When we pass through the opening into the swirl of people, Lauren waves at us from a corner, a wide smile on her face, and Charlie heads straight for her. They hug, and Charlie says, “You made it. Great. I’m so happy you’re here.”
The words are simple, but they seem to convey some deeper meaning to Lauren that I don’t catch. She gives Charlie a sympathetic smile and pats her arm. “It’ll be fine. Don’t worry. Have you seen Jonathan and Gabby yet? I know they’d love to see you.” She lifts her gaze to include me. “Both of you.”
“Not yet. We literally just walked in. Where are they?” Charlie presses up on her tiptoes, looking around.
They start weaving through the crowd, leaving me to follow behind. Gabby squeals when she sees Charlie and Lauren walk up side by side, with me a step behind. A genuine smile crosses Charlie’s face as Gabby throws her arms around her neck, giving her a big hug and rocking them back and forth.
When she steps back, she keeps her hands on Charlie’s arms. “I’m so glad you made it. Even though you RSVPed, I was worried you’d back out.” Her gaze flicks to me. “And Damian. I’m glad you could come. I wasn’t sure how many of my Marycliff friends would make it.”
I hold out a hand for her to shake, but she steps past it and wraps me in a hug too. I fold my arms around her for a quick hug, and she steps back, her smile radiant. “Congratulations,” I say.
Jonathan gives Charlie an even bigger hug than Gabby. “Thanks for coming. It wouldn’t be the same without you here.”
That statement has me tilting my head to the side in confusion, but before I can figure out what he means by that, Lauren’s chattering about her flight and asking about mine and Charlie’s and what floor we’re staying on.
I let Charlie field her questions while I offer my hand to Jonathan. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” He nods, giving my hand a firm shake. “And thanks for coming. I know Gabby was hoping some of her friends from school could make it.”
“We’re happy we could come.” We lapse into silence, and I stuff my hands into my pockets, feeling out of my depth, and wondering about the extent of the relationship between Jonathan and Charlie. She’s mentioned that she knows him before, but she made it sound like a passing acquaintance. But with the way both Gabby and Jonathan greeted her, it seems like more than that.
“So, how long have you and Charlie known each other?”
Jonathan gives me a surprised look. Before he can answer, Charlie’s arm wraps around my waist. “Oh, Jonathan and I met when he was touring with Brash years ago. We’ve seen each other off and on over the years. Right, Jonathan?”
“Uh, right.” His eyes dart between Charlie and me, making me wonder what she’s not telling me, because there’s obviously more to this story. He cocks his head at her, and she molds her lips into that weird smile.
Then she looks up at me, and it morphs into something more genuine. “Come on. Let’s go get drinks. I’ll introduce you around to a few other people I know here.”
Not waiting for me to answer, she starts pulling me toward the bar. I go with her, casting a glance back at Lauren, Gabby, and Jonathan, whose eyes follow us as we move away.
Chapter Thirty
Cadenza: a solo section, usually in a concerto or similar work, that is used to display the performer’s skill and artistry
Charlie
“What do you want to drink? They have a signature cocktail for the party, but you can get liquor or beer or whatever you want. They have some good local craft beers here. Or wine. I think I’ll have a cocktail.”
My nonstop talking about drinking seems to provide enough of a distraction, because Damian’s expression changes from confusion to bemusement. “Have you been spending more time talking to Gabby than I realized? Has she rubbed off on you that quickly?”
I laugh, and it’s a little too bright, an edge of hysteria tingeing it, but I manage to rein it in. He has no idea. I’ve spent a lot more time with Gabby than he realizes. She and I even talk on the phone every once in a while. Not as much as she talks to Lauren. As far as Damian knows, though, we don’t talk at all.
Damian gives me a quizzical look at my crazed laughter, but I shake my head and bite my lip.
Before I can blather on about more drink selections, we’ve reached the bar, and a tall man with dark hair and a neatly trimmed goatee in a white Oxford shirt and sage green vest approaches. “What can I get you?”
