Badass in My Bed (Badass #1)

by Rae Lynn Blaise

  I reach the bathroom just as he’s exiting and duck under his arm. “My turn!” I firmly close the door and lean against it for a second, knowing I’m being coy, but unable to stop myself. I need a minute to myself to calm my racing heart.

  What’s he going to be like now that we’ve… been together? Stop overthinking it, Rachel. It’s a one-night stand. The less time we spend together, the better. There’s less chance of complications that way. Besides, he’s just some tough rocker wannabe. Who cares what he thinks?

  My eyes are wild in the mirror, shining like they’re lit from within. My skin’s flushed and rosy, gently glowing instead of blotchy and red, lips sensually puffy from his kisses. The only disaster is my hair, heading towards rat’s nest chic, so I wet my hands and finger-comb it.

  What a way to get a makeover. After a few minutes, I’m ready to head back out. Time to face the music.

  “What’s this?” I gesture at the sheet he’s spread out on the living room floor and covered with a few dishes.

  “Hey.” He grins at me, looking way too good in just his boxer briefs. “Carpet picnic.”

  “I haven’t got much in the way of food.”

  “You’re telling me.” He kneels on one edge of the sheet. “Luckily, I’m king of impromptu snacking. Have a seat.”

  I can’t decide how I feel about this. On the one hand, it would be easier to deal with the after awkwardness if he went on his way. On the other hand, I don’t think I’m ready for him to leave.

  The second hand wins out. I sit cross-legged opposite him on the sheet and accept the plate he hands me. “So, what’s this?”

  “Peanut butter and olive cracker sandwiches.”

  “Uh.” I poke at it. “Do I get a pass?”

  “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.” His voice lowers an octave, and he holds a tiny sandwich to my lips. “Open.”

  Oh, boy, I learned that lesson. I let him feed me. Salty, silky, tanginess erupts across my tongue. The cracker gives it a crunch that takes the edge off what would be an off-putting texture.

  He winks and snaps into one himself.

  I lick my lips. “It shouldn’t work, but it does.”

  “Right?” He nods at the apartment, pretty much devoid of everything except cardboard columns. “You weren’t kidding about the boxes. When do you move, again?”

  “Sunday, but the movers come Saturday to get everything. I’ll probably spend the night in a hotel by the airport.”

  “You don’t seem that jazzed about it.”

  “Moving universally sucks.”

  He cocks an eyebrow. “But you’re moving to your dream job. I’d have thought you’d be a little… perkier.”

  “It’s not my dream job.”

  “So why do it?”

  I slowly savor another cracker sandwich to stall for time. Talking about my new, refined life with the tattooed stranger I just slept with is surreal. Then again, he’s safer because he has no idea who anyone in the situation is, and he has no emotional stake in it—unlike Alex or my father. If I dared, I could tell him everything.

  But I don’t dare. I’m a different person tonight—with him—but not that different, so I stick with my stock answer. “It’s an opportunity I can’t pass up.”

  “I hear that. You just don’t seem like the type of person who does anything she doesn’t want to do.”

  Mirth pulls at my lips. “That’s a pretty accurate assessment.” I wash my bite down with a glass of cran-grape juice that’s unexpectedly sweet and fizzy and throw him a questioning glance.

  “Snack voodoo.” His eyes twinkle in a way that makes my stomach flutter. “I mixed a can of sprite with the juice to give it a little personality.”

  “Are you a chef?”

  “No.” He drags out the word, seemingly amused at my guess.

  “Hmm. Then tell me, Dylan-who-is-not-a-chef, how did you become so skilled in the art of making something from nothing?”

  “Well…” He considers, and I wonder if he’s imagining opening up to me the same way I was imagining opening up to him. “I suppose I learned out of necessity. I grew up without much.”

  I swallow, hard. It’s an awfully personal statement and seems more intimate than anything we’ve done. “I’m sorry.”

  He shrugs, but his posture is tenser than before. This isn’t something he’s over. “It was just my mom and me. Dad left when I was a kid.”

