“Isn’t that a little touristy?” Dylan slides on a pair of silver Aviator shades that hide too much of his face, reflecting too much of mine back at me.
I hate not being able to see peoples’ eyes when I’m talking to them. Correction—I hate not seeing Dylan’s eyes. “Maybe a bit, but it’s somewhere I’ve always meant to go. I’ve heard good things about—”
“—the Pavilion.”
I frown at his interruption. “I was going to say the Boeing Galleries. I thought you hadn’t been there?”
“I haven’t, but everyone’s heard of the Pavilion and its architecture.”
I hadn’t known it was so renowned, but at least he doesn’t seem bored. “Alex told me about these statues at the galleries that looked like milk crates once. It sounds sufficiently bizarre enough to investigate.” She has been known to tease me about odd things like that, knowing I’ll never see them, wanting to get a reaction.
He slides a hand across my thigh, stopping my breath, on the way to seizing my hand in his. “You are delightfully expressive.”
A warmth crawls up my chest and I hope the blush doesn’t look as obvious as it feels. “What can I say, I’m an open book.” That’s a lie, though, since there are things about me I can’t tell him. Things I won’t tell him.
He smiles and turns to watch the city go by outside his window.
I do the same, casually checking him out in the weak reflection of my window until we get there.
A few people mill about the entrance, and we pay and make our way through the central promenade, stopping for a couple of sodas. Dylan’s thin zip-up hoodie covers most of his tattoos, but he still gets a few looks from people. Maybe he’s hiding behind the shades, rather than shutting people out. I’d hate to be stared at the way he is. Is it because of his ink that they gawk? Or because he’s so damn attractive?
Spontaneously, I take his hand, feeling a little protective of him. Also, a little bit of kinship. Whatever it is about him that causes the stares, the judging, it’s not something he seems comfortable with. I get that. It’s the way I feel when my father parades me around at his charity benefits, as if I’m the reason to donate or support a cause.
He looks down at our hands—even with the shades, the surprise is visible on his features—but his lips quirk in a little smile, and he gives my hand a little squeeze, somehow sending a spark through the innocent gesture.
He’s definitely not out of my system, even after the incredible night we spent together.
“You’re into architecture?” I ask, remembering his comment in the cab.
“Not really, though I do appreciate good acoustics.”
Something the pavilion is famous for, according to my brochure. “Do you go to a lot of concerts?”
He takes a long sip of soda. “Yes. You?”
“Not as many as I’d like.” And I imagine they’re not at all the kind of concerts Dylan goes too.
“Maybe you’ll have more time now that you’ve gotten your degree.”
“Things are going to change, but I can’t see myself drowning in free time. Only new obligations in a new city.” Only this time, I’ll know ever fewer people.
He swings my hand a little. “Yeah, I suppose getting to the top is only half the battle. Maintaining it is just as time consuming.”
He glances at the plaza, a small frown appearing at the size of the crowd milling about. I’m not a fan of noisy throngs either, so I don’t try to entice him toward the Cloud Gate.
I take my hand back, fiddling with my straw as a pretense, but mostly because I need autonomy for my next confession. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it.”
“The time?”
I keep my gaze on the ground in front of me. “Yeah. I’m getting something I’ve always wanted, but it sort of feels like maybe I had to give up a lot of myself to get it.”
“A trade off.” He says it in a way that tells me he gets it. I wonder if he has something similar he can relate too or if he just is that good at making a person feel understood.
But I’m not brave enough to ask. “Yes. A trade off. I know the grass is always greener on the other side, but sometimes I wonder who I’d be if I didn’t want this so badly. Didn’t give up so many hours of my life to the dedication it takes.”
We amble along a few more paces before he bumps his shoulder into mine. “Let’s play pretend. Let’s say you never wanted to be a musician. What would you have done?”
“I don’t even know.”
“You suck at this game.”