“The signature cocktail for me,” I put in, masterfully tamping down my panic. I glance around, scanning the room for safe people to talk to and people to be sure to avoid. Or avoid letting anywhere near Damian. Given the fact that I’m also trying to keep my own identity under wraps, I need to be careful who I talk to, too. Enough words to be recognizable to the wrong person, and my new life is blown wide open.
Like Selena over there, who’s sweet and friendly, but far too much of a blabbermouth. She’s talking to Gabby and Jonathan right now.
And there’s Sam, one of the guys my mom and my publicist had me date for a while to boost his career. I was pimped out so his publicist would owe us a favor later. He was nice enough, but a little self-obsessed. And not too bright.
Damian’s arm slips around my waist again, and he has a tall, slim glass in his hand filled with amber liquid, a slice of lime floating in it. He nods his head in the opposite direction from where I was looking. “There’s Tamara and Zeke. Want to go say hi?”
“Oh! Sure. I didn’t realize they were coming.”
Even though there are a few people I feel safe talking to and being myself, the entire party is exhausting. Keeping my guard up, being careful not to say too much to the wrong person, making sure to need a refill or use the restroom or make some excuse to leave a conversation if someone who’s likely to recognize me wanders over is draining. And has Damian casting me concerned looks off and on.
Finally, after what feels like forever, he wraps his arms around me from behind, drops a kiss on my bare shoulder and whispers in my ear, “I’m tired. How much longer do we have to stay before it’s okay to leave without being rude?”
I turn my head to look up at him, and he kisses my mouth. “I think we’re safe. How tired are you?”
His eyes flash, and the corners of his mouth tilt up. “Not that tired.”
He takes the water glass out of my hand and sets it on one of the trays on a stand conveniently located throughout the room. His arm around my waist, he guides me through the people between us and the door. We nod politely at a few people, but Damian is moving like a man on a mission, and no one tries to strike up a conversation. Probably because we’re nobodies as far as many of these people are concerned. As such, if we want something from them, we can open the conversation. Otherwise, without an introduction, they have no reason to engage.
When we’re back in the room, Damian’s hand finds mine, but he doesn’t thread our fingers together. Instead, he lifts my hand over my head and guides me into a spin with his other hand around my waist, causing my skirt to twirl out.
When he stops me, crushing my body to his, he smiles down at me. “I’ve been wanting to do that all night. You have to wear this the next time we go dancing.”
“Oh? When’s that going to be?”
“Next week? The week after? I don’t care. But right now, I want you out of this dress. So I can do the other thing I’ve been wanting to do since this morning.”
“And what’s that?”
His mouth claims mine, his kiss hard and fierce while his fingers find the zipper and slowly pull it down.
Yes. This. This is what we need to get us back on even footing. To reconnect and recharge. Especially after all the stress of juries and finals and traveling and then tonight and all its crazy. I know Damian was wondering what the deal is with Jonathan and me. And I’ll tell him. Just not now.
Now is the time for us. For feeling. For being. Not for hashing out the past and the future based on one, admittedly rather significant, detail that I’
ve neglected to tell him.
Thankfully I skated by without anyone recognizing me. When I agreed to come, I had no idea how hard this would be. At industry parties, I’m used to wearing my Charlotte James persona, my Charlotte James clothes, my Charlotte James makeup. Here, I’m Charlie. But it’s an industry party.
The clash of my two worlds is fucking with my head.
Damian’s hands part the fabric of my dress and slide the straps down my arms, the only things anchoring me to reality. His lips ghost over my cheek, my jaw, my neck, following the path of my dress down my body. The plunging V-shaped back that mimics the cut of the front means I didn’t wear a bra, and my nipples stand at attention as his tongue circles one and then the other.
My dress hangs off my hips, and Damian’s on his knees in front of me, his mouth on my breasts, his hands on the bare skin of my sides, holding me in place. But I want them lower. I want my dress gone.