  I look around the room and see the evidence of my privilege all around me. Even with most of my belongings packed away, it’s evident. The number of boxes I have. The quality of this blanket we’re lying on. The apartment itself is luxury. It’s suddenly embarrassing.

  “That sucks.” I don’t know what else to say. I feel off-balance having a heart-to-heart with this man. I’m afraid of what words I’ll end up sharing in return.

  Or maybe I’m afraid I won’t end up sharing anything. That I’ll let this moment pass me by without connecting.

  I try again. Try giving something that is real. “I must seem like a spoiled brat. I mean, maybe I am. I never thought of myself as a greedy child, never demanded new cars or designer anything, but I always had the best anyway.”

  “I’ve only known you for a short time, Rachel, but I promise you’ve done nothing to indicate you’re either spoiled or a brat. So you have nice things. I’m guessing your parents have money. That doesn’t reflect on you.” He shifts to look at me better. “What I see is someone who works for what she wants, even if she doesn’t have to. If you have as much as you’re hinting at, I’m guessing you didn’t need a career. It’s admirable you pursued one anyway.” His voice lowers. “I also bet you’re really good at that cello of yours. With all the things that money has bought you, maybe music is the only thing you’ve found you can truly own.”

  My throat is suddenly dry. How does he know me so well? This stranger who’s known me all of a couple of hours? I want to tell him how perceptive he is, how well he’s hit the nail on the head, but the words stay silent on the tip of my tongue.

  Dylan finishes off a cracker, dropping peanut butter on his thumb.

  I use the opportunity to change the subject. “You have some… on your hand…”

  He extends his hand toward my mouth, sticking his thumb between my lips. His lids grow heavy as I lick off the peanut butter, swirling my tongue around his knuckle like I did around his cock not too long ago.

  “That mouth.” The gravel in his tone says he’s remembering the same thing. He breaks into a song, something I don’t know about doubting I kissed my mother with “that mouth.”

  I have a feeling the song’s supposed to be suggestive of something. Not only do I miss the reference, but I’m too distracted by the clarity of his rich tone. It sends a jolt down my spine, curling my toes as effectively as the orgasms he gave me.

  “You have a really good voice.”

  “So does everyone nowadays.” He shrugs off my compliment. Seems I’ve finally found something that makes him uncomfortable.

  “No, I mean, like, really good.” I’m fascinated by his sudden shyness. “Sing me something else.”

  He digs another olive out of the jar and pops it in his mouth. “Can’t.”

  “Why not? Shy?”

  He crawls around the perimeter of the blanket. “My mouth is busy with other things right now.”

  I swallow my bite just as his lips hit mine. Our kiss tastes like a warm, dirty martini, and even though Dylan left me completely satisfied not even half an hour ago, I want him again.

  I want him inside me again.

  I suck his tongue into my mouth, sighing happily when he understands my physical invitation and presses me to the floor, plunging his tongue deeper, kissing me harder. The carpet provides minimal cushioning so when he lies on top of me it’s like being embraced from both sides. He nudges my legs apart, sensuously grinding his hips in a slow, rolling motion that tips my head back. He licks and sucks his way down my neck, shaggy hair tickling my skin as he mo
ves lower, stripping off my shirt and covering the skin beneath with kisses and caresses.

  “Hold on a sec.” He abruptly stands, leaving me panting on the floor.

  “Where are you going?”

  He moves the cranberry-grape juice to the coffee table. “Don’t want to lose your deposit,” he says with a wink.

  “Thanks.” I hadn’t even thought about the mess that could have been made. It’s exactly the kind of thing I normally fret about. Who am I with this guy?

  This guy shoots me a sexy glance. “Stay there.”

  I watch every ass-flexing step he takes to my bedroom, entranced with him. Entranced with who I am with him. I wonder if she’s someone I could be more often. If she’s someone I could grow to like.

  Dylan’s back before I have an answer. “I believe we were going to use this.” He tosses something.

  It lands softly on my chest. My scarf. Oh, boy. “I’ve never actually—”

  He laughs, but it’s not mean. More… adoring. “I know you haven’t. I bet there’s all kinds of interesting things you haven’t done.”