I snort. “Okay. I like to think I’d still be doing something in the arts, but I think the exact same thing would have happened if I’d chosen any other career in the arts. So, I guess in that vein, I’d be a florist and own my own shop.”
“Is that a metaphor? Stopping to smell the roses?” He seems to study me. “I could see you surrounded by flowers, arranging bouquets.”
“Can you?” I love the way he looks at me, the way he takes everything in behind his shades. I feel it even though I can’t see it. “It would be so relaxing. How could you ever get tired of being surrounded by flowers all day? And they make people happy.”
“You wouldn’t want to be someone famous or a doctor?”
“Nope. I care about the music, not the glory. As for the medical profession, I can’t stand needles. See this?” I tilt my head so he can see the tiny scar on my earlobe. “Seventh grade. Brooke Cunningham’s birthday party sleepover. The other girls thought it would be cool to pierce our own ears, and I went along with it. Peer pressure. I fainted after they did one ear and it ended up getting infected.”
He laughs. “Obviously I’m fine with needles.”
“Did the tattoos hurt? Machismo aside?”
He rubs his chest through his sweater, almost subconsciously. “Honestly, not really. It hurts more where the skin is thin, but it kind of just feels like scratching.”
I have a sudden wild desire to push my hands under his clothes and trace along his ink. Dig into him with my nails. To tattoo him with my touch.
Embarrassed by the thoughts, even though he doesn’t know them, I force myself back to the game. “What would you be, if you could do anything?”
“I’d be a doctor. Someone who makes a difference.”
I wish I could tell him he already makes a difference. He’s made a difference to me, anyway.
But that sounds trite and overly mushy. So I stay silent and just nod.
The south gallery path is bordered with planters a couple feet high separating the cement from small hills covered with shrubs and trees, making it feel more private than the busier spot by the plaza entrance.
Then I realize that I know nothing about his current career choice.
“What do you do now?” I ask.
“Nothing that makes a difference.” He’s dismissive, but I’m too curious. I’m about to push him when he points at the red and gold statue. “This is why I don’t understand art. Subjectivity doesn’t even come into it. It’s just weird.”
We walk past a few big, smooth lumps painted with different patterns. “I can’t disagree, but I think modern art’s supposed to be a metaphor.”
“For what?”
“For whatever you want it to be? I’ve always thought of it as Rorschach’s, in a way. Only the artist knows what they’re really meant to be about, but unless they tell us, we see what we want to see. They’re a reflection of ourselves. A way of connecting our subconscious and conscious minds.”
“Like horoscopes.”
Surprised, I turn to him. “You don’t believe in those either?”
He shakes his head. “They’re too broad. Anyone could connect with the vague generalizations.”
“That’s true. I hate astrology; I don’t like the idea of things being pre-ordained.”
“You don’t believe in fate?”
I shrug, hanging back until the couple with the stroller passes us. “The idea that no matter what we do, how hard we work, that ever
ything will end up a certain way we have no control over? I hate that idea. It takes the point out of everything.”
“You don’t think God answers prayers?”
I chew my straw, mulling it over. “It seems like a contradiction. If things are as God wants them to be, then prayer seems silly. If God knows your heart, he should know when something’s too much for you to bear and step in when you need it, no asking required. But I’d like that over the whole ‘everything’s already set in stone’ thing.”
“I like to think of it more like a journey with only the destination mapped out, not the route you take. We’re going to get from A to B to C, but are we going to fly? Walk? Crawl over broken glass making every bad choice along the way? I like having the freedom to get where I need to be on my own terms.”
“That’s an interesting take on things. I like it.”
“Thanks.”
I continue mulling over what he’s said. “Maybe there’s something to be said for the destinations being more set than the details. Sometimes it certainly feels like my choices are being made for me, pulling me along like it or not. Unexpected roadblocks.”
“Maybe they’re not roadblocks, they’re detours.” He gently spins me around.
I swallow. “Like you and me?”
