Vibrato

by Tamara Mataya

  BREAKFAST WITH DYLAN ran late—syrup tastes sweeter when it’s licked from his fingertips—and then I had to stop at home to change and grab another scarf—I couldn’t find mine. But I kept Dylan’s shirt on underneath my cardigan, a secret thrill against my skin I treasure while in the cab, wallowing in memories of last night.

  I’m still shivering when the cab pulls up to the practice hall. With the pit stop at home, I rush into practice out of breath in the nick of time.

  My second day, an oboist got a blistering rebuke for being three minutes late, and I’m not eager to receive the same. I’m not the last one to take my seat, but Blaine’s already in position, waiting with barely hidden annoyance. He conveys so much irritation with only his body language I have to suppress a giggle, turning my head as though looking at my heel.

  If he only knew what had held me up....

  “How does it feel?”

  “Like I’m yours.”

  “Hey.” Paul leans closer, killing the remembered fantasy of Dylan, keeping his voice low so only I can hear. “Glad you made it. I’d hate to have gotten in trouble your first week because I kept you out too late and you played hooky.” He raises his eyebrows and I smile in response, happy to aim my mirth at a less volatile target than Blaine, but also glad that my turning Paul down for a date hasn’t made things uncomfortable between us.

  If only he knew the hooky I played last night. “No one would have believed you. A couple of stuffy cellists hanging around at a rock concert?” I pretend to clutch a necklace and look scandalized when I sort of want to laugh. If I laugh, Blaine will go livid. But if he knew how unstuffy I was last night, begging for Dylan to be inside me everywhere, how big would his eyes get? Which makes me want to laugh more. “We could probably get away with murder.” I tent my fingers.

  Paul gives the room a shifty-eyed gaze. “I wonder how far we could push this life of scandal. Facial tattoos?”

  “Drag racing.”

  “Jewel heists!” He smirks along with me, but we snap to attention when Blaine speaks, lest he unleash his ire upon us.

  “Thanks to those of you who were on time.” Blaine paces in front of his podium. “Today, I want to go over the third movement. Some of you may not have played a piece this difficult before, but I challenge you to dig deeper. This is about passion—and I know you’ve all got that or you wouldn’t be here. I’ll reach inside you and tear the emotions from your bodies if I have to. Meet me halfway and make it easy on yourselves.”

  I close my eyes for a moment, listening to the opening measures before watching Blaine for our cue.

  Every note reminds me of Dylan. The growl of my bow against the strings. Every quiver of sound bowed from my cello, turning it into a living thing. Dylan brought similar sensations from my body, bringing forth beautiful reactions, a delicate dance of sound and fury and pleasure that arches my back even now.

  I touch the strings the way Dylan touched me. I pretend I’m him laying his hands on me, whipping me higher, taking things deeper, farther than I’ve known. My cello becomes me. I become Dylan. I play the fucking shit out of it.

  Still humming physically from last night, I play better than I ever have, like last night unlocked something passionate and primal, giving me access to skills only available to those with life sparking inside of them.

  A few people around me nod, having noticed my efforts, as we finish up and get to our feet, eager to get moving after Blaine’s fifteen minute long speech about Friday’s event and the expectations of us all trap us in our seats. I find it hard to care, knowing there’s an alpha rock star waiting for me in a gorgeous hotel room as Blaine drones on with a surly expression. The acceptance radiating from the other musicians is extremely gratifying, though.

  I gather my sheet music and stand, stretching my calves, which only further reminds me of every muscle’s ache and how I earned those sexy pains last night. Who I earned them with. What’s Dylan going to do to me next? I want to play for him, I suddenly decide.

  I’ve seen him play before, but he’s never heard me.

  “Can I see you in my office?” Blaine’s voice is startlingly close, and I turn to face him, noting no one else is around. Paul gives a quick sympathetic smile before walking out the door, leaving me alone with Maestro.

  This man is in control of my career—my future. I give what I hope is a genuine smile. “Sure.”

