Badass In My Bed: Badass #2

by Rae Lynn Blaise

  One of Maestro’s wooden batons.

  It’s shorter than most, with a fat, varnished teardrop handle.

  “What are you going to do with that?” I ask, already knowing the answer. I should stop him. This is crossing a line.

  “I’m directing you.” Dylan locks his mouth on my clit as he pushes the handle of the baton inside my soaking pussy and rubs the smooth wood against my g-spot.

  God, it’s wrong. It’s so fucking wrong and dirty and inappropriate, but my hips swivel manically, my nipples bead, and the thought of Maestro sternly conducting the symphony with the baton Dylan’s used like this brings on an orgasm so hard and fast I can feel the wetness dripping down my thighs and pooling on the piano. The spasms deep inside don’t stop for a long time. Dylan sweetly licks and suckles me through it until I grow too sensitive. He eases away, gently pulling the baton from me and putting my skirt back into place as I sit up, dizzy, breathing heavy, not knowing where to look.

  It’s strange. He made me come really hard, but somehow it’s not enough. It’s not enough because he wasn’t inside my pussy. He wasn’t pressed along the length of my body. It was great, but felt impersonal, happened too fast. My body was sated, but I crave more. How do I express that?

  Luckily, Dylan speaks first. “Come back to the hotel with me. I need you.”

  I nod. We both just got off, but if he feels the way I do, it didn’t satisfy. I need to feel him moving inside me again, be joined together and connected all the way. I need to be in his arms again.

  Dylan tucks himself back into his jeans and avoids eye contact. “Don’t see that douchebag again.”

  I slide to my feet. “I thought you didn’t care.”

  He grabs my hand and squeezes. “Just… don’t.”

  “Okay,” I promise. “I won’t.” The easiest promise I ever made.

  The cab ride back to the hotel is an intimate one. No words are spoken, but I sit as close as I can to Dylan, nestled beneath his arm with my head on his shoulder, soaking in the warmth of his body. His head rests gently on mine, and he hasn’t let my hand go since tucking my cello in the back of the cab. He scooted into the dreaded middle seat, giving me and my instrument the comfortable sides.

  A small crowd is gathered at the front entrance, made up of mostly teenage and twenty-something girls wearing jeans and skimpy tops. More than one has a Fallen Angels t-shirt. It looks like fans found out where his band is staying while in town. Tension transforms Dylan’s body, makes it harder, redefines the separate lines of our body.

  My stomach clenches into a knot at all the camera phones, at all the women who came here to throw themselves at him. They’d all hate me if they knew I was with him, would give so much to take my place. These women will do whatever it takes to be with Dylan St. John, stalking him from venue to venue, and will continue to do so when he’s back on the road.

  Dylan lifts his head. “Pull around to the back door, please,” he addresses the cab driver.

  He puts my head back on his shoulder, but my relaxation and warm buzz from the concert hall has fled. Reality leaves a cold lump in my stomach.

  “Hey.” He strokes my hand with the back of his thumb. “I have a pass to the employee entrance. There won’t be anyone there. Don’t worry.”

  His words help, but he thinks I’m only tense about the crowd, maybe even just jealous at all the women who are sure to be screaming his name and who will make a grab for him like he’s a piece of meat.

  Okay, maybe he’s not wrong about that. I am jealous, and insecurity swells inside my chest until I can barely breathe. If I wasn’t here, would he grab one of those women and take her to his room? Some of them are gorgeous, and what man wouldn’t want someone who’d do anything he’d say, let him do anything he wants in bed? He could have a parade of women lining the hallway and sleep with a different one every hour if he wanted. Or does he have certain girls in all the cities, women he knows are discreet, who he calls when he’s in town? I’m not sure which bothers me more. No, that’s not true at all.

  It’s the thought of the women whose numbers he keeps. The women who he connected with. Tiny relationships they’ve cultivated over time, maybe years even.

  What bothers me is he’d be more theirs than he is mine.

  Am I just another pit stop for him?