A flock of tourists press close, noisily intruding on the moment.
With a surprising strength, Dylan hauls me up the side of one of the planters and pulls me behind a tree away from the walkway. “What are you doing?” I pick a twig out of my hair, surprised more than off-put..
“I just don’t want to share you.”
My heart thuds at his words, and I’m suddenly awkward and shy. “That’s silly. No one’s trying to steal me away. And if they do, maybe it was meant to be.” My joking fades at the look in his eyes.
“They’d better not. I can’t stop thinking about last night, Rachel.” His voice sends heat slamming through my bones, melting me from the inside out. “I pulled you off the path to do this.”
He presses me against the trunk of the tree and crushes his lips to mine with an urgency that makes me want to laugh in relief—because he feels it too, the insane electricity that’s been charging the air between us all day. Our tongues tangle, fingers thread together, squeezing tight, mirroring my nipples’ reaction to his chest pressed against mine.
Breathless, I break the kiss because if I don’t I might pass out here in the shade. Immeditately, I miss the warmth of his mouth against mine.
Dylan pulls me into a hug, surprisingly sweet after what just happened. “Come on. Let’s keep walking and see more of the weird art.”
“I have a better idea.”
It’s a half an hour walk, but I feel like I float the entire way there, strolling along in companionable silence with Dylan, laughing and pointing out things that are meaningless after the fact but seem funny at the time. None of it sticks with me, except for the company and the curve of his smile, the lines of his jaw.
The elevator is fast enough to make us both laugh with the rush it gives, sending our internal organs swooping toward the floor, but it only lasts for a minute. Over ninety floors up, shadows leave slashes of darkness that swallow strips of the light floor. A thin haze separates the light blue sky from the city below, but the sun blazes brilliantly through the oddly shaped windows that go from floor to ceiling and then some.
There’s no one else inside except for the operator. I hold my hands out dramatically. “Welcome to Tilt. Heard of it?”
Dylan smirks and removes his sunglasses. “It sounds like a bad club name. Drink enough tequila and the floor—”
“—tilts. Clever.”
“I like how we have the place to ourselves.”
The heat in his teal gaze gives me way too many ideas, so I take a few steps toward the window, reading from my phone as he follows. “Safely holding up to eight visitors at a time, Tilt offers unique views from one thousand feet up. It will change the way you see Chicago—forever.”
“I haven’t seen enough of Chicago to form an opinion, but whatever, I’m game. What…oh.” He steps forward through one empty line-up, framed by red velvet ropes.
It’s an additional charge to tilt, but I happily hand my money over, eager to challenge myself with something new.
Dylan touches my forearm, sending tingles up my shoulder. “Hang on a sec.” He heads to the operator and talks to him for a second. Turning back to the south facing window, I keep my gaze level, not wanting to look down until we’ve tilted and I can take in the full experience all at once. This was my idea, and I don’t want to be a wimp, but holy shit, we’re a thousand feet up and about to tip thirty degrees over the street.
The steel handles on either side of the window are warm from the sun and I grip them tightly.
“You ready?”
I startle at the sound of Dylan’s voice behind me, and crane my neck around to look at him when he places his hands just above mine and brackets my feet with his, pressing himself to my back. “I think you’re supposed to stand at your own window.”
He nuzzles my neck. “I’m fine here.”
“What are you doing?” My voice comes out annoyingly breathless.
“Breaking the rules.”
His lips on my skin force my eyes shut as I turn inward with pleasure, awareness shrinking to every point of contact between us, wishing we were somewhere alone and naked, all too aware of the fact that last time we were in front of a window, he was inside me.
Dylan rests his chin on my shoulder, face gently touching mine. “Rachel. Open your eyes.”
I didn’t even feel the floor move. Dylan’s already tilted my world and I’m not sure I want it to go back to seeing it how it was.