Reaching around his arms, I shimmy my hips a little and push the dress the rest of the way off, letting it flounce down around my feet with a whoosh of air.
Damian sits back on his heels, his hands still on my hips, my nipples wet and hard and shiny without his mouth on them anymore.
Next I start pushing down the lacy boy shorts I wore tonight, but Damian takes over, his fingers hooking into the elastic fabric and slowly peeling them off. While he’s occupied with my panties, I carefully remove his glasses, then mine, folding them and setting them on the desk next to me.
My panties are now around my ankles. “Step out,” Damian orders, his voice husky, “but leave the heels on.”
My eyebrow quirks up. This is new. But I do as he says.
He smirks at me, his lust-dark eyes clearly visible without the barrier of his glasses. “I like having you a little taller. You can take them off later.”
I nod my agreement, stepping to the side closer to the bed. Damian stands and strips off his clothes, bending over his suitcase and straightening up with a condom packet in hand that he tosses on the bed behind me.
He steps closer, close enough that my breasts graze his chest when I breathe, devouring me with his gaze. His hand skims over my arm, cupping my neck, tipping my head back. When he bends to kiss me, it’s not as far as normal, my heels lifting me just enough that I don’t have to arch back much to feel his body against mine.
Reaching between us, I grip his shaft, giving it a squeeze and a slow pump. He pushes his hips into my hand and deepens our kiss, his fingers gripping my neck to hold me in place. His other hand skims down my back, his fingertips grazing along my spine, up and down, up and down, slowly moving toward my side until I ache for him to touch me somewhere more intimate. My breasts, my buttocks, my inner thighs. Somewhere.
I squeeze him tighter, pressing my chest against his, and he lifts his head, gazing down at me as his hands come to my breasts, gently cupping, squeezing, moving until my nipples are framed by his thumbs and index fingers. He closes them, pinching my nipples, rubbing them, and I arch my back more, offering myself up to him with a gasp. “Yes.”
He lowers to his knees again, his hands never leaving me, and his tongue darts out to flick over my nipples, still trapped between his thumbs and fingers.
As he descends, he places light kisses down my torso, finally releasing my breasts so his hands can slide to my hips. Wordless, he guides me, the same kind of pressure he uses to lead when dancing. And I respond as easily, taking tiny steps back until my legs make contact with the bed, sinking down.
“All the way,” he murmurs. “Lay back.”
I slide my arms behind me, going down on my elbows, then dropping all the way to my back like he asked. His hands slide down my thighs, cupping my legs behind my knees, lifting and spreading them, opening me to him. He nuzzles his way along my thigh until he reaches my center, dragging his nose across the soft skin of my inner thigh, placing a reverent kiss on my mound.
He pauses, his hot breath fanning over the aching apex of my thighs. It’s not until I lift my head and make eye contact that he licks me, long and slow, like the first taste of an ice cream cone on a blazing July day. His eyes hold mine as he does it again. And again.
It’s a slow buildup, and he savors me with each lick.
This. This is what it means for a man to make love to you with his mouth.
His oral skills have improved since the first time, not that he was bad then, but now it’s like all the times before were practice. The oral equivalent of scales and etudes in preparation for the masterpiece. And this. This is his masterpiece.
Soon, I can’t hold my head up anymore. I have to lay back and close my eyes to relish the slow build of arousal, gasping when he spears his tongue inside me then drags it up to my clit where he draws tiny circles. He varies what he’s doing, keeping me writhing, clawing at the plush comforter, digging my heels into his back, my legs now over his shoulders.
His fingers plunge inside me, and he sucks my clit into his mouth, never letting up on the pressure until I shatter with a scream.
His smile is triumphant as he rises over me, propping himself on his arms and lowering his mouth to mine. I cup his cheeks, not wanting to let go of this kiss, needing to feel him around me. He slides his arms under me, holding me against him, and my arms slide around him as well. My legs wrap around his narrow hips, my ankles hooking together to hold him in place. The only thing missing is him filling me.
