Setting my cello down, I survey the room. It’s a suite, but the extra wide doorway between the living area and the bedroom doesn’t have a door. The decor is essentially the same as in my room—shades of gray and white for the upholstery with dark wood furniture.
Charlie expels an audible breath, her arms wrapped around herself. “Well. That wasn’t at all how I planned for today to go.”
I give her a crooked smile, my hands in my pockets. “Yeah. Me either.”
Her eyes travel down my body and back up again. “You look really nice,” she says quietly. Closing the distance between us, she trails a hand down my tie. “I like the tie. The little bit of color. It’s a nice touch.”
I have to clear my throat to make sure my voice comes out. “Thanks.” Even so, it still sounds huskier than I meant, because that’s the effect her proximity has on me. Her touch. Her sweet scent. Her voice.
My hands come out of my pockets all on their own and slide around her. She lifts her eyes from my tie, looking me in the face, darting glances between my eyes and my mouth.
I can’t take it anymore, so I kiss her. She opens for me, her tongue meeting mine. My arms tighten around her, crushing her body to mine, finding the hem of her top and slipping my hand underneath. I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of the silky feel of her skin. I wish I could feel her every day.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Pedal point: a sustained or repeated note in a song, often in the bass register. The term is a reference to the bass pedal keys on a pipe organ.
Charlie
With my arms wrapped around his neck, I press myself into Damian, stroking his tongue with mine.
We haven’t had any time alone since my show in Seattle. I deliberately scheduled myself so that we couldn’t spend time alone when I went to Spokane for his recital. Crying after sex seemed like a good reason to put on the brakes.
But now?
I don’t know.
Even though we still talk as much as ever, he still hasn’t said he loves me. But I saw the way his eyes flashed, the surprise and happiness, when I was the one who brought his flowers.
And he offered me his hand and rescued me from the crowd, leaving behind the concert and his obligations as a competition winner.
That has to mean something, right? I mean, right?
His hands slide under my shirt, provoking a groan from him, and all fretting and worry about what this means, the status of our relationship, is driven from my head.
Because I’ve missed him. I crave his touch, even though I’ve been denying myself access to it. At this point, if he told me he only wanted to be friends with benefits, I’d probably agree. For now. I want him back in my life in whatever capacity I can get him, and if that means he withholds the only other thing I want from him—his love—then so be it.
On that thought, I bring my hands down, sliding over his chest, pulling back from our kiss to find the knot of his tie. Tugging at the silk, I slide it off, the knot untangling itself as I drop it to the floor. Then I fall to work on his buttons.
Damian’s hands stilled on my back when I undid his tie, like he wasn’t sure what was happening, but now that I’m working on his shirt, he catches up, pulling my top up, distracting me from my work so he can get the shirt over my head.
I’m pulling the tails free of his pants so I can get to the last few buttons when I have to stop again to let my bra straps fall off my arms. Damn bra straps. I need to start wearing strapless bras around him. They’d just pop off without interrupting me.
His hands cup my breasts, his thumbs brushing the tips, bringing them to hard points, again distracting me from getting his clothes off. And when his lips close over one nipple, I have to give up on undressing him, my fingers sliding into his hair.
After working over my nipples till I’m panting and my short nails are digging into his scalp, he straightens, his eyes still on my chest, surveying his handiwork. Without a word, he takes my mouth in a demanding kiss, guiding me back till my legs hit the bed. He breaks the kiss as he lays me down, taking a step back to quickly strip off his shirt. Toeing off his shoes, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet, extracting a condom and tossing it on the bed before removing the rest of his clothes.
Watching him, I arch my brow. “You always carry those these days?”
He lifts one shoulder and lets it drop. “When I know I’m going to see you, anyway.”
“Aren’t you a Boy Scout?”
A grin is his only answer. Which is fine, because I don’t know what I want him to say to that. But it only serves to prove my point that our relationship, at least our in-person relationship, has become more about lust and sex than love.
But that train of thought only makes me sad, so I push it away, wanting to enjoy this, whatever this is, while it lasts.
When he finishes undressing, I stand and strip off my own pants and thong, enjoying the flare in Damian’s eyes as he watches me. I also enjoy the way he grips himself, giving himself a squeeze and a short stroke, like he can’t help touching himself as he watches me undress.
With a cheeky smile, I slip my black wedges back on, then turn and bend over the bed.
Damian gives an appreciative grunt, his hand rubbing down my back and over my ass. “You want it this way again?”
“Yes.” I close my eyes at the memory of the last time I was bent over a bed with heels on, not sure if I’m trying to hold onto it or push it away. That was before. When he told me he loved me countless times a day. When we were making love, not just having sex.
But I don’t think I can handle looking into his eyes again while he moves inside me. I can’t handle being laid bare for him to see. And if I close my eyes this time, I don’t think I can handle it if he lets it go or if he commands me to open them again.
It’s better to not be face-to-face. This way we both get what we want, what we need, without risking more. Because being with him is a risk for me. Every time.