But I open my eyes. Everything is tiny below us; the city seems to curve at the edge like we’re staring down at a snow globe with no water, no snowflakes. A world is rushing by beneath our feet, completely unaware of us. My hands tighten on the handles, from excitement, not fear. Maybe it’s because of the way I want the scruffy badass pressed up against me, but right now, in this moment, nothing is scary except the thought of quietly going back to my quiet apartment alone.
“It’s amazing up here.”
The last thing on my mind is the view. “Yeah.” I nestle closer to him, grinding my ass against him, unable to stop even when he hisses air through his teeth and his cock grows hard between us. What’s he doing to me? How is he killing all sense of propriety and self-control?
“Come with me.” He seizes my hand and tugs me through the exit just as a crowd of people walk onto the deck to see Tilt. The operator’s busy taking cash from the new group to see us go through the door.
No alarm sounds, but it’s an emergency exit leading to a stairwell. “We shouldn’t—”
He shuts me up with his lips on my mouth and his hand under my skirt, between my legs, stroking me through my already wet panties. Then he’s thrusting a finger inside.
He swallows my gasp, and pulls back with a nip to my lower lip. “I need to taste you.”
Reason permeates the haze, a tiny pinprick of light through heavy velvet curtains of need. “We shouldn’t.”
His knees nudge my feet apart and he pushes me back so I’m leaning against the wall. “You’re right. We really shouldn’t.” Hot breath hits my inner thigh as he throws one of my legs over his shoulder and tugs my panties to the side. “You’re killing me with this little sweater and sensible shoes and soaking wet pussy. Such a contradiction.” With an agonizingly light touch, he strokes my cleft. “But you taste so fucking good, Rachel.” He swirls his tongue around my clit. “Tell me to stop, and I’ll stop.”
A thin moan sneaks past my lips. God, anyone could walk up these stairs; the operator has to have noticed we disappeared. How long until he comes in and busts us? We need to stop, I need to tell him to stop.
My hips rebel and urge Dylan to go faster, my hands wind into his hair and despite every ounce of common sense screaming at me to stop and cover up
, I fuck his face, grinding hard against the lapping of his tongue, that sexy, smirking mouth sucking me closer and closer to the edge of a place I’ve never been, writhing with adrenaline and knowing it’s wrong but helpless to stop.
Feels. So. Good.
He curls two fingers against my inner walls, pulsing against that spot right there.
I’m an engine on overdrive, metal scraping metal, burning hot, hotter, until everything tightens then flies apart with sparks singeing my mind. I come with his hand over my mouth, covering the sounds I’m unable to smother, breathing hard through my nose.
I nod and he takes his hand away from my mouth.
And then slides the fingers from his other hand out—and sucks the wetness I left on them. “Mmm.”
“Come home with me,” I demand in a voice that sounds nothing like my own.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
6
Once I’ve given the cab driver my address, my lips don’t leave Dylan. His neck, his jaw, his earlobe.
His mouth. Oh God, his mouth.
From the gentlest teasing of tongues to harsh scrapes of teeth, he claims me with his kisses, erasing the memory of everything I thought a kiss could be, obliterating every other kiss I’ve ever had. My body’s an instrument he’s playing a symphony of pleasure on. I’m too full of sensations swirling through my body, carrying me away.
The cab driver clears his throat, and I jump, realizing we’ve been parked for more than a couple seconds, but too flooded with hormones to muster requisite feelings of shame. Dylan flings some bills at the driver and pulls me from the car and up the steps to my apartment, his hands never stopping their roving across my body the whole time.
It takes me three tries to get the key in the lock because his lips on the back of my neck short circuit my central nervous system and make it nearly impossible to do anything but stand there with my eyes closed.
We make it to the first floor landing before we’re all over each other again. My hands search for the skin of his chest; his hands squeeze my ass and pull me closer, trapping my arms between us, but I don’t need arms to kiss him or grind against his cock.
Long Ball: A Secret Baby Sports Romance Page 19