  I prop myself up on my elbows. “We’ve done a few of them tonight.”

  “I bet we have.” He stands over me. “Hold out your hands. We’re going to do a couple more.”

  I kneel, the fabric delicately sliding across my inner wrists, and before I can worry that letting a stranger tie me up is a Very Bad Idea, my hands are bound in front of me.

  He pulls a condom from the band of his boxers, kicks them off, and slides the protection down his erection. “Stand. Now, I want you to walk to the window.”

  I scramble to my feet. “What?”

  He slaps my ass. “Don’t argue.”

  I let out a gasp. My ass stings. As it dissipates, it sends a hum to my lower regions. A delicious hum. So delicious, I consider not doing what he says, hoping he’ll do it again.

  But I’m too eager for what he has planned. Folding my hands up so my forearms cover my nipples, I walk to the window. “What now?”

  The lights go out, and a moment later, his chest heats my back. “Now you look down on the street where you’ve lived, where you’ve given all these people songs of their own. This time, instead of giving, you’re going to take.”

  I lean back against him. “What am I going to take?”

  My shorts and panties hit the floor.

  “Whatever I give you.” He guides my hands up and hooks them behind the back of his neck, baring my breasts for the street to see—if anyone cared to look up. I suppose I’m not really exposed up here, but my breaths leave my lungs in ragged gasps.

  Dylan pushes me forward until my nipples press against the cold glass and reaches between my legs from behind, plunging two fingers deep inside me, buckling my knees.

  “You like this, don’t you? I can see your face in the reflection, Rachel.” He adds his other hand, pinching my clit between two fingers.

  I whimper.

  “Look at yourself,” he whispers, breath hot in my ear.

  My gaze shifts focus from the street below to my face, pale and perfect in abandon, in pleasure.

  “You’re so sexy.”

  I am. Right now, I am, and it’s because of this man. “I want…”

  “What do you want?”

  “I need…”

  He sucks my earlobe into his mouth and presses his hard cock against my ass. “What do you need?”

  “I—”

  “Rachel.” He nuzzles my neck. “Don’t be ashamed to ask for the things you need.” He abruptly takes his hands away from me.

  I groan. “Please.”

  “Tell me what you need.”

  Frustration born of desire tears the words from my mouth in a demanding voice. “I need you to fuck me in front of this fucking window.”

  He kicks my feet apart and nearly splits me in two with the depth of his first thrust. I cry out and pull on the scarf, wanting desperately to brace my hands on either side of the window, to push back against him to better feel every inch of his cock plunging inside, unable to do more than spread wider and moan, taking what he gives me.

  “Anyone could look up and see me fucking you.”

  Exhilaration and fear jolt through me, spiraling in my belly, sharpening my senses, which only makes everywhere he touches that much more sensitive. I’m hyper-aware of his hard body pressed against my soft curves.

  Of his mouth, tracing patterns with his lips and breath against my neck and jaw and the incredibly delicate skin below my ear.

  Of his ten fingers digging into my hips, urging me off and on his cock to a rhythm he’s creating.

  Of that cock, stretching and filling me, stroking my g-spot, weakening my knees.

  Of my spine curling when everything tightens and blows out my senses with a deep orgasm wracking through my core and rippling out in a crescendo of yes.

  He unhooks my bound hands from behind his neck and holds me tight, pressing me against the window, burying himself deep as he comes. I can feel his cock twitch inside me. Our breath fogs the window in fast bursts, tiny patches of condensation that disappear as quickly as they’re made.

  I never want to forget this feeling.

  While keeping me in his arms, Dylan’s fingers make quick work of the knot in the scarf, and I’m freed.

  But I don’t want to be. “Thanks.”

  I’m almost indecently wet when he pulls out. He smiles and rubs my wrists, encouraging more blood flow into the indentations. I pulled the knots harder with my movements while we were having sex.

  “What’s that smile for?” he asks.