Not me professionally. No.
Personally. Emotionally.
Biting my lip, I try to lose myself to the moment again, waiting for his touch, listening to the sound of the condom wrapper tearing open and him rolling on the latex. His warm hands slide over my buttocks again, and his cock nudges between my legs. I arch my back, presenting myself for him, and he lines up, the head of his cock resting just at my opening.
His hands move to my hips, holding me steady as he rocks into me an inch, retreating and rocking forward a little more. He takes his time, drawing everything out.
I let out a moan when he’s fully seated inside me, clenching around him. He lets out a little hum of pleasure, so I do it again.
“Christ, Charlie,” he says on a groan, rocking his hips against me.
Pushing back against him, I encourage him to move. He does, matching my tempo, his hands on my hips keeping us in sync, the rhythm steady and slow. His favorite. Mine too, in that drawn out, torturey kind of way.
“Oh God,” I moan when his fingers slide around my hip and between my legs. Widening my stance to give him better access, I break our rhythm. When he starts again, it’s a little faster, his finger lightly strumming my clit, and this—the angle of him inside me, the way he hits me just right, the way he touches me—it’s perfect.
“More. Please. Faster.” Each word is a gasp, and Damian obliges, picking up the tempo of his thrusts and his fingers, and all I can do is gasp and moan as he drives me over the edge, white light exploding behind my tightly closed eyes as I shudder in bliss.
Damian slows, allowing me to come back to myself, but he’s not done. Bending over so his chest presses against my back, he reaches for my hands, threading our fingers together as he buries himself inside me again and again, his lips pressing kisses to my shoulder, my neck, the skin below my ear. And I close my eyes again when he growls his pleasure in my ear, his hips losing their carefully controlled rhythm as he finds his release.
Once he’s still, he pulls our arms in, und
er me, gathering me to him, a hug from behind, his body draped over me like a living blanket. With one more kiss at the base of my neck, he gives me a little squeeze and stands, withdrawing carefully and leaving to go deal with the condom.
I crawl all the way onto the bed and curl under the covers, more confused than ever.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Trainwreck: a slang term that refers to a major error that occurs during a performance, either due to an incorrect entrance by one or more performers, or the performers getting out of time or off pitch with each other
Charlie
“Uh, Charlie?”
Stretching, I blink my eyes at the sound of Damian’s voice, turning to face him in the semi-darkness, the only light coming from his phone. “Is everything okay?”
He moves his head, but I can’t tell if he’s nodding it yes or shaking it no. He has his glasses on, and he’s staring intently at the screen.
I push myself up to sit propped against the headboard. “What’s going on?”
He clears his throat. Opens his mouth. Closes it. Clears his throat again.
“Damian?”
“Uh. We’re … our pictures are all over the place.”
With a sigh, I lean over to see his screen. He scrolls slowly through some article, pictures of the two of us together interspersed with words. As expected, there are pictures from last night. Me handing him the flowers. Him pulling me on stage. Our little bow.
But not just last night. There are pictures from Jonathan and Gabby’s wedding. Of us talking in the corner of what I recognize as the little theatre where I gave the show here in Boise in March.
There are other pictures too. His high school yearbook photo. A picture of me on the red carpet at the Grammy’s a few months ago. With some other guy, of course. Because that was before I fired my mom.
I don’t even wait for him to get to the end of the article before I’m reaching for my phone. “I’ll take care of it. Give me a minute.” I send a quick text to Natalie. If she’s up, I’m sure she’s already contacted our PR team, but since I don’t have any messages from her, she might be sleeping in.
Next I pull up the direct number for my PR person. Even if Natalie’s already made contact, I want to talk to her myself. But Damian’s hand closes over the screen before I can hit the call button.
Raising my eyes to his, I still can’t decipher the look on his face.
His Adam’s apple bobs repeatedly like it’s a struggle to swallow. He clears his throat yet again. “Take care of it how, exactly?”
I decide it’s the lack of light in the room with the drapes closed that makes it hard to read him, so I reach over and turn on the bedside lamp before answering. He blinks a few times, his eyes looking particularly owlish behind his glasses with his hair down and mussed around his shoulders. But my examination of his expression by lamplight still doesn’t give me a clue as to how he’s feeling. Upset? Angry? Betrayed? Violated? Conflicted?
It’s not good, clearly. Because disguising happiness doesn’t make sense. In fact, usually guys who get photographed with me can’t wait to tell me how happy they are about it, what a good bump it’ll be for their publicity or status or whatever. Or, when I was the lesser star, they’d be sure to crow about our pictures being everywhere so they could collect on what they thought I owed them.
But Damian’s neither of those types. In fact, he’s the opposite, finding my celebrity more troubling than something to be excited about.
Now I’m the one struggling to swallow and clearing my throat before speaking, my eyes sliding away from his because now I’m worried about what this might mean for him. If finding out I’m a celebrity sent him running, then what will having his pictures plastered everywhere do?
