by Aubrey Irons
A lot more.
Dylan arches a brow at me. “Easy. It’s just a bet, man.”
“Well, it’s stupid,” I hiss.
Dylan chuckles, picking up his controller just in time for me to drop his ass again.
He sighs.
“Well hey, don’t chase then. But don’t come crying to me when one of us has Ana on her knees asking for more and you’ve gotta pony up the cash.”
The controller almost breaks in my hands.
“What are you doing.”
She gasps, the sound of her strumming coming to a sharp halt as she whirls. Instantly, her sharp blue eyes narrow, glaring at me as I stand at the side gate to the back patio of the gardener’s cottage. She pushes her big clunky headphones back, letting them hang around her neck like a collar of some kind.
Now that’s an intriguing image.
“What do you want, Bastian?”
“What. Are. You. Doing,” I overly enunciate, smiling when she rolls her eyes.
“Practicing.”
“For?”
She just shrugs.
“Oh c’mon, Texas. What’s the end game here.”
“Can I help you with something?” Her brow furrows at me, but I can see the way her eyes furtively dart across my face whenever I corner her like this.
The way her pulse thrums in the hollow of her neck.
The way she wets her lips.
The way her cheeks flush with heat.
The especially filthy ego in me likes to imagine that other parts of her flush with heat too - like her panties.
I’m not blind. My presence does something to her — brings something out in her. Caution, excitement, fear, lust. Sometimes one, sometimes the other, sometimes all of them.
She does an admirable job of hiding those emotions, but it’s not good enough.
Not like me, with mine.
And anyways, whatever she does to me — whatever feelings and emotions come simmering to the surface around her that I keep far better hidden than she does, are irrelevant.
The have no place with a guy like me, and besides, this isn’t about feelings.
It’s about conquest.
This is about winning.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
Repeatedly.
“Relax,” I shrug, my face neutral. “I come in peace. I’m just curious why you’re practicing if you never play out.”
“Bastian, I perform all the time.”
“Outside of your house, I mean.”
I stop myself from saying “your bedroom,” though the thought of that night — and a few times since then - have my cock pulsing against my thigh.
“I do.”
My brow goes up in genuine surprise.
“Really?”
“Truly.”
“Where.”
“Nowhere you’d know.”
I grin, leaning against the gate and pulling out my cigarettes.
“You know those are bad for you.”
“I had no idea. Thank you, Texas.”
She rolls her eyes.
“You want one?”
“Um, no.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
“You always say no to things that are bad for you?”
She flushes, and I see it, but she swallows it back.
“Why are you here, Bastian.”
“I live here.”
“No, here, at my patio. Talking to me.”
She means “not being a total asshole to me” like I usually am, but she won’t say that.
Because she’s a better person than me.
And the truth is, though I tell myself I’m here because of Dylan bringing up that stupid fucking bet an hour or so ago, I’m really here because I’m fucking addicted to hearing her play now. After that night, I need more of that damn voice of hers and I need to hear whatever she was playing before - like a song I can’t get out of my damn head and can’t find anywhere.
I smile wickedly, chasing the confusing, ridiculous, and frankly pussy thoughts of pining over Ana and some stupid song I heard once away as I lapse back into the me she’d recognize.
The asshole. The jerk. The soulless, cold, monster.
“Just corrupting the minds of the innocents, Texas.”
“Well, go be Satan somewhere else.”
I make zero effort to move as I eye her quietly, smoking.
“Where do you play.”
She sighs heavily, turning back to me.
“Seriously?”
“I could just follow you and make it weird, or you could just tell me.”
She holds my gaze.
“What are you going to do, come and boo me or something? I promise you, you won’t like the music.”
“You have no idea what I like.”
“I think I’ve heard enough of it at two o’clock in the morning to get an idea,” she says flatly.
I just shrug.
I could explain to her the difference between party music that makes people want to have fun and girls want to take their tops off and make questionable choices, and music I listen to alone, but I don’t.
“If I tell you, you’re not going to come.”
“Then what’s the harm in telling me.”
She chews on her lip, fingers tapping the body of the acoustic guitar perched on her lap. Her eyes narrow, like she’s weighing her options. Ten agonizing seconds later, she suddenly shakes her head and looks away.
“Nope.”
I sigh, taking a drag of my cigarette as I turn to walk away.
“You know, it’s probably better that you’re going into pre-law. You might be too much of a pussy for the music industry.”
I start to walk away.
“Deluxe Cafe, in Greenport. Tomorrow night at ten.”
I smile a thin, victorious grin to myself, my back to her as I drag on my cigarette. I wipe the grin from my face before I turn back.
“Better practice then. I’m a tough audience.”
She rolls her eyes.
“You won’t be there.”
“We’ll see.”
She’s right. I’m not there.