  I shake my head, not knowing how to explain that tonight was like a vacation, like being dropped into someone else’s life and instead of being strange, it was empowering. “I feel really good.”

  “Good.”

  “I was thinking about what you asked me earlier, about your soundtrack. I know what it is now.” I heard it the whole time he moved in and out of me, the melody of it spinning in my head as he pounded out the rhythm with his thrusts.

  He raises an expectant brow.

  “It’s that song you played me at the bar. It’s you. Completely.” Maybe the association simply comes from the fact that he’d been the one playing it for me, but it feels like more. It feels like it was his song. “I don’t think you ever told me the name of the band that sang it.”

  Dylan looks away. “Uh, it’s Fallen Angels. I’ll be right back.” He scoops his boxers up off the floor on his way to the bathroom.

  After slowly trailing my hands over my arms, luxuriating in the sensation, I gather my clothes and put them on unhurriedly in the dark. I’m more comfortable in the afterglow than I was last time. Maybe Dylan will stay all night. Maybe he’ll curl up with me in my bed, holding me, making love. We’ll have to go out for breakfast, though. I really have nothing in the house. Maybe the diner down the street delivers…

  Again, I take the bathroom when Dylan exits, cleaning myself up a little and brushing my teeth before heading back out to the living room. I’ve decided to be brave and invite him to spend the night.

  But when I find him, he’s fully dressed and talking on his phone. “Thanks.” He hangs up and turns to me. “Cab will be here in a few minutes.”

  Hiding my disappointment as best I can, I school my features. “Ah.” Do I thank him for giving me the best sex of my life? “I had fun.”

  “Me too.”

  I walk him to the front door and lean against the wall while he puts his boots back on and pats his pockets, nodding that he hasn’t left anything behind.

  “I hope your move is a good one.”

  “Thanks.” I wish I could think of something else to say, but it’s nearing four AM and my endorphin-flooded brain is not doing me justice. Besides, all I want to say is, “Stay.”

  He hesitates. “Well, I should probably get going.”

  “Then I suppose this is goodbye, Dylan-with-no-last-name.”

  “The pleasure was all mine, Rachel-who-is-m
oving.” He wraps his arms around me, ravishing me with one last kiss that makes my heart pound. Then he winks and walks out my door without another word.

  It takes a few minutes for the regret to settle over me. I was afraid I’d feel it, and I do. It’s not the regret I thought it would be, because I’m not at all sorry that I let Dylan into my bed, even though I don’t know his last name, even though I’ll never see him again. I’m not at all sorry that I let my guard down or that I became as much of a stranger with him as he was to me.

  The regret I have is completely unexpected. I regret letting him leave.

  It’s after eleven-thirty when I wake up—nearly unheard of with my strict schedule—but these last few days are fairly empty, allowing me to lie in my bed, luxuriating first in the memories of last night then continue wallowing in that languid feeling in a long, hot shower. Dylan’s given me enough Rabbit fodder to last me years, when the vividness of the memories of last night fade in intensity then finally dissolve completely like chocolate on my tongue.

  I dry my hair and dress in a khaki skirt and a light blue sweater that gently caresses my skin and swipe on a little mascara and lip gloss. Alex has sent me a text demanding details along with a sneak peek at the playlist I promised I’d listen to. I press play on the song called Summertime Sadness, and with the first few swelling chords, I’m taken away.

  After striding to the bathroom, I grab an elastic, hastily weave my hair into a braid, and throw it over my shoulder and out of the way. I use a blue plastic tub as a seat—the chairs are buried behind a mountain of boxes, impossible to get to—and unlock my cello case. While pulling her free, I restart the song on my phone, nestle my instrument close and close my eyes, letting the music flow through me then from me.

  My fingers fly over the strings, my body sways with the movements of my bowing, and I nail down the vocal line of the chorus, smiling when I get it just right and the notes reverberate back, full and stentorian.

  The knocking at the door kills the moment, tearing me from the song.

  I huff impatiently. If the movers came early… Gently placing my cello back in the case and shutting it, I pad over to the door, ready for conflict when I open it.