  Luckily it’s a short walk, but the cello doesn’t make it any less awkward. Blaine doesn’t offer to carry my instrument, but he opens his door for me and waves me to a seat.

  He stands, leaning against the front of his desk close to me. If someone walked in it wouldn’t be compromising, but people might talk. As he’s planned it. Maestro leaves nothing to chance.

  He sighs and runs his fingers through his glossy, dark hair. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  God. He knows. Someone saw Dylan and I together and—but maybe this is a bluff? I frown. “What do you mean?”

  “I know where you were last night.” The bottom falls out from under me even though I’m sitting. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You realize Paul thinks he has a chance with you now.”

  The only thing stopping me from laughing with relief is the realization that he knows part of what happened last night. How? Is he following me? Is this the only ‘gotcha’ of the conversation, or the first of many? I swallow the paranoia back along with the denials. If he knows, he knows. Lying will only piss him off, so I shrug one shoulder and aim for casual.

  “I went to a concert with a friend. Paul knows there’s no chance.”

  His eyes don’t buy it, but after a moment he sighs. “Make certain he knows you aren't available. In the future, you can't be going to things like rock concerts,” he says it with disdain, “alone with a man. Even if Paul doesn't think you're interested, other people will make assumptions.”

  That’s true enough. “I understand.”

  “You're not backing out on our deal, are you? Because I know a bunch of other people who'd do anything to have your spot in this symphony. I can show you the waiting list.”

  Fear, but also annoyance surge through me. He may hold my future in his hands, but he doesn’t own me. “Of course I’m not backing out.” I force a smile. “We’re both getting everything we ever wanted, right?”

  “Good.” His gaze softens. “Everything I’m doing, pushing you, it’s for the best for your future and for mine. I’ve only got your best interests in mind.”

  “I know.”

  He nods. “Next Friday then.”

  “Next Friday.” I stand and hurry to the door.

  “Rachel.” His voice hits my back when I touch the knob.

  I turn back with a bland smile. “Yes?”

  “Good playing today. Whatever you’re doing, keep it up.”

  “Thanks.” I stride from the room, grinning at his praise and for the dirty, wrong reasons that helped me earn it. Oh, Dylan is bad, but he’s so good at it. Turns out, it’s not completely bad for me either. Wrangling my cello toward the exit, I call for a cab—a van—so I can bring my cello back to Dylan’s hotel with me on the date I really shouldn’t be going on but wouldn’t miss for the world.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I still have the key, but I knock before entering his room.

  Dylan’s perched on one of the small couches, and he tosses his phone aside when I walk in. He eyes my cello case. “Am I going to get a private show?”

  “If you want one.” I blush.

  “You probably don’t even understand why that’s a dirty thing to say. ‘Private show.’”

  He’s right, but I don’t like him bringing up my naivety. It only highlights our differences, reminding me of things I’d rather forget. I shake my head and remove my scarf, feeling hot with embarrassment.

  The ease with which he hops to his feet makes me wonder if he’s had martial arts training. “Are you wearing my t-shirt under that sexy little sweater and long, shapeless skirt?”
<
br />   I prop my cello case against a nearby chair. “It’s not shapeless, it’s a maxi skirt. And yes, I’m wearing your shirt. You think it’s sexy?” I pluck at the light pink knitted fabric of my cardigan.

  He prowls into my space. “It’s like you’re my very own naughty librarian.”

  I shiver, eager to play along as his hands land on my hips. “Are you going to check me out?”

  “I’m going to eat you out.”

  Dirty talk probably works better when your partner doesn’t kill your brain power by turning you on too much. I open and close my mouth a few times, feeling like a fish.

  Or maybe it’s working just fine.

  He groans and lays his forehead against mine, closing his eyes. “God, I love that about you.”

  I swallow hard, mouth dry with wanting. “What do you love?” I whisper, desperate to know what it is about me that this man finds irresistible.

  “You’re a contradiction.”

  “How?”

