“Did you drive?” he asks.
“No.” I never had a car while going to school here—didn’t need one. “Is your car parked nearby?”
“I cabbed it. Do you live close?”
“Too far to comfortably walk there.”
A few people stare at us on their way into the bar. Do we look that ill-matched? They do say that opposites attract; I’m more conservative and he’s got that bad boy thing going on, but superficially, we’re both reasonably attractive.
Well. I’m reasonably attractive. Dylan’s smoking hot.
He steps forward and hails a cab, opening the door for me as soon as it stops. “After you.”
I duck in as fast as possible, hoping my ass looks good if he’s looking at it. “Where are we going?”
He slides in beside me, leg brushing against mine in a delicious way that makes me wish we were alone right now. Though, on the other hand, I’m grateful for this time not alone. To prepare. As if I can possibly prepare for wherever we’re headed.
“Where are we going?” the cabbie asks.
I turn to Dylan. “What’s your address?”
He plucks at the seam of my jeans on the inside of my knee. “How about your place? It’s probably closer.”
My bed’s pretty much the only thing that hasn’t been packed up yet. “It’s a disaster right now with the move.”
“That’s okay.”
If my place is closer than his that’s definitely an incentive to go there. “If you’re sure you don’t mind boxes stacked everywhere.” At least that would put me in a safe place and not in some random stranger’s house. Not that I don’t trust Dylan. That’s the problem, actually. We just met, and I’m ready to trust him completely.
He presses his leg harder into mine, stealing my breath as he leans in and lowers his voice. “The boxes are not going to be what have my attention. I promise.”
I must tell the cab driver the address, as we pull out and begin the longest cab ride of my life, but I can only focus on Dylan. Every jostle of the car rubs his leg against mine, causing heat in another part of me at my core, and I’m dazed with want and desire.
He’s quiet, but I know he’s looking at me because my skin is burning with awareness like a deer in a forest with a predator about to pounce. I want him to pounce, just not in front of the cab driver. Or maybe that would be all right now that I think about it. In fact, the idea is somewhat of a turn on. The driver wouldn’t really be able to see if our hands started wandering. I wonder if he’d try to watch us in the rear view mirror…
And that’s totally not like me—usually I avoid Public Displays of Affection. Now I’m getting hot imagining our cab driver watching me get it on in the back seat.
Lord, help me.
I shouldn’t be doing this. I should not…
Dylan’s hand squeezes my thigh and begins sliding up.
Just like that, I forget why this is a bad idea and lean closer. He puts his arm around me and I melt and sizzle like oil on a hot grill.
Then he takes my hand and strokes the sensitive flesh of the inside of my wrist, and that’s when I get really scared. Because if I feel this crazy, this out-of-my-mind bewildered from just his this, how will I ever handle him touching me anywhere else?
It’s a fear that I eagerly want to face.
But somewhere after pulling up to my building and taking his hand as we get out of the cab, my courage starts draining out of me, awkwardness slowly replacing the certainty. How the hell do I do this? I’ve never had a one-night stand before. I don’t know the protocol. Is there foreplay? Or do I just let him in and start taking off my clothes? Or do I let him take off my clothes? Do we talk about it first? Will he want me to tell him what I want? Because I have no idea what I want.
Oh, God. I’m in so much trouble.
Dropping his hand, I slide the key into the lock and lead him up the three flights of stairs in silence. Each step, my nervousness grows. Each step, my need grows in equal proportion.
By the time I unlock my door I’m so keyed up all I want to do is lay my forehead against the cool metal and stand still for a few minutes to formulate a plan—I do well with plans, but I push it open and head inside.
I dodge the box I know is there and flip on the light just as he barks his shin on it and swears.
“Oh my God. I’m sorry! I’m so used to stepping around the cardboard landmines around here, I didn’t even think to warn you.”
“It’s fine,” he laughs, his laid back demeanour in total contrast to my flustered one. His eyes sparkle with naughtiness and I think I have my answer—he’s going to pounce.