“We’ll issue a statement, then contact security for you—your family too if they’re getting harassed—until the excitement wears off.”
He doesn’t say anything, and after a long moment where his hand still covers mine on my phone, I raise my eyes to his. He’s examining my face now, trying to parse deeper meaning from my words if I had to guess.
I put out my free hand palm up, fingers spread. “Is there something else you’d prefer me to do?”
“No.” He pulls his hand back, looking down at the blanket, then across the room at the wall. “What kind of statement? Are you going to tell them we’re just friends again?”
I flinch, not expecting that question or the bitterness in his voice. “No.” I draw out the word. “That wasn’t what I planned on saying. Unless …” He looks at me in the pause, and I clear my throat again. “Is that what you want me to say?”
His mouth opens and closes, then his head jerks once in a quick negative. “Before you said that was the easiest way to keep them away from me.”
“Yeah. It was. From the pictures at the wedding, we were obviously there together, so I couldn’t deny knowing you. And you’d basically broken up with me by the time I put that statement out. I wasn’t going to share all the sordid details of our relationship and subsequent breakup with the press. Friends was a tidy explanation that would explain our being photographed together but also keep them from being overly interested in you when we didn’t show up anywhere else together.”
I pause, looking him over. Some of the tightness around his eyes and mouth has relaxed, but his face is still solemn and closed. Setting my phone down, I reach for his hand, threading our fingers together.
“Things are different now, though.” I take a deep breath, looking up at nothing, considering all the available options. “I could do the ‘just friends’ thing again. But since I plan on seeing you after this, its power wouldn’t last. Especially since we’ve already done that once, and now here we are photographed together again. And in a much different situation than just attending a mutual friends’ wedding together, which is more easily written off than me bringing you flowers after your performance and us dashing off into the night together.”
That prompts a small smile and a chuckle, which has me breathing easier. He adjusts his glasses with his free hand. “Yeah. I had a few texts from my parents wondering if we were okay.”
“Did you text them back yet?”
He nods. “Of course. I told them we were fine and that your driver had taken us back to the hotel, that we were going to lay low for the night after the stir you caused.”
I roll my eyes, a crooked smile claiming my own mouth. “Would you have preferred if I hadn’t done that?”
His smile dims as he grows thoughtful and withdraws his hand. Blowing out a breath, he pulls his knees up, wrapping his arms loosely around them over the blankets. “I … no? Maybe. I don’t really know. With anyone else—if you were still just Charlie Baxter, the piano major from California who took time off before going to college, then of course I would want you to be the one to bring me my flowers.”
“But …?”
He looks at me, the conflict written all over his face my only answer.
“Oh. Right. I … get it.” Slipping out of bed, I cross to the closet to grab some clothes, not giving him a chance to respond. Not that he does. When I turn back around and face him, my clothes clasped to my chest like a shield, he’s still in the same position, watching me. “I’m going to take a shower. Think about what you want me to say to the media, because I have to say something. I’ll leave it up to you to decide.”
That’s as close as I can get to asking him about the status of us. It’s been the elephant in the room every time we’ve been together, but neither of us has brought it up. We should’ve had this conversation the first time we were here. But then Lauren called, and I took the coward’s way out and answered the phone, too scared to find out that Damian just saw me as a convenient piece of ass.
Because I’ve never stopped loving him, and if I found out he didn’t feel the same way, it would shatter me.
People say I’m brave for performing in front of sold out audiences or for the way I handle the media censure that’s often thrown m
y way for my string of so-called boyfriends. But I’m not really brave. Not when it counts.
The bravest thing I’ve done is fire my mother. And even so, she still tries to insert herself into my life, into my career.
And once again, I skip out on this conversation, ducking my head and heading for the bathroom, hiding behind the closed door and the sound of running water.
The fact that our relationship is amorphous and ill-defined is now a bigger problem than it was yesterday. Sure, I was fine with the whole friends-with-benefits thing we seem to have going on last night when I was swept away by his performance, consumed by passion, dying for his touch.
But now?
In the clear light of day, with the ramifications of my impulsive actions splattered all over the gossip sites, I feel vulnerable. Out in the cold, picking my way across thin ice, not sure if my next step will send me plunging into icy water. Alone.
Who am I kidding, though? Damian doesn’t know the best way to handle this kind of media attention. I’ll have to figure out how to say what needs to be said with the help of my PR team.
There’s a text from Natalie that I didn’t notice come in during my conversation with Damian letting me know there’s a draft of a statement waiting for my approval in my email.
Pulling it up, I look it over. It’s sufficiently vague without being a lie, saying that we’ve been close since our time together at Marycliff and that I was in attendance at the concert to support him. People can read between the lines, of course. But it’ll buy us some time until he decides what he wants from me, from us.
Once he makes up his mind whether he’s going or staying, I’ll schedule an interview with one of the reporters I like and offer her the scoop on our relationship, whatever that is by then.
Counterpoint and Harmony (Songs and Sonatas Book 5) Page 16