  He cups my ass and nuzzles my neck. “You debate music with me and know your shit—probably knowing more about the technicalities of it than I ever will. You don’t let me push you around. But I can make you blush and stammer with one tiny sentence.” He bites my neck and chuckles when I moan. “And that. You’re a good girl, Rachel, but you love it when it gets a little rough. You’re a pristine, conservative, classical musician, but you beg me to do raunchy things with you in bed. You like it dirty.”

  “I do. With you.”

  “You’re dying for me to do things to you, then you’re so shocked that you like them. The surprise on your face is so fucking hot it makes me want to go further, do more shocking things to see how far you’ll let me go.”

  All the way in every way. That’s how far I’d let him go. No end.

  He yanks my plain, black, maxi skirt up, smiling when he discovers another secret. “Do you even have limits, Rachel?” He kneels in front of me, taking a long lick at my clit—instantly accessible to him because when I got dressed at home, I didn’t put on any panties.

  He sucks my labia into his mouth and somehow this feels like one of the dirtiest things anyone’s done to me.

  I wanted this, needed this.

  I’ve been wet since before I opened the door, and his fingers easily penetrate, both relieving some of the pent up ache I’ve carried since leaving him a few hours ago—and making it worse, making me want so much more. It’s the most frustrating pleasure I’ve ever felt and my God, “Please don’t stop.”

  He doesn’t, not until I’m squirming against his tongue, legs almost giving out, then he scoops me up and carries me to the bedroom, gaze devastating mine every step of the way.

  After laying me on the bed, he removes my clothes, unhurriedly, one piece at a time until I’m naked, then strips his off. He grabs a condom and puts it on while facing me, then crawls over my body. His hips spread my thighs wider, and I wrap my arms around him, barely breathing.

  He brushes my hair back from my face. “You know what else I love? I know it isn’t, but everything feels like it’s your first time, which makes it feel like mine too. Everything’s new with you. You breathe life into my life again.”

  Before the astonishment of his words wears off, he pushes inside me, stealing any response from my lips and mind, staring deep into my eyes the whole time. This time, he’s not rough, not trying to prove a point or claim me. This time his hands cradle me, his hips take their time drawing his thick cock in and out, maximizing every inch.

  This time the connection feels more intimate, more emotional than anything else. Walls come down in his gaze, drawing me inside. Behind Dylan’s passion is a man who cares. Truly, deeply, intensely. All he’s ever wanted is to be understood. To be matched. For someone to hear the things he’s trying to say with his music, and respond in kind, be there for him the way he longs to be there: Fully present in every moment. Not caring about consequences, or other people’s expectations, or pausing to be self-conscious. He devours life with no regrets. No fear. That’s the way he makes me feel when I’m with him.

  I gasp and run my hand down his face, smiling when he nuzzles harder against it. It’s like getting to pet a man-eating tiger and escaping unscathed. Not taming it, because he never will be, but being acknowledged as worthy, as the same.

  His hands pull my knees out and up, and he slips my ankles over his shoulders, nudging new, deeper places. I brace against the headboard when he reaches down and rubs my clit, and my breasts bounce with every thrust.

  His gaze finally leaves mine, flickering down to my chest and back.

  “Do it,” I urge him.

  His hips go wild, fucking me harder than he ever has, cock thickening further, dilated eyes impossibly soft.

  I could love him.

  I barely know him.

  I know his heart.

  I drop my legs and pull him close, knocking his hand away, but grinding against the base of his shaft. His rhythm never falters, not even when he wraps his arms tightly around me as well, and we hold each other as close as we can, tight enough to hurt, but unable to stop.

  Hot pleasure ripples through me. The release shakes heat through my body, making me arch beneath him, coming so hard it steals my voice.

  He comes with a deep groan, a sharp inhale through clenched teeth, twitching inside me.

  Neither of us let go, not even when our breathing evens out. Finally, he pulls back enough to kiss me.

  I decorate the smooth skin of his back with meaningless patterns drawn with my fingertips. “I want to take you somewhere.”