But then he says, ““It’s fine. You going to give me the tour?”
“Sure. Wait.” I throw my hand out for him to stop.
“What?”
I kick off my heels. “Shoes off. I want my damage deposit back.” I cringe inwardly as soon as I say it. That’s my anal self talking, and that’s not who I want to be tonight. But I’m not sure I know how to be who I want to be.
And Dylan doesn’t seem to mind who I am. He tilts his head with a funny little smirk on his lips, but does what I say.
When I start leading him further in the apartment, though, he murmurs behind me, “Better get it all out of your system now.”
I turn back to him, my eyebrow raised in question.
“Just, pretty soon, I’m the one who’s going to be giving the orders.”
I swear I can’t walk as a new wave of excitement and anticipation and holy-fuck-what-am-I-doing fear sweeps over me.
But he smiles again. “Don’t worry so much, Rachel. I might not be nice, but you’re going to like it. I promise.”
I’m not sure if that was meant to be reassuring. Strangely, it is.
“Now, show me your place before I get too distracted to care.”
He has me twisted up inside. I’m already too distracted to care about a tour of the apartment. But I’m also nervous and anxious and glad to have something else to focus on.
I push open the door to the spare room. “I used this as the library/storage room, hence the mountain of boxes.”
“You a big reader or are they all school-related?”
“Bit of both? But most of these are records.”
His eyes light up. “You’re a vinyl hound too?”
“If that means do I like records, then yes.”
“I’m impressed, Cello Chick. Then again, the music you like probably isn’t popular enough yet to be made into cd’s.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to suppress my grin. “Though I do hear that they’re working on 8 tracks for next year.” I flick off the light switch and step past him into the hallway. “Living room’s this way.”
“That you know what 8 tracks are is so sexy.”
I want him so much it stuns me into silence and I can’t react to his words, can’t stop walking to the living room, turning lights on as I go because I don’t know what to say. I’ve been trapped inside the rules of appropriate behavior for so long I’m frozen solid inside myself. In this short time of knowing Dylan, I already feel the ice melting away.
It feels good. It feels daring. It feels…badass.
I head for the windows and look down at the street.
Dylan walks to stand beside me. “Hell of a view.”
I nod, tracing the windowsill. “My neighbors all have personal soundtracks that only I can hear. I sit by these windows, day after day, and look down at them and play their songs.”
“What do they sound like?”
“Different every day. It changes with the weather, with how fast they walk, with the things they’re carrying. With the stories I imagine their lives to be.”
He edges closer. “What would my soundtrack sound like?”
I close my eyes to feel the crashing notes. Bold, bright but sustained. It would sound like passion unrestrained.
“Rachel?” His tone has gotten thick and gritty, and I know it’s time.
My breathi
ng is shallow, and the invitation to my bedroom is on my lips, I can taste them.
Chickening out, I turn right and stride forward into the little galley kitchen, flipping on the light. “Do you want something to drink?”
“Rachel?” What have you got?” His voice comes from right behind me, and I startle forward, pulse racing, focusing on the fridge.
“I don’t have much, unfortunately.” I’m stalling. I’m running away. I open the door between us. “Water, or juice. A soda?”
He pushes the door closed and turns me to face him. “I’m really more hungry than thirsty.”
“Oh. In that case, I’ve got—”
His hands land on my hips and press me backwards, slamming my ass against the counter.
Oh. Yes.
He steps into my personal space. “Rachel, are you a good girl?”
“Yes.” The word is barely above a whisper, layered with anticipation. I’ve been taught that good girls get rewards. And I’m ready for my reward.
But his eyes flash with something wicked. “Not tonight.” He presses closer against me. “Tonight you’re going to be bad.”
Every nerve in my body lights and flares with pulsing need. I reach for my scarf and he grabs my hand.
“Leave it.”
“Why?”
His eyes are nearly all pupil. “Because I said. Now It’s time you showed me your bedroom.”