  Dylan pays the driver and grabs my cello on the way out, but I take it from him. He’s not my boyfriend and shouldn’t be doing things like this for me. It’s blurring lines I need to keep very clearly defined.

  The cab pulls away. Dylan was right. The staff entrance doesn’t have a gaggle of groupies blocking the way, so we enter the hotel without fanfare. Heightened awareness of prying eyes has me walk with extra space between us to the elevator, and by the time we get to his suite, I’m at a loss as to what the hell I’m doing here.

  It’s prolonging the inevitable at best, wallowing in delusion at worst.

  Dylan bolts the door behind us and follows me with his gaze as I slowly meander around the living room, full of too many feelings that wedge themselves between the things I want to say and my ability to speak. It’s too much, and I end up standing still, hugging my cello case to my side.

  Dylan drags an armless chair in from the dining room. He smiles gently and sits on the small couch opposite me. “Play something for me.”

  That I can do, so I settle into the chair, hitch my skirt up a little, close my eyes, and play, urging the emotions to leave my heart through my hands, pouring themselves into the music so they drain from me in a way that brings relief because if I can’t let them out, I’ll explode. I can’t speak the things I need to, so this is what I’m left with.

  After a moment of chaotic release, I’m finally able to look Dylan in the eyes.

  It’s like he knows but doesn’t understand. He sits forward with his elbows on his knees, rapt attention but slight puzzlement as well. With mournful notes, I explain everything, releasing every word pent up inside my soul that I don’t know how to begin to express. All my worries and doubts about the future. Dreams I haven’t let myself have crushed before they fully form and make me want a reality that will be forever unavailable to me.

  Hidden behind music, I say all the things I wish I could tell him. About my feelings. About regrets. About wanting so much more from him, with him, but knowing that future isn’t ours to share because we’re already in motion and even if we stopped, things wouldn’t be the same. Something like we have isn’t meant to last. The brightest things burn out the quickest, and if we truly tried to be together for keeps, we’d burn with it, losing ourselves.

  He means too much for me to let that happen. He thinks I’m a good girl, and except for the crazy things I do when with him, I am. Except I’m not good for him. And he’s not good for me. He makes me want to light my life on fire and dance over the ashes.

  But I can’t say these things to someone I’ve only known for a few weeks, so I play it all instead, venting it with musical expression to give me some relief. A single tear betrays me, rolling down my cheek, so I focus on the lush wallpaper behind Dylan.

  He rushes over and squats, his fingers digging into my knees. “Look at me.”

  I clutch my cello tighter as though it’s a shield and continue staring at the wall behind him.

  He gently removes my instrument from my arms, sets it aside, and takes its place between my legs. “Rachel, look at me.” His thumb gently wipes my tear away, and the tenderness in his eyes makes me want to cry harder.

  I hold it in.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I like you too much.” The truth leaks out, drawn by his beautiful teal eyes, so serious in a way I’ve never seen.

  He licks his lips. “And that makes you sad?”

  “It makes me stupid.”

  “You’re not stupid.” His hands caress my thighs. “What are you saying? That you want more?”

  Yes, I want it all. I want more of this vivid life I taste when you’re with me! But this couldn’
t last. Would I just give up my place on one of the most coveted symphonies in America and follow him around like another groupie? Who would I be then? How would I still be me? What about my goals?

  If we didn’t last forever, I’d be left with nothing. If we lasted forever, I’d have no identity.

  It would be so easy to say yes and demand he take me away, but then I’d cease being Rachel and only be Dylan’s girl.

  I want more for myself than that. Plus, I have obligations. And I don’t even know if this is more to him than another fling.

  He grasps my chin and forces me to look at him. “Tell me.” His voice is gentle.

  I sigh and tell most of the truth. The truth that matters most to me. “I want to know I mean something to you. That this isn’t another naked tumble to you. I want this to have meant something.”

  “You’re kidding me, right?” His voice flattens with disbelief, and he drops his hand.

  I’m such an idiot. Of course this isn’t anything special for him. “I’m sorry. That was so naïve. I’m embarrassed.” I sit up. “I should go.”

