Badass In My Bed: Badass #2

by Rae Lynn Blaise

  If only he knew the hooky I played last night. “No one would have believed you. A couple of stuffy cellists hanging around at a rock concert?”

  I pretend to clutch a necklace and look scandalized. If I laugh, Blaine will go livid. But if he knew how unstuffy I was last night, begging for Dylan to be inside me everywhere, how big would his eyes get?

  Which makes me want to laugh more. I tent my fingers. “We could probably get away with murder.”

  Paul gives the room a shifty-eyed gaze. “I wonder how far we could push this life of scandal. Facial piercings?”

  “Drag racing.”

  “Jewel heists!” He smirks along with me.

  “Thanks to those of you who were on time.” Blaine paces in front of his podium, and we snap to attention lest he unleash his ire upon us. “Today, I want to go over the third movement. Some of you may not have played a piece this challenging before, but I want you to dig deeper. This is about passion. I know you all have that, or you wouldn’t be here. I’ll reach inside you and tear the emotions from your bodies if I have to. Meet me halfway, and make it easy on yourselves.”

  I close my eyes for a moment, listening to the opening measures before watching Blaine for our cue. Every note reminds me of Dylan. The growl of my bow against the strings. Every quiver of sound from my cello turning into a living thing. Dylan brought similar sensations from my body, bringing forth beautiful reactions, a delicate dance of sound and fury and pleasure that arches my back even now.

  I touch the strings the way Dylan touched me. I pretend I’m him laying his hands on me, whipping me higher, taking things deeper and further than I’ve known. My cello becomes me. I become Dylan. I fucking play the shit out of it.

  Still humming physically from last night, I play better than I ever have, like last night unlocked something passionate and primal, giving me access to skills only available to those with life sparking inside of them.

  A few people around me nod as we finish up. We’re all eager to get moving, but Blaine’s fifteen minute long speech about Friday’s event and expectations of us all keeps us trapped in our chairs. I find it hard to care, knowing there’s an alpha rock star waiting for me in a gorgeous hotel room as Blaine drones on with a surly expression. The acceptance radiating from the other musicians is extremely gratifying, though.

  I gather my sheet music and stand, stretching my calves, which only further reminds me of every muscle’s ache and how I earned those sexy pains last night. Who I earned them with. What’s Dylan going to do to me next? I want to play for him, I suddenly decide. I’ve seen him play before, but he’s never heard me.

  “Can I see you in my office?” Blaine’s voice is startlingly close, and I turn to face him, noting no one else is around.

  Paul gives a quick sympathetic smile before walking out the door, leaving me alone with Maestro.

  I give what I hope is a genuine smile. “Sure.”

  It’s a short walk, but the cello slows me down. I walk behind him, as I’m sure he intended. He doesn’t offer to carry my instrument, but he opens his door for me and waves me to a seat.

  He leans against the front of his desk close to me. If someone walked in, it wouldn’t be compromising, but people would wonder. As he’s planned it, I’m certain. Maestro leaves nothing to chance.

  He sighs and runs his fingers through his glossy, dark hair. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  God. He knows. Someone saw Dylan and I together. Or maybe this is a bluff?

  I frown. “What do you mean?”

  “I know where you were last night.” The bottom falls out from under me even though I’m sitting, but then he adds, “You realize Paul thinks he has a chance with you now.”

  The only thing stopping me from laughing with relief is the realization that he knows part of what happened last night. How? There’s no way he should, and yet I’m not surprised. I shrugged off the feeling of trouble last night, but I knew it wouldn’t stay gone.

  I swallow the denials. If he knows, he knows. Lying will only piss him off, so I shrug one shoulder and aim for casual. “It was just a concert with a friend. Paul knows there’s no chance.”

  His eyes don’t buy it, but after a moment, he sighs. “Well, make certain of it. In the future, you can’t be going to things like rock concerts,” he says it with disdain, “alone with one man. Even if Paul doesn’t think you’re interested, other people will make assumptions.”

  That’s true enough. “I understand.”