The next night, after three blunts with Ash parked over on Littleton Beach, I end up at some stupid house party at goddamn Brent Carmichael’s house of all people. It’s somewhere around nine-fifty at night, when I’ve got my tongue down Maisy Karl’s throat and my hands cupping her excessively padded bra, that the little reminder goes off in my head, prompting me to drop Maisy like a rock, jump in my Maserati, and do one-hundred and ten miles per hour all the way to Greenport.
I miss her, of course.
I get there and some weird pasty white kid with gross dreadlocks is playing Bob Marley covers. I scan the room, the scowl brewing like thunderclouds on my face until I see her, off to one side and surrounded by people absolutely gushing over her.
For a second, I almost go over. For one insane second, the concept of apologizing comes into my head.
No.
She looks in her element, like she’s soaking this whole thing up.
She looks happy.
Fuck, she probably killed it tonight, and she’s probably relieved I didn’t show up. Me going over there is just going to ruin all that. Me going over there just to show her I wasn’t just an asshole enough to pester her about tonight and not show up, I went a step further and showed up after she was done.
Getting stoned and forgetting means nothing to a girl like Ana, who’s known me for too long, and been too close to me for too long, and is fully aware of the cruelty I can, and usually do, inflict.
And so I leave. I leave without saying a word and without her even seeing me. I drive directly back to Brent’s house, I get belligerently drunk, and I proceed to mercilessly and joylessly fuck Maisy Karl on Brent’s bed.
The night finishes with me being me, but leaving Ana and that club in Greenport without inserting myself and ruining her moment of triumph just might be the most hum
an thing I’ve done in years.
Present:
“You know, you didn’t play for me.”
Ana rolls her eyes as she kicks me lightly in the ribs. She’s sitting opposite me on the music room couch - naked, blushing, and fucking perfect.
“Well, I was rudely interrupted.”
“I can get ruder.”
Her cheeks flush, and she looks away like that’s somehow going to hide the grin on her face. She brushes her fingers through her hair, chewing on her lip like she does. Her legs are crossed with her feet up on my lap, and I let my eyes drink in every single millimeter of those legs. Slowly.
I graze over the soft curve of her hips, over her navel, and up to the pale pink nipples capping her smallish breasts. The tumbles of her auburn hair, the hazy shade of red on her lips, that sharp, hungry, jaw-tightingly and yet effortlessly sexy flicker in her eyes.
Perfection.
“You seriously want to hear my music?”
“What I want is for you to straddle my waist and ride my cock until I come all over your ass.”
I grin when her eyes go wide, and her mouth starts to open, presumably to call me a pig. I wait for it, but she seems to catch herself. Instead, her mouth closes and she leans back into the couch, shrugging one shoulder casually.
“Well, what are we waiting for?”
My cock throbs between my legs and I grin at her.
Someone’s having fun playing the game right back at me.
I glance down at my erection. “I mean, I’m ready when you are, but honestly, I want to hear you play.”
“Honestly.”
“For real. Play me an Anastasia Bell original.”
She eye’s me, sucking on her teeth like she’s trying to get a read on my game plan here.
“Not a trick. Just play me a song.”
Ana nods, swinging her legs off of my lap and standing.
“Okay, fine.”
She pads softly across the room, and my jaw tightens as my eyes follow the easy sway of her hips and the tempting curve of her ass as she walks away.
She starts to reach for her clothes in a heap by the piano, but I clear my throat sharply.
“I didn’t say I wanted to hear your music with you clothed.”
She glances back at me, raising an amused brow.
“Oh?”
“I actually don’t want to hear it with clothes on. Ever.”
She smirks, but she doesn’t go for her clothes. She grabs one of the acoustic guitars from the stand next to the piano instead and turns back, walking back toward me and the couch.
My whole body tenses as I let my eyes basically fuck her as she pads back - nude, with a guitar in her hand.
“Down boy,” she says teasingly as she sits back in her spot at the far side of the couch.
The guitar goes across her lap, her fingers find their place, and she glances up at me one last time as if looking for permission.
Or maybe encouragement.
Either way, I nod, and slowly, Ana starts to play. Her fingers strum across the strings, filling the room with the warmth of that acoustic sound.
And I know these notes.
In fact, I’d know these notes if I were fucking dead. They’re the ones I heard once, years ago, across the divide between my mansion balcony and her small bedroom window. I hear them now, again, and I am done.
And then the words come - words I’ve never actually heard. It’s about someone, that’s obvious, and I’m pretty sure as shit it isn’t me, but I still listen. I still soak it the fuck in. I still stare at her in awe, letting the achingly perfect sound of her voice and that guitar and those words pierce right through the shell I’ve built around myself.
The room is silent when she finishes, the lingering hum of the last chord and the fading sound of her last note drifting away until they’re gone. I blink like I’m waking up from a dream as she shyly looks away and puts the guitar to the side.
“That for someone?”
My voice sounds jealous.
“Maybe.”
My jaw tightens, and Ana smiles. “I’m teasing, it’s not.” She shrugs. “It’s just a song.”
“It’s really good.”
“Thanks,” she says quietly.
“I mean, it’s not death metal, or - what was it - the sound of war. But, you know, it’s pretty okay.”