  He grabs my upper arm in a vise-like grip. “No, you won’t. Do you honestly think you mean nothing to me?”

  Hope is more embarrassing than shame, but it swells inside me and I can’t tear my gaze from his face.

  He shakes his head. “You buried deep inside me, right under my skin, Rachel. I wrote a song about you to try and get you out, but it didn’t work. I can’t stop thinking about you. I’m starting to think maybe I never will. I haven’t been with anyone else since you.” He seems almost angry about it. “I can’t fucking think about fucking anyone else. Not after you. How many songs is it going to take until I’m alone in my skin again?”

  I attack him with my lips, a brutal kiss, the only thing I can do because he’s said what’s in my heart too, but no words are going to change our fates. The muscles of his back are tense beneath my hands when I try to pull him closer. Wrapping me up in his strong arms, he stands, winding my legs around his hips and grabbing my ass, carrying me to the bedroom with gentle hands and blazing eyes.

  I unlock my legs and slide down until my feet hit the floor, giving only enough space so I can remove his clothes. I want to memorize every inch of his skin and drink in the sight of him as more of him becomes visible and the pile of clothes on the floor grows.

  I trace the tattoo on his chest, Mi Vida Loca, and kiss the word under his heart as mine breaks.

  Trust.

  Dylan pushes me back toward the bed with one hand splayed over my lower belly. Shivers claim my flesh, and I scoot backward until my head hits the pillow and wait for him to get on—and in—me.

  His cock juts out in front of him, bobbing against my hip when he stretches out at my side and paints my belly with gentle hands. “I want something.”

  Anything. “What?”

  “I want to fuck you bareback.”

  Sex without a condom? My heart slams in my chest. “I’ve never done that before.”

  “Neither have I. I’ve been tested, and I’m clean. I want there to be nothing between us this time. I need to feel your heat on my cock.”

  I’m clean and on the pill, and I want that too, want him inside me, filling me when he comes. I trust Dylan, and I want one last crazy experience with him before life carries us away from each other. I want to be his first at something so he’ll remember me too, even if it’s only in this way. “I need that too.”

  He drops sensual kisses across my chest on his way to my nipples, speaking in between licks and sucks. “I want your pussy soaking with my cum like you’re mine. I want you to feel me dripping down your thighs when you walk, and then I’m going to fuck you again and feel how wet we made you. And then make you wetter.”

  Yes.

  I melt into the bed beneath him. He wants to feel like I’m his, too. The thought makes me smile until he starts kissing lower, driving all thoughts from my mind except “God yes.”

  My eyes close, and I drown in the sensation of his swirling tongue on my clit. A sharp pinch on my nipple makes me gasp and open my eyes.

  Dylan lifts his head and releases me. “God’s not the one eating this pretty pussy, Rachel.”

  “Are you sure? Feels like fucking heaven to me.”

  He tugs me farther down the bed. “Mmm.” He rolls over onto his back. “Sit on my face and suck my cock with that dirty mouth.” The look in his eyes dares me to argue.

  I don’t.

  His cock is in my mouth before I straddle his chest, thick, hard, twitching on my tongue. I gently rub his balls as I draw hard with my mouth, and they harden too. With a groan, he grabs my hips and tugs my body back, spreading my legs and licking my slit.

  It feels different from this position, and I revel in the difference while lapping and sucking him as deeply into my mouth as I can. Unable to stop myself, my hips rotate and grind against his mouth when he spreads my ass cheeks and tongues my hole, throwing me off rhythm.

  “I need to be inside you now.”

  Wordlessly, I roll off him to the bed. He nudges my thighs apart with his hips, settling on top of me, and rubs the head of his hard length up and down my pussy, coating it in my wetness.

  Then he pulls his hips away and caresses my face, gazing down at me with a softness that threatens to break me in half. “God, you’re beautiful,” he breathes.

  “God’s not lying underneath you.”

  His smile is gentle. “Yes, she is.”

  His cock pushes inside me, killing conversation.