  “You’re not backing out on our deal, are you, Rachel? Because I know a bunch of other people who’d love to have your spot in this symphony. I can show you the waiting list.”

  Fear, and annoyance, surges through me. He may hold my future in his hands, but he doesn’t own me. I force a smile. “Of course I’m not backing out.”

  “Good. Next Friday then.”

  “Next Friday.” I stand and hurry to the door.

  “Rachel.” His voice hits my back when I touch the knob.

  I turn around with a bland smile. “Yes?”

  “Good playing today. Whatever you’re doing, keep it up.” His grin looks genuine, but his threat keeps me from dimpling back. I’m going to keep it up, all right.

  “Thanks.” I stride from the room, grinning when he can’t see me, both at his praise and for the dirty, wrong reasons that helped me earn it. Oh, Dylan is bad, but he’s so good at it. Turns out, it’s not completely bad for me either.

  Wrangling my cello toward the exit, I call for a cab so I can bring my cello back to Dylan’s hotel with me on the date I absolutely cannot go on but wouldn’t miss for anything.

  I still have the key, but I knock before entering his room.

  Dylan’s perched on one of the small couches, and he tosses his phone aside when I walk in. He eyes my cello case. “Am I going to get a private show?”

  “I was hoping so,” I blush.

  “You probably don’t even understand why that’s a dirty thing to say. ‘Private show.’”

  He’s right, but I don’t like him bringing up my naivety. It only highlights our differences, reminding me of things I’d rather forget. I shake my head and remove my scarf, feeling hot with embarrassment.

  The ease he hops to his feet with makes me wonder if he’s had martial arts training. My badass ninja. “Are you wearing my t-shirt under that sexy little sweater and long, shapeless skirt?”

  I prop my cello case against a nearby chair. “It’s not shapeless. It’s a maxi skirt. And yeah. You think it’s sexy?” I pluck at the light pink knitted fabric of my cardigan.

  He prowls into my space. “It’s like you’re my very own naughty librarian.”

  I shiver, eager to play along as his hands land on my hips. “Are you going to check me out?”

  “I’m going to eat you out.”

  Dirty talk probably works better when your partner doesn’t kill your brain power by turning you on too much. I open and close my mouth a few times, feeling like a fish.

  Or maybe it’s working just fine.

  He groans and lays his forehead against mine, closing his eyes. “God, I love that about you.”

  I swallow hard, mouth dry with wanting. “What do you love?” I whisper, desperate to know what it is about me that this man finds irresistible.

  “You’re a contradiction.”

  “How?”

  He cups my ass and nuzzles my neck. “You debate music with me and know your shit, probably know more about the technicalities of it than I ever will. You don’t let me push you around, but I can make you blush and stammer with one tiny sentence.” He bites my neck and chuckles when I moan. “And that. You’re a good girl, Rachel, but you love it when it gets a little rough. You’re a pristine, conservative, classical musician, but you beg me to do raunchy things with you in bed. You like it dirty.”

  “I do. With you.”

  “You’re dying for me to do things to you, but you’re so shocked that you like them. The surprise on your face is
so fucking delicious it makes me want to go further, do more shocking things to see how far you’ll let me go.”

  All the way in every way. That’s how far I’d let him go. There’s no end.

  He kicks my legs open, yanking my plain, black, maxi skirt up, smiling when he discovers another secret. “Do you even have limits, Rachel?” He kneels in front of me, taking a long lick at my clit—easily accessible to him because when I got dressed at home, I didn’t put on any panties.

  He sucks my labia into his mouth. Somehow this feels like one of the dirtiest things anyone’s done to me.

  I wanted this, needed this.

  I’ve been wet since before I opened the door, and his fingers easily penetrate, both relieving some of the pent-up ache I’ve carried since leaving him a few hours ago and making it worse, making me want so much more. It’s the most frustrating pleasure I’ve ever felt. My God… “Please don’t stop.”

