Want (Ryder Brothers Book 2)

by Kayti McGee

  Jake is all but making out with his mic. It’s pretty hot, I have to say. Nick’s always the one people think of as a performer, that man loves the stage. Jake’s shows with his touring band are low-key affairs.

  It occurs to me that one of these days, it’ll be me in the booth doing the soundtrack for our show.

  I mean, I don’t sing nearly as much as the rest of the cast, having been cast far more for my dance skills than my singing ones, but I’m still going to get to be in there. I picture it. My head tipped up and eyes closed. My mic to make out with. It’s hard for me to think about that future without thinking about the fact that I’ll also be with Richard at that point.

  I’m not ready.

  Not just because I still haven’t done the big deed, but because nothing about the overly-slick producer who slid a life-changing contract over to me inspires the sense of safety, the sense of wonder, that my best friend does. I simply cannot imagine an experience with Richard being so all-encompassing, cannot imagine getting swept away by sensation given to me by a man with a fake tan.

  And didn’t Jake warn me about that straight away?

  Things start to slow down production-wise when Jake and his producer disagree on takes and directions.

  “You need another harmony,” his producer says, not for the first time. Jake waves his hand, blowing Greg off, also not for the first time.

  “It maybe needs another guitar line but I know when it needs another harmony. Let’s do another take, I’m going to layer in some minor chords.”

  I’m not getting tired of hearing these songs and every time he sings a verse there’s something new in his voice, some aspect of the melody or the rhythm I hadn’t noticed before. His muscles flex with the new guitar line, his body exerting effort to release it from his brilliant mind. We do it again, with another go at the chorus. I say “we” because damn skippy I’m doing as much as Boomer lets me.

  This is fun as hell. Besides, if all my careful plans fail, it’s good to have backup skills. My student loans sure aren’t paying themselves off.

  Jake’s biceps thicken and bulge as he reaches up to grip the headphones, letting the guitar hang loose on its strap. When he closes his eyes and sings it reminds me of when his eyes were closed last night as I went down on him, and there is a way that his breathing shifts when he’s coming off a high note that is very similar to what he did just before he came and oh yeah I could totally go again right here and right now.

  Maybe he could too, and that’s why he’s singing like that, all makey-out-y as he croons.

  You got me humming before I know the words. You’re the one I’m leaning towards. You’re the one I’m leaning towards.

  I’m jolted out of my studio-sex fantasies when Jake’s speaking voice comes back through my head phones.

  “Hey guys, I’m gonna just goof around for a while to try to puzzle through this song. Let’s call it a day. I’m not paying you to watch me be self-indulgent.”

  Boomer and the producer each give me their cards and tell me to keep in touch with them about my show’s specifics and it occurs to me that when everything works out with Richard, that maybe I can have some sway on how things get done and where and how we record after all. See, power. I like it.

  I wave as they pack up and turn back to Jake. He’s messing with his guitar again, toned forearms giving me all the sex thoughts again. His gaze pierces me, studying my body.

  When the outer door shuts and we’re finally alone, he says, “Take those headphones off. Come join me in here.”

  As I join him his strumming has shifted to short hard strokes and he knocks a beat on the edge of the guitar steady and insistent. It’s sexy and catchy and I try to watch him at first but then I can’t help wanting to move.

  A good beat has always made my body move independently of my brain.

  I roll my hips and rub my hands down my thighs and he starts to riff to that, moving his fingers on the neck of the guitar the way he rolled his fingers over me last night. I dance to the movement of his fingers too and watch the notes shift in response. This is like a whole new style of collaboration, like we’re inventing our own little world, creating it around us.

  The beat from him becomes halting. He stops and adjusts his tuning, showing off that near-perfect pitch. I keep moving to my own rhythm and I see him focus in on my hips until he finds it again. I move in synch to his music, winding down to the floor and back up slowly. He adjusts again and I see the muscles in his arms contracting like they did in the limo, a flush rising up his neck and I know he’s hard.

  I know what to do about that.

  I lower all the way down to my hands and knees and slowly crawl-dance toward him. It’s a total Britney moment, which feels apropos for seducing a former boy-bander. He keeps playing, sliding his fingers down the frets hitting higher and higher notes, watching me seriously.

  I slide my hands up the back of his calves and then around his guitar and up the front of his thighs. I brush my lips against his fingers as they strum and look up at him. He continues and I like feeling the rhythm of him playing against my lips. Finally, he moves the guitar away.

  I see the clear evidence of what I’ve done to him swelling against his pants, and I rub my hand on it. He groans but doesn’t move and I take that to mean I should keep going. I put my mouth over his rock-hard erection, play-sucking through his clothes as I start to get into his pants. He shifts so I can more easily take him out and his cock feels hot and heavy in my hands already. I look in his eyes as I lick the very tip and am about to take him all in when he stops me.

  “Let’s try something new,” he says and moves my hand back onto his shaft. For just a moment I feel shy again. Holding him like this feels more intimate somehow than when my throat opened for him.

  I gently squeeze my hand around him and really take in the sensations—his heat, the silky skin on my palm, smooth on the outside with a steel core. This will be inside me one of these days, and I can already tell it’s going to be earth-shaking.