Slowly, he lays me back down on the bed, his hands sliding along my legs until they come to my ankles, which he disconnects before reaching for the condom. Taking a step back, he tears it open and rolls it on, his eyes still roaming my body.
“Turn over.” It’s that same sexy, commanding voice from before. Normally we have more of a give and take, asking and answering, leading and following each other to find out what we both want, both need.
But this? This is a different side of Damian, where he takes control and doesn’t relinquish it. I like it just as much now as the first time.
I roll over, my hips still on the edge of the bed, so now I’m bent forward.
His hands slide up my back and down again to my ass. I straighten my legs, arching my back, and he lets out an appreciative grunt, the head of his penis sliding between my thighs. He grips my buttocks, pulling them apart for a better view, and lines himself up at my entrance. With my heels on, he only has to bend his knees a little to notch his head against my opening. His hands go to my hips again, and I push back onto him, reclaiming a little control.
He gives a low hum of pleasure and meets my stroke with a thrust of his own, embedding himself all the way inside me. Pulling back, he pushes inside slowly again. And this time I let him set the pace, enjoying letting him have control.
His fingers dig into my hips as he starts moving faster, and I arch more, giving myself over to him completely. That spurs him on, and he bends over me, his chest connecting with my back, his hands sliding down my arms to thread his fingers through mine. We clutch the comforter together as he presses me down, keeping his pace unbearably steady, each thrust pushing me closer to a second orgasm. He pushes up slightly, gaining more leverage, and I pant with pleasure at the change of angle.
“God, I love you, Charlie. Come with me. Please.”
My body can’t refuse his request. I detonate, my fingers tightening around his even more as my whole body shudders with pleasure. He calls out my name, trembling with the power of his own orgasm and collapsing on top of me.
I pull his hand to my mouth, pressing a gentle kiss on the back of it. He releases my other hand, slides his arm beneath me, and rolls us to the side, hugging me to him. His weight anchors me to the bed, just like his presence anchors me to reality. I pull our joined hands across my front, wrapping myself in him, turning my head to brush light kisses against every part of him I can reach—his hand, his arm, his shoulder. I want him to feel—to know to the depths of his soul—how much I love him. I need to anchor those feelings to his body, so that when I finally tell him everything, I
’ll be able to remind him of this. These feelings. This reality. So that he won’t doubt the truth of us.
Chapter Thirty-One
Hemiola: the imposition of a pattern or rhythm of articulation other than that implied by the time signature, specifically use of simple duplets in a compound meter
Damian
“Aren’t you lucky?” a voice says at my shoulder.
I turn to see a guy standing next to me with slightly too long brown hair that he brushes out of his eyes. “I’m sorry?”
He gives me a bemused smile and tilts his head to where Charlie is talking with Gabby, radiant in her simple cream wedding dress. We’re at the reception. The wedding was simple and sweet. The prelude and processional music was played by an eclectic quartet of violin, viola, guitar, and piano—local friends of theirs. It was a little unusual, but it worked, much like Jonathan and Gabby’s relationship. They each had two attendants—Gabby’s sister and Lauren as bridesmaids and Jonathan’s two brothers as groomsmen.
Unlike my sister’s wedding, their ceremony didn’t last long, and we’ve been at the reception for over an hour now. All the obligatory moments have been documented by a cadre of professional photographers—the first dance, the father-daughter dance, the mother-son dance, and the cake cutting, where they fed each other small bites and licked the frosting off each other’s fingers instead of smashing it in each other’s faces. Now, everyone is eating cake, people are dancing, alcohol’s been flowing freely, but not for long enough to do more than make everything looser and fun.
And apparently make this random guy start talking to me. I shake my head, giving him a confused look.
He huffs out a laugh. “You’re here with Charlotte James.” He blatantly looks me over. “How’d you manage that, anyway? No one’s seen her in months, and now here she is on your arm. Who are you?”
Broken Chords (Songs and Sonatas Book 4) Page 18