  He doesn’t, not until I’m squirming against his tongue, legs almost giving out. Then he scoops me up and carries me to the bedroom, gaze devastating mine every step of the way. After laying me on the bed, he removes my clothes, unhurriedly, one piece at a time until I’m naked then strips his off. After grabbing a condom from the nightstand, he puts it on while facing me then crawls over my body. His hips spread my thighs wider, and I wrap my arms around him, barely breathing.

  He brushes my hair back from my face. “You know what else I love? I know it isn’t, but everything feels like it’s your first time, which makes it feel like mine too. Everything’s new with you, Rachel. You breathe life into my life again.”

  Before the astonishment of his words wears off, he pushes inside me, stealing any response from my lips and mind, staring deep into my eyes the whole time. This time, he’s not rough, not trying to prove a point. This time, his hands cradle me, his hips take their time drawing his thick cock in and out, maximizing every inch. This time, the connection feels more intimate, more emotional than anything else. Walls come down in his gaze, drawing me inside. Behind Dylan’s passion is a man who cares. Truly, deeply, intensely. All he’s ever wanted is to be understood. To be matched. For someone to hear the things he’s trying to say with his music and respond in kind, be there for him the way he longs to be there.

  Fully present in every moment. Not caring about consequences, or other people’s expectations, or pausing to be self-conscious. He devours life with no regrets. No fear. That’s the way he makes me feel when I’m with him.

  Oh God. I’m in So. Much. Trouble. And I love it.

  I gasp and run my hand down his face, smiling when he nuzzles harder against it. It’s like petting a man-eating tiger and escaping unscathed, not taming it, but being acknowledged as worthy.

  His hands pull my knees out and up, and he slips my ankles over his shoulders, cock nudging new, deeper places. I brace against the headboard when he rubs my clit, and my breasts bounce with every thrust.

  His gaze finally leaves mine, flickering down to my chest and back.

  “Do it,” I urge him.

  His hips go wild, fucking me harder than he ever has, cock thickening farther, dilated eyes impossibly soft.

  I could love him.

  I barely know him.

  I know his heart.

  I drop my legs and pull him close, knocking his hand away, grinding against the base of his cock. His rhythm never falters, not even when he wraps his arms tightly around me as well, and we hold each other as close as we can, tight enough to hurt, but unable to stop.

  Hot pleasure ripples through me, clenching Dylan’s cock. The release shakes heat through my body, making me arch beneath him, coming so hard it steals my voice.

  He comes with a deep groan, a sharp inhale through clenched teeth, cock twitching inside me.

  Neither of us let go, not even when our breathing evens out. Finally, he pulls back enough to kiss me.

  I decorate the smooth skin of his back with meaningless patterns drawn with my fingertips. “I want to take you somewhere.”

  “You just did.”

  I smile. “Never thought I’d say this, but, Dylan St. John, put your pants on.”

  I remove the keys to the concert hall, pride mingling with fear we’ll get caught as I unlock the door. At his insistence, Dylan carries my cello inside. It’s cute and makes me feel like he’s my boyfriend carrying my notebooks home. I lock the door behind us.

  I take Dylan’s free hand, leading him through the darkness the way I already know by heart, flicking on the lights when we reach backstage and heading out onto it.

  Dylan sets my cello down and spins in a slow circle, taking in the large, empty hall, and the stage cleared of everything but a grand piano. “How did you get the keys to this place?”

  The truth is simplest. “My conductor gave me a set.” Of course, they were meant to be for practice, but hey. Maestro did tell me to keep up whatever I was doing.

  He wanders over to the piano, grabs a copy of this season’s program left on the seat, and flips to the back where there’s a picture of Blaine with his message about the upcoming season. “Is this your conductor?”

  I nod.

  “Tell me about him.”

  “He’s poised to be the youngest man to ever take over as director. He’s also the Maestro. He’s got perfect pitch.” Talking about Blaine with Dylan feels strange.

  Dylan sits on the piano bench and flicks the brochure. “Overachiever. That’s a resume. Tell me who he is, what he’s like.”

  “He’s intense. He doesn’t look at you; he analyzes you, finding weaknesses and strength, bringing out the best playing in everyone. He’s where he is because he’s a hard worker, not because he got a break.”