He removes his hands but stays in my space, making me slide out from between him and the counter, but he hooks a finger in one of the loops of my jeans, keeping me close as I pull him toward my bedroom with my hips. He shuts the door behind us closing us in the dark and I use the opportunity to break away, weave between some stacks of boxes, and slip beneath the blanket on my bed.
“There’s a box—a few actually, so be careful on your way over here. Just follow my voice.”
He flips the light on and my lids try to squeeze shut in protest. “Are you actually hiding under the covers?” He makes his way through the stacks like a jungle cat weaving through trees and peels the blanket back, exposing me to the harsh overhead light.
Damn it, I need to pull it together. I invited this man to my apartment for one reason. Smoking hot sex. I can do this—it’s not like I’m ever going to see him again after tonight. I don’t have to worry about what he thinks of me. I go for what I hope is a casual shrug. “Maybe I was cold.” Never mind the fact I’m still fully dressed.
He climbs over me, his mouth hovering inches above mine. “If you aren’t into this, Rachel, you need to let me know right damn now. Because in approximately two seconds, it’s going to be about impossible for me to leave.”
His breath is warm on my face, his lips ready to meld mine to his. His eyes flicker from mine to my mouth. “So, do you want me to leave?”
It’s the one thing I know with certainty. “No,” I whisper.
The word is barely out when he crashes his lips to mine, his tongue darting along my teeth as he invades my mouth. His kiss is eager and urgent and bossy—not at all like the polite kisses I’m used to. I drown in it, under it, but it’s a good kind of drowning. The kind of drowning that baptizes as I give myself over to him.
I’m desperate for air by the time he pulls away. He scoots down my body, his large hands peeling off my jeans. After he’s worked them over my feet, he
tosses them across the room, then slowly drag their way up my calves to my knees.
Goosebumps roar up my legs, covering every inch of my skin.
He opens my legs, kneeling between them. “I want to see everything.”
“So do I.” The words surprise both of us, but I press on. “I want to see you too, I mean.”
He reaches over his head and grabs the back of his t-shirt, pulling it off and tossing it in the same vague direction as my jeans.
But who the hell cares about fabric when a tattooed God is between my thighs.
I’ve never seen muscles like this outside of Greek statues and a few movies with Hollywood celebrities Alex made me watch. My ex was a bassoon player, studious and wiry. Bassoon players aren’t renowned for their chiseled biceps and pecs and abs. Dylan’s got an eight pack. I thought they only came in six and I’ve never seen a set of six up close either.
But what really makes me squirm with interest are the tattoos covering his skin. A pretty woman, the Virgin Mary maybe, looks serenely over a bunch of flowers on his right arm and shoulder. Mi Vida Loca, My Crazy Life, is scrawled across his chest with some fancy writing and curlicues for decoration.
And then I see it. The word Trust stands starkly in black, all alone on the left side of his ribs just below his heart. I reach up and trace it with my callused fingertips. It’s like a message to give in and do this and it’s all okay.
He grabs my wrist and brings my hand to his mouth, kissing my palm, nipping my finger with a wicked grin. “What does my bad girl want now?”
I hesitate, not sure I can say what I really want—that I want him naked. I want him inside me. “I want to see more of you,” I manage.
He slides off the bed and stands. “Then take off my pants.”
Before self-consciousness can catch up, I sit up, throwing my legs over the edge of the bed, and comply, all too aware of his body heat, of the scent of him. Musky and citrusy, and something else that makes my mouth water and my fingers clumsy in their haste to get his jeans off.
His erection makes the front of his bright red boxer briefs tent out toward me.
“I can’t decide if I want your hair loose and wild”—he reaches behind me and winds my hair around his hand and pulls—“or if I should take you from behind using this ponytail to guide you on my cock.”