  “You just did.”

  I smile. “Never thought I’d say this, but Dylan St. John, put your pants on.”

  I PULL OUT THE KEYS to the concert hall, pride that I can do this mingling with fear we’ll get caught as I unlock the door. At his insistence, Dylan carries my cello inside. It’s cute and makes me feel like he’s my boyfriend carrying my notebooks home. I lock the door behind us again. Maestro gave the keys to me so I can practice whenever I want—one of the conditions of our arrangement.

  I take Dylan’s free hand, leading him through the darkness the way I already know by heart, flicking on the lights when we reach backstage and leading him out onto it.

  Dylan sets my cello down and spins in a slow circle, taking in the large, empty hall, and the stage cleared of everything but a grand piano. “How did you get the keys to this place?”

  The truth is simplest. “Maestro gave me a set.”

  Dylan wanders over to the piano, grabbing a copy of this season’s program left on the seat. He flips to the back where there’s a picture of Blaine with his message about the upcoming season. “Is this your conductor?”

  I nod.

  “Tell me about him.”

  Talking about Blaine with Dylan feels strange. “He’s poised to be the youngest man to ever take over as director as well as conduct. He’s got perfect pitch.”

  Dylan sits on the piano bench and flicks the brochure. “Overachiever. That’s a resume. Tell me who he is, what he’s like.”

  “He’s intense. He doesn’t look at you, he analyzes you, finding weaknesses and strength, bringing out the best playing in everyone. He’s where he is because he’s a hard worker, not because he got a break.”

  “You admire that.”

  “I do.” I smile. “It also helps forgive the times he cracks down on us and demands perfection.”

  Dylan squints at me. “He’s good-looking as well.”

  I shrug, not denying it. “So?”

  “He wants to fuck you,” Dylan says.

  “So?” Because I can’t really refute it. I’m obliged not to.

  “So, I don’t like it.” He scowls like a kid and my heart soars. “What about that other asshole?”

  “What asshole?” Who is he talking about?

  His hands land in an angry E chord, sending the notes washing over me and the stage. “The one you were at my concert with. The one who stared at you like he wanted to eat
you.”

  “Paul?”

  “Yeah.” He sneers. “Paul. The douche with the micro-ponytail.”

  “He’s not a douche.”

  “His facial hair speaks for itself. How do you know him?”

  “He’s a cellist.” I open my cello case, grab a chair, and start playing along with the chords he’s unleashing. A short burst of laughter tears itself from my throat. “He drives a smart car.”

  Dylan shakes his head. “What do you see in that guy?”

  “Nothing.”

  His head pops up in surprise, but he smiles and keeps playing, holding things steady in three-quarter time while I weave everything together around him. His melody isn’t complicated. He’s not great at it, but he’s good. The chords he chooses and fits together are interesting, unexpected but they work. He plays the opening to ‘Ground You Down,’ a song from his first album, and I take the lead, playing notes he normally sings before we veer off into something else. Something darker, more primal.

  Our gazes lock as we improvise a duet. We make a good pair musically as well as—it doesn’t matter. But try as I might to focus only on the music, every note we play melds in a way that builds pleasure inside me again. Making music with him is a new kind of foreplay.

  It’s building inside him too; I can feel it in the notes.

  His hands move faster; so do mine.

  His gaze burns hotter; so do I.

  I set my cello down and stalk over to him as our final notes shimmer in the air and fade, leaving us with only the sounds of our elevated breathing. I don’t know if he thinks Blaine and I are fucking, or going to, but Dylan’s so wound up, I want him to relax and go back to being playful like before. I’m also so freaking turned on right now I want him to come in my mouth.

  He spins on the bench to meet me, and I kneel in front of him and fumble for the button of his jeans.

  “I didn’t bring a condom,” Dylan says, regret paining his features.

  I smile. “This is about you. You and my mouth.”

  “Right here?” The way he bites his lip makes me wet. Fine, wetter.