  “You admire that.”

  “I do.” I smile. “It also helps forgive the times he cracks down on us and demands perfection.”

  Dylan squints at me. “He’s good looking as well.”

  I shrug, not denying it. “So?”

  “He wants to fuck you,” Dylan says.

  “So?” Because I can’t really refute it. I’m obliged not to.

  “So, I don’t like it.” He scowls like a kid and my heart soars. “What about that other asshole?”

  “What asshole?”

  His hands land in an angry E chord, washing the notes over me and the stage. “The one you were at my concert with. The one who stared at you like he wanted to eat you.”

  “Paul?”

  “Yeah.” He sneers. “Paul. The douche with the micro-ponytail.”

  “He’s not a douche.”

  “His facial hair speaks for itself. How do you know him?”

  “He’s a cellist.” I grab a chair, open my cello case, and start playing along with the chords he’s unleashing. A short burst of laughter tears itself from my throat. “He drives a smart car.”

  Dylan shakes his head. “What do you see in that guy?”

  “Nothing.”

  His head pops up in surprise, but he smiles and keeps playing, holding things steady in three quarters time while I weave everything together around him. His melody isn’t complicated. He’s not great at it, but he’s good. The chords he chooses and fits together are interesting, unexpected but they work. He plays the opening to ‘Ground You Down,’ a song from his first album, and I take the lead, playing notes he normally sings before we veer off into something else, something darker, more primal.

  Our gazes lock as we improve a duet. We make a good pair musically as well as—it doesn’t matter. Try as I might to focus only on the music, every note we play melds in a way that builds pleasure inside me again. Making music with him is a new kind of foreplay.

  It’s building inside him too; I can feel it in the notes.

  His hands move faster, so do mine.

  His gaze burns hotter, so does mine.

  I set my cello down and stalk to him as our final notes shimmer in the air and fade, leaving us with only the sounds of our elevated breathing. I don’t know if he thinks Blaine and I are fu
cking, or going to, but Dylan’s so wound up and I want him to relax. I’m so freaking turned on right now.

  He spins on the bench to meet me, and I kneel in front of him and fumble for the button of his jeans.

  “I didn’t bring a condom,” Dylan says, regret paining his features.

  I smile. “This is about you. You and my mouth.”

  “Right here?” The way he bites his lip makes me wet. Wetter.

  I nod. “Right here. I want you the way you had me at Tilt.”

  “Anyone could see.”

  “You’re cautioning me?” I raise a brow.

  “Reminding you how bad you’re being right now.” He winds his hands in my hair and pulls out his cock. “Open your mouth.” He slides between my lips, and I run my tongue back and forth, tasting him as he pushes inside. “We make good music together,” he says and I know he means in more ways than one.

  Mouth full, I suck once, hard, before bobbing my head up and down his rigid length, staring into his eyes the whole time, wanting to see how this makes him feel. Blood rushes to his face, making his skin pinker than usual as a glazed sheen covers his eyes. I swirl my tongue around the tip of his cock the way he did to my clit and use my hands on the base of his cock to stimulate as much flesh at once as I can. He tips his head back, eyes closing, eyebrows drawing together in a frown as his hips buck twice.

  God, this makes me wet, on my knees sucking his cock on a stage I’ll be playing classics on while rich, conservative patrons watch in only a couple weeks. I suck harder, and his hand tightens in my hair. He lets me keep sucking and stroking, worshipping him with my mouth and hands.

  He groans, and I answer by increasing suction and moving my hands faster, gripping him tighter. Suddenly, he stiffens in my mouth, his body going still while his cock twitches and fills my mouth with his cum. I swallow it, shocked at my forwardness, so turned on I’d do it again and again for that look of peace easing over his features.

  That peace quickly morphs into something cheeky and dark.

  “What?”

  His hands shoot out, and he picks me up and lays me on top of the piano, pressing me to my back when I try to sit up. He pushes my skirt up over my knees and up to my hips, exposing me to the cool air and warm stage lights. His eyes light up, and he reaches past me, coming back with something bad.