  His mouth parts a little as he takes my hand and glides it down to the base of his balls.

  “Does it feel good if I touch them?” I ask. “Honestly I’ve sort of been hoping to play with them because even you must admit they are really, really weird, like even just the concept—” He cuts me off.

  “Marlee, stop rambling and go for it,” he says. Well, okay then. I cradle them in my hands, full and hot. I cup them for a moment as I move my other hand up and down his shaft slowly. I watch the tip glisten as a drop of pre-come slides out.

  “Use that,” he says. “Think of how wet you get. That’s what I’m waiting for.”

  I run my palm over his crown and slide my hand down as I pull down on his balls. He groans and I feel a buzzing in my head, feel myself getting wet and excited. I still want to put him in my mouth and so I do, sliding the flared head past my lips and taking him in halfway to the base. I slide my mouth back up before he can correct me but his eyes are narrowed and focused. He’s too taken to speak.

  Now he’s slick with my spit and I can more easily play my hand up and down, testing out different rhythms and pressures, gauging the results by how much he thickens with tension. I bring my mouth down again and carefully draw him all the way in this time. I feel his thighs brace as his gasps.

  “Marlee,” he growls. I know, Jake, I want to tell him. Boomer was wrong and this is the real magic right here, this feeling of being able to hold his pleasure literally in my hands. But I don’t say that because it’s bound to come out wrong.

  So instead I bring my head back up. He readjusts me, taking one hand in his large one and demonstrating exactly what he likes. I feel his desire and his need in my hands and I want to quench it, want to know everything that he wants me to do.

  I follow his directions like the good little student I am and massage my hand in twisting motions against his tip, drawing up like I can draw the pleasure out of him. He starts to breathe in small gasps and his balls start to
tighten, there’s heat radiating from his shaft, and I can feel his want. I love watching the rhythm he needs as my hand works.

  “Just like that, fuck, Marlee,” he leans back against the wall of the booth. He pulls his shirt up to expose those rippling abs and I start to move my hand faster as his breath rises and falls. I want to be in rhythm with every part of his body, the pulse I can feel beating in his thighs, his tensed muscles. I feel like maybe I could come from this too.

  And then I feel it, that trademark stiffening of every part of his body. I hear the shift in his breathing. It only takes a second from that recognition until I’m watching him unload in hot spurts onto his own stomach. I didn’t get to see what the actual moment looks like last night and it’s utterly fascinating. We’re still for a minute and I love the sensation of this part of his body relaxing, still slightly hard like he could maybe be ready for more.

  He smiles at me and it’s that perfectly honest one he normally gives me when we’re teasing each other or watching bad movies, nothing like the fake star-smile he uses for pictures. Which is a shame, because this smile is the one I could gaze at for years.

  Too soon, the moment has passed, and he lets me go to spin to the guitar case and take out a cloth to clean himself up. He puts his pants back where they belong, and the charming grin goes away along with his manly bits. Ever the gentleman, he holds the door to the booth open for me and I sink into the chair Greg recently vacated.

  But just when I’m wondering whether I should stop hoping for more, he asks, “Marlee, are you wet right now?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Duh. That was hot.” He looks me up and down. I feel his gaze searing a path over my body, like his hands on me last night, circling my breasts, sliding down my stomach.

  “Run your left hand up the inside of your thigh,” he says. “Do it slowly.”

  I watch his eyes on my inner thigh as I move. I feel the softness of the skin there, imagining how it will feel when it’s wrapped over his shoulder as he ravishes me on his new desk.

  “Lift your skirt above your panties,” he says. I show him my silk blue thong and there’s that smile again.

  “Run your hand back up your thigh.”

  I do.

  “Slide your finger down to your opening.”

  My breath catches a little.

  “Are you wet?” he asks. I nod. It’s a bit of an understatement, but dirty talk isn’t something I’m so good at when I have the option to babble instead, so I keep my mouth shut.

  “Slide your panties down, over your thighs. Do it slowly.”

  This whole instructional thing is really, really helpful and really, really arousing. I do as he asks and wait. I can see him getting hard again and I wish he hadn’t hidden it from me under his clothes.

  “What does it feel like?”

  I slow down my motion and close my eyes, bring my attention back to myself.

  “The fabric is silky and tight. My thighs are smooth. It’s nice.” See? No innate dirtiness here. I’ll need to work on that.

  “I’m going to talk you through touching yourself. Just like I touched you last night. That way you can always have me.”

  My eyes are still closed but this makes me smile. My hands are nothing like his huge, strong ones but I like thinking that I can conjure them, that I can have his words in my head telling me how to get myself off forever. That maybe no matter what happens in the future, I can revisit this place in my mind.

  “I want you to brush a fingertip over yourself, from your clit down, sliding between your lips to where you are dripping. I want you to feel how silky and swollen and slick you are.”

  I do as he says and feel the resulting shiver of warmth and fullness through my body. It’s a great feeling but it’s still a little weird to just be doing this when I’d prefer him close. But when I ask him he says no.

  “Imagination is ninety percent of the fun here, Marlee. Imagine my body against yours, your tits pressed against me.”