  The heat of his body, pure velvet skin plunging in and out, is nearly too much to handle. It’s just him and me and the trust we’ve somehow built together.

  Our hands intertwine, fingers laced together to maximize contact. I spread my legs wider, wanting him deeper, but it’s not enough. I try to pull him closer, but that doesn’t work either.

  “Turn over.” He pulls out and pushes up, removing his weight from me.

  I lie on my stomach and spread my legs, looking over my shoulder at him. That lean, muscled torso truly is incredible. With wild eyes, he angles my hips up, pulling my ass in the air as he tucks a pillow under my hips.

  “This ass, baby.” He shakes his head, kneading my buttocks with a firm touch, sending an ache through my core.

  “Please.” I wiggle a little, pleading with my whole body.

  His cock slams back inside me, his weight nudging my clit against the pillow. I spread as wide as I can, gasping as the tip of his cock hits as far deep as I can take.

  “You okay, baby?”

  “More.”

  Oh, he gives it. Again and again, harder and faster, pumping in and out, punishing my pussy with an unbearable pleasure. My hands turn to fists, and my toes curl. The things he can do with his hips should be illegal. No woman could deny him anything while he’s inside her, stroking her inner walls with a perfect cock and steady rhythm.

  The delicious friction building between us creates a slippery heat I’ve never felt, and he pours it all over me, drowning me with my own pleasure. Insinuating his hand between the pillow and my body, he gently rubs my clit.

  I’m done for.

  Pressure builds inside me, and my pussy tightens, nearly strangling his cock with the force of my orgasm radiating through my body, lighting my nerves like an emergency beacon.

  “I’m gonna come,” he says in a low, urgent voice.

  I nod, and a second later, he stiffens and fills me—I can feel it—with hot spurts of his cum before carefully collapsing on top of me. I want to hug him close but content myself with squeezing his biceps and treasuring his body weight pressing me into the bed. When our breathing slows, he adjusts us without withdrawing from me, tucking my legs up with his so I’m the little spoon again. His hand winds over my body and between my breasts.

  I feel like I should thank him, but that would be weird, so I keep my mouth shut. His body fits against mine perfectly. I’m going to miss it.

  Don’t think about the future. />
  His sigh coats my shoulder blade. “I’m leaving Boston for the next leg of the tour.”

  “Atlantic city.” No point pretending I don’t know at this point. “I looked it up.”

  He nods, idly palming my breast. “Atlantic city then up to Montreal. Then LA.”

  “You’re international, baby.”

  I wonder if his smile is as weak as my joke. I know I’ll see him again now—in magazines, on billboards. When I least expect it, I’ll be ambushed by his presence in the tabloids or on the television. I’ll pick apart every song, hoping for a glimpse of the time we spent together. It’ll be way too easy to obsess over who he’s dating. It’s going to be harder than it was before to be apart.

  Even the concert hall has ghosts of him in it now.

  I wrap my arms around his, wanting to stop time so we can live just like this.

  “At least your schedule’s pretty relaxed,” he says. “You’ve got time for a life outside of work.”

  I laugh. “Oh, no. This is prelim. When the season starts, I’ll be playing a few times a week—not including practices. You caught me in the calm before the storm.”

  “And you’re in the eye of my hurricane. Fitting.”

  “Your tour is almost finished though, right?”

  He sighs again, longer this time. “Then it’s right back into the studio. We’ve got a few things to tweak before the release. Then we’re probably going back on another mini-tour, this time Asia. We haven’t been there for a while, and the last album’s really taken off in Tokyo, I guess.” His voice is flat and low—there’s no way he wants this right now—and no wonder. He’s been on the road steadily for months already, and that was right after the insanity of the reality show.

  I turn my head to look at him. “Do you get any time off before that?”

  He props himself higher on his elbow, giving himself more space to look down on me more comfortably. “I’ll have a week, maybe two if we nail the tracks and get out of the studio quickly.” Slight bitterness tinges his tone. “Then it’s lather, rinse, repeat.”