She bites her lip as she reaches over and punches my arm. “Dick.”
I grin. So does she, before she turns away.
“I should—”
I reach out and grab her arm as she starts to stand, pulling her back onto the couch.
“What you should do is get that sweet ass over here,” I growl, pulling her into my lap. Ana gasps, biting her lip as I pull one leg over me and settle her down, my cock rock hard and pressed between us.
I cup her jaw as I lean up and kiss her. I’m not demanding this time. This time, I take my time. This time, I kiss her slow, and deep, and let her feel it as I explore her mouth. My hands slide down the bare skin of her back, feeling her arching into my chest as I cup her tight little ass. I can feel the heat between her legs, her pussy right against the underside of my cock and dripping her excitement onto me.
I start to lift her up when she stops me with a hand on my chest
“Do you—?”
I scowl.
Fuck.
“No,” I mutter.
She makes a face. “Rain check?”
“Not a chance,” I growl.
She gasps as I grab her hips and pull her tight against me.
“Bastian—”
“Trust me,” I murmur.
I move my hips as I start to pull hers back and forth, and slowly, her body starts to melt for me.
I’m not fucking her, but I’m letting the underside of my shaft drag through her lips, letting her ride me without me actually penetrating her. My hands are tight on her ass, grabbing it like it’s mine as I slide her back and forth on my cock. I can feel her getting wetter and wetter, her slippery, sticky cream coating my cock and dripping down my balls.
Ana’s arms wrap around my neck as she rides my dick, her eyes closed and her lip caught between her teeth as her moans start to fill the room. She moves faster, more urgently, feeling every inch of me drag over her clit.
Nine years ago, I almost broke her when I did everything in my power to get her away from me.
Somehow, the tables have turned. Or maybe they never did. Maybe I just told myself that. Maybe you’d call that self-denial.
Self-preservation.
Self-hatred.
However I want to psychoanalyze myself though, it all comes down to the same now: I want her here. I want her near me. Always. Not because I enjoy pulling her strings, and not because I “need” her for this whole thing with Franklin and the inheritance clause.
I want her here because she fills a void in me that’s been there for as long as I can remember. The one that only got bigger and deeper the day I shoved her away.
“Bastian.”
My name catches softly on her lips, her hips moving faster and faster as she rides me. Her eyes squeeze shut and her perfect, soft lips fall open.
“I’m—”
“Come for me,” I growl into her ear, my grip tightening on her ass enough to leave marks and my balls starting to tingle.
“I want to feel you come all over my cock, Ana.”
The scream chokes in her throat, and her whole body seizes up before she suddenly cries out. I groan, muscles tensing and my own eyes closing as I just let go and follow her over that edge. I come hot and pulsing against her belly, feeling the sticky wetness of the two of us slick against her thighs and my abs as we slowly come to a stop.
Slowly, I open my eyes. So does she, and they lock as something fierce flashes between us.
Oh shit.
Something’s different.
Good different.
Terrifyingly different.
One look and I know I’ve just gone crash
ing through a line I never meant to cross, even if I’ve been testing it for years.
This is no longer a game, and I might be in trouble.
“Look, Brent says—”
“I know what the fuck Brent says, but I’m saying otherwise as your goddamn attorney.”
“As my attorney.”
Ash’s jaw tenses.
This is his way - his slow, methodical, calculating way of us moving back to friends. With Tyler, it was easy - we beat the shit out of each other. Well, not exactly a fair fight with my leg in a fucking cast, but I’ll give him that one. In any case, after that, we were fine.
With Ash, it’s different.
He’s colder and harder to read. Tyler’s the constantly “on” guy - the life of the party. But Asher is more like me I guess. Darker - more brooding. Well, more like me without the psychopathic tendencies I guess. That and while I love pussy, that guy has game down to a science.
“You know we’re going to get there someday, right?” Asher Harrington frowns at a spot on the floor between us. “I mean back to what we used to be.”
I nod.
“So yes, Bastian, this is me talking to you as your attorney. And as your attorney, I’m telling you that Brent’s little scheme is fucking ridiculous.”
“Noted.”
“I don’t trust him.”
“So you keep saying.”
It’s true, Ash is not on team Brent. He never has been from the day I mentioned that I was hiring Mrs. Van Der Haus’s accountant up through this very moment. And he makes zero qualms about telling people that.
Brent included.
“You’re not going to get anywhere with this farce you know.”
“I could. With the papers—”
“The catering contract? Are you shitting me?”
I scowl, reaching for my glass of whiskey.
“It could do well.”
“To who, Crown. It’s not legally anything. It’s not even remotely binding.”
“Neither is the fucking wording of the trust.”
“It’s badly worded, but it is binding. At least enough that Franklin could run this thing out for a decade in court.”
“Fuck him, let him knock himself out,” I snarl. “I’ll be fine.”
“No, you won’t.”
“I’m not exactly poor without-”
“Bastian, I mean no you won’t be.”