  I groan.

  “Imagine my fingers circling your nipples. Do it. Try it.”

  This is crazy. I can’t believe I’m doing this but it’s also affirming. His breathing has sped up again, cause he wants this, and I’m totally back to sex goddess-dom as I bring my hand up to play. He’s making me feel this way. I squeeze it and then rub it like Jake had.

  “Run your fingers back and forth gently a few more times from your clit all the way down. Get your fingers nice and wet before you move back up. Do you like this?”

  “Yes,” I say, and mean it. I’m no stranger to touching myself, but never under someone else’s instruction. It’s still weird, but it’s also romance-novel hot.

  “Move your fingers in circles, slowly and then faster. Which do you prefer?”

  Slow, at first. I swirl around, teasing, and then suddenly what I want is fast. I move how he did against me, and remember how his hand started moving faster and faster. I feel my body climbing inside the way it had last night, a pressure building in my chest and in my skull that the noises I’m making only partially relieve.

  I think about his cock hard against my belly, the way he thickened into my hands. I open my eyes and Jake stands over me. He’s holding a microphone in front of my face and oh that is very naughty. Is he recording my orgasm? I kind of hope so, because I could come just thinking about it and then I am, I’m coming and coming and I’m crying out and I’m coming some more because it just keeps going and it’s 100% real but also a show I’m putting on just for him. I want him to hear what he does for me.

  I still hear the echo as I open my eyes. Jake is grinning that happy smile again and looks almost giddy.

  “I got it,” he says. “Marlee, you’re getting an album credit after all.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Jake

  I had this whole plan for her first time.

  There would be music playing and rose petals everywhere, leading up from the front door to the bed. Lit candles and champagne and generally all the soap opera shit she could imagine. No romance book could have topped my elaborate setup.

  But the setup is destined to remain in my head, because it turns out layering an orgasm into your recording session is pretty intense foreplay.

  She climbs over to the driver’s seat when I pull into the driveway and straddles me. Fuck you, Nick, this is how cool guys handle Aston Martins. She grinds her core into mine, her back arching like when she sang out her pleasure and I slide my hands down over her ass and then up the back of her skirt to where my fingers can grab her hard. I can feel how wet she is even through my pants.

  Forget flowers and songs, we could fuck right here in the car. Her hands are tearing at my clothes when I finally regain control.

  “Inside,” I gasp out, barely. If for no other reason than needing a condom. Once we step inside, I have her up off the ground, her legs wrapped around me, punching in the security code over her shoulder as I nibble on her neck.

  Scratch that. This isn’t a time for gentility. I suck until the blood rises to the surface of her pale skin, a reminder she’ll carry all week.

  So what if I toss the soap opera, toss the romance? Multi-orgasmic can’t-get-enough sex will probably be a decent substitute. After all, roses and bubbles are thoughtful and caring, but they don’t make you feel like a tongue up your cunt does, right?

  I’ll leave the theatrics to her rich fake boyfriend and keep the real good sex memories for myself.

  Once we finally make it into her room, her scent all over and around me, though, I throw her down on the bed like any good alpha would. We lie on our sides, my tongue lost in her mouth as she practices all of her best kissing techniques on me, occasionally interrupting to congratulate herself or ask questions. I love how free she is. Once I thought she was different than any Californian girl I’d ever met, now I think she’s just a one-of-a-kind in general.

  I trace my fingers along the dimples on her lower back, a recent obsession of mine. I like touching her better than any guitar
I’ve ever had.

  She rolls onto her back and I move on top of her. She wraps her legs around my ribs and I push against her, rocking back and forth, showing her the rhythm I’m going to use. The energy is shifting and I can feel that it’s going to happen.

  If she’s ready, I’m willing.

  That’s a perfect opportunity for my old stick-in-the-mud inner voice to come in and remind me about the things I think of in the middle of the night and pretend don’t exist during the day.

  Like how I would never tell her this, but I really am worried. I have no idea how much this will hurt. I’ve never been someone’s first before, and my biggest concern when I was losing mine was just not embarrassing myself by going off too soon. I’ll prepare her in every way I can for what’s about to happen, but the truth is, I can’t guarantee she’ll enjoy a second of it.

  And I never, ever want her to associate painful sex with me.

  As much as I hate that inner voice, it’s a good reminder that none of this is going to be good memories if I don’t put her pleasure before my own.

  I run my hands under her shirt and bra. Her tits are so impossibly soft and firm at once and I explore every inch of their curves with my fingers. I pull my mouth away from hers and lightly bite her bottom lip.

  She squeezes her thighs on the outside of my legs and grinds against my cock. I thrust against her and she meets me with her own pressure.

  “I want… I want…” she pants.

  Fuck it. If it hurts, I’ll hold her. If it makes her cry, I’ll wipe her tears. And if it makes her mine, even just for tonight, I’ll take everything she’s offering.

  I press more slowly at the place where only a few pieces of fabric separate our most intimate parts, more realistically, and her arms wrap around me tighter. She gasps the way she does when she’s close to coming and her eyelids flutter over pupils that are unfocused and dilated.