My shocked inhalation leaves me in a moan. If I wasn’t wet before, that’s done it. At the same time, I’m completely wracked with nerves. I’ve given blowjobs before—twice. Once for each of the men I’ve slept with. Since neither of them ever wanted a repeat, I have a feeling I’m not that good at them. Thinking about doing it with Dylan, I’m already humiliated, and I consider telling him that I…that I what? Don’t want to? Because that’s a lie—I do want to. I want to feel the power of being able to make a man feel good with just my mouth and my tongue. I want to know that confidence.
Dylan unwinds my scarf, lifting it over my head. “Are you ready for me?”
“I….” The minute I attempt to pleasure him, he’ll know. He’ll realize how inexperienced I am. He’ll laugh. He’ll leave.
So I decide to be honest in as few words as possible. “Teach me?”
His eyes widen in surprise, and I think that maybe he assumes I’ve never done this before, which is close enough to the truth. But then they darken and his lip curls up in a wicked smile. “Yes. I’ll teach you, Rachel. I’ll teach you how to make me feel good. I’ll teach you how to be bad. Would you like that?”
I nod because I can’t speak.
“Such a naughty girl.” His tone is low and it makes my core pulse. I press my thighs together, and he shakes his head, spreading my knees again, standing in between them.
He moves my hands to the waistband of his underwear. His skin is smooth and warm on the backs of my fingers as I slide the boxer briefs down over his large penis.
Not penis.
Cock. Long, thick cock.
My heart is pounding in my chest, and
I lick my lips and bend, tentatively licking the bottom of the head.
“Good girl.” He slides the elastic from my hair and grabs a handful, but he leaves enough slack for me to stay in control. “Now, suck me in your mouth.”
His directive is such a turn-on, eclipsing my nervousness. I ease the large tip past my lips, careful not to drag my teeth, circling my tongue across the bottom of the shaft slowly at first, but faster when he moans.
God, he’s big. I’m not even sure I can fit him in my mouth.
As if reading my mind, he says, “Use your hand.”
I circle my palm around his base and look up to him for approval. W
hen he nods, I take him deeper inside my mouth, my lips moving down him until they meet my fist. Then I release him to the point where only the head is in my mouth before sliding down again.
He moans again, and my core clenches.
Heat turns to throbbing between my legs and I suck him deeper until I almost gag, so I pull back a bit and try again. And again.
“Christ, Rachel.” His fingers tighten in my hair, and I make a yelping sound that reverberates along his shaft.
He groans, and I want to smile but my lips are busy. His other hand settles on my head and he holds me still. “Look at me, baby.” His hips take over, pumping at the pace he likes, fucking my mouth. “Look at me, baby.”
I peer up at him. His face is flushed, brow furrowed, but his eyes could melt my panties right off my body. I’d be scared of someone wanting me this much—if I wasn’t faint with need for him as well. And I’m the one making him feel this. My chest swells with pride that rivals the ache of desire in my belly.
He continues to thrust into me as I watch him, and when I learn his rhythm, he eases his hold on my hair and lets me take over again. He seems to grow even harder under my tongue, his tip hitting the very back of my mouth on every stroke in, and just as I start to wonder if he’s close, he pulls back on my hair, stopping me.
“That’s so good, but if you keep this up, I’m going to be done. And I’m not ready to be done.”
I’m not ready to be done either. I give the hole at his tip an experimental little swirl with my tongue, tasting his saltiness, before slowly releasing him.
I’m still glowing in the warmth of his praise when he reaches around and undoes my bra with one hand. He tosses it away with the other, and, instinctually, I bring my arms up to cover myself. The lights are on, for Pete’s sake, and we’ve just met. I feel awkward and shy and I’m sure my average B-cup breasts are not what he’s accustomed too.
He clicks his tongue, admonishing me. “Now, now, Rachel. You were doing so well at being a bad girl. But this is good girl behavior. I can’t have any of that.”
He peels one hand off, and then the other. Then he holds my wrists tight as he gazes down at me. He drinks me with his eyes. Takes in every inch of my bare skin before spreading his hand over my chest and pressing me until my back hits the mattress.
Long Ball: A Secret Baby Sports Romance Page 16
