley in Brooklyn and we’ll take care of you.”
“I need something bad. Send me inspiration from somewhere.”
“You knocked out that song the other day in the studio. We’ll get you there.” Owen reaches for his maroon-and-white mesh ball cap, pulling it down low so his light brown curls poke out the sides. He points to his shirt. “I have the magic shirt. You have the magic pipes. Let’s make a magic album.”
He extends his fist, affecting a pseudo-secret handshake. I bang his fist a few times with mine, then wiggle my thumbs, making up an impromptu handshake. “Tell you what. Let’s make a deal. You finish your novel in the next two months and I finish this album.”
“Ouch. You’re driving a stake through my heart, JB.”
I stare him down.
“What are we betting for?” he asks.
“Bragging rights. Obviously.”
He nods his head, relenting. “It’s a deal.”
…
“I hear Jeremy is comparing you to The Beatles now,” Matthew says when he joins me later in the day while Owen is out grabbing a sandwich. I look him up and down, and this time I don’t hide the wicked smirk that’s forming on my face as I recall the last time I saw him. What I did to him. How he tasted and moved and moaned. He gives nothing away, though, as he sits down on the couch, the same beige, cracked leather couch where Jeremy gave me his The-Beatles-Did-It-So-Can-You pep talk. Matthew wears a faded orange T-shirt, bearing two bearded gnomes with peaked red hats and the words Chillin’ with My Gnomies in a funky font underneath. I wonder if he’s checking me out, too, and I’m glad that I’ve stripped off my long-sleeve shirt, since it’s hot in the studio, and I’m down to a blue tank top, jeans and my black boots with three-inch heels. I love boots because they seem like what a rock star should wear.
“Did he give you the complete rundown too on the release dates of all their albums?”
“Chapter and verse.” Matthew slaps his notebook against his thigh. “You know, it was pretty barking impressive, don’t you think?”
“Was it a good interview?” I ask, because I love hearing him talk about his work and his passion for reporting.
“Great. Really great. We talked about you, the Beatles, and our shared predilection for cheesy eighties tunes.”
My eyes brighten. “I love cheesy eighties tunes, too. How have we never discussed cheesy eighties tunes before?”
He raises an eyebrow. “I have no idea. But I do know why we didn’t discuss them last time I saw you. Because you rendered me unable to do anything else all day but fantasize about returning the favor, so that may be why Duran Duran slipped my mind,” he says with a glint in his eye, and I’m about ready to slide into his arms and kiss him hard when my brother walks in.
…
We spend the rest of the day in the studio working on “Don’t Ask.” Owen offers several suggestions on how to make the song better. He adds a riff here, trims a line there, and suddenly turns it into a stronger tune. Matthew takes notes furiously all the while, recording Owen’s suggestions, his ideas, the back and forth between the musician and her producer.
Ethan is with Aidan tonight, so we work into the early evening.
At six o’clock, Owen announces he wants to run through the songs one more time before we call it a night. But he needs to feed his monkey first. “It’s been rattling around in here all afternoon.” He points to his head as he stands up and grabs his wallet. “When you don’t feed him enough, he bangs on the cage doors. The monkey can be vicious if he hasn’t been fed, if you withhold caffeine. You know what he does?”
“What does he do, Owen?” I’ve heard the caffeine-monkey line countless times. But it’s like “Hey Jude.” You can always listen to it again.
“He grabs your hair and pulls on the back of your head, yanking it until you’ll do anything to please him, including taking two Excedrin because they come with caffeine, too. I keep them in my back pocket,” he says, patting his jeans.
“It’s not pretty, that monkey.”
“You’re telling me, JB. Back in fifteen.” He’s out the door.
“You two have a great rapport. Has it always been like that?”
“Always, since the beginning of time, forevermore and on and on and on.” I grab his reporter’s notebook and fling it down on the floor. “No more notes!” I declare with a flourish and royal wave of my arm. “I’m ready to be off-the-record.”
“Okay, but you don’t mind if I just tuck that notebook into my backpack?” He reaches for the notebook, stowing it safely away.
“If my calculations are correct, we’re both far too young to have enjoyed eighties music when it first released, but yet, I’m willing to bet the music geek in you knows all about their times on the charts.”
“Ah, you’ve ferreted out my dirty little secret that I tracked Depeche Mode, Prince, Madonna, Van Halen, as well as A-Ha and numerous other one-hit wonders, too.”
“Okay then, Billboard boy. Think back to your green highlighter, your white printouts, the start of your musical geekdom. I want you to name your favorite cheesy eighties song.” I reach for his hand and lead him out of Owen’s land and into the live studio, my turf. The door slams shut and I grab the microphone.
His answer is swift and immediate. “Thompson Twins. ‘Hold Me Now.’ Peaked at number three.”
I turn on the microphone. “Sing with me,” I command.
“Sing with you?”
“Sing with me.”
“But you’re a singer, and I’m a writer.”
“I’ll sing louder if that’ll make you feel better.”
“Loads better.”
I hold the microphone and launch into the song. I begin the opening lines singing about a picture, while Matthew adds where it’s pinned. We join together for the next few lines and I like that he�
�s playing along, that he’s not shy, that he’s spontaneous.
We butcher our way through the next verse and then I demand another song. “‘Centerfold,’” he calls out instantly. “Six weeks at number one.” We murder a few lines from The J Geils Band tune, then tackle Survivor’s chart-topping “Eye of the Tiger,” only we can barely remember most of the words.
I’m ready for another when Matthew backs away. “Do you take requests, Jane? It’s payback time.”
“Hit me with your best shot.”
“Oh, you’re quite good. But that’s not the song I’m going to request.” He leans against the padded wall, his long legs stretching in front of him as he tucks his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, those freakish gnomes staring at me. “‘Rio.’ Hit number two in the UK in 1982. I want Duran Duran at full volume, full blast, give it everything you have.”
I take the mike off its stand, clear my throat, and then begin the first lines, about a girl and how she moves, singing as if I were onstage. Then onto a smile like cherry ice cream as I give him a knowing glance. I take a step to my right, then to his right. With the words, I make my way closer and move my free hand toward his face, trailing my fingertips along his cheek, as I sing more lines to him, pretending I’m that girl onstage singing to that one guy.
Then Matthew does more than play along. He reaches a hand up and takes a hold of my wrist. He meets my eyes with a darkly serious look I haven’t seen from him before. The atmosphere in the room changes instantly.
He clears his throat. “I told my boss.”
I nearly drop the mike. “What did you tell your boss?”
“That I was involved with you.”
Past tense. A new worry courses through me that he’s ending this before we’ve even started. “Was?”
The writer in him picks up on my question immediately. “Am,” he corrects. “Am involved.”
“And?” My mouth feels dry. My stomach is jittery. I don’t know where this is going, or even how to handle the next bend in the road.
“I told him because I wouldn’t feel right about my work if I didn’t disclose it. I wouldn’t feel as if any of this is okay.”
The Break-Up Album Page 14
