“Yes.” I’m surprised at my calm, no matter the fireworks his words set off in my imagination. “But tonight I want the bed.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He turns me in his arms and lowers me down. Just like I’d pictured, I’m surrounded by the scent of his linens, even as he hovers over me. “You’re going to drive me crazy.”
“That’s a good thing.”
“A very good thing.” He tosses me a crooked grin. “Now open your knees.”
I’m beyond shock, and beyond being shocked. Or so I think. The light in his eyes is as electric as I feel. His face is surrounded by ruffled hair, with each strand gilded by lamplight. I give in completely. My body goes limp on a sweet exhale of pure relief. I let my knees part so that Jude Villars can have his way with me.
Thirty
How can anything feel this amazing? How do I still have brains enough to notice tiny details? His nails are blunt, and the left side of his mouth quirks higher when he smiles at me. Maybe because I’m so overheated and sensitive that each detail blazes across my senses with hyperclarity. I’m being tattooed. There’s no place he’ll leave untouched, and that touch will be permanent.
This particular smile is new to me. He grins up from where he’s kneeling between my legs, with his lips hovering over my inner thigh. He licks. He kisses. I’m immobilized by the slightest touches of wet to trembling, hot to steaming. My gasps make him smile even wider. Yes. Just like he said. He’s learning me. I’m a gasping, writhing road map, and the man does love to explore.
When Jude nuzzles up to meet the center of my need with his firm, determined lips, I sit half up off the bed. “Wait” is what I say. And I know how the world works. When a woman says no, a guy stops. I didn’t think any different of Jude. But I catch myself. I find myself on my elbows, watching where his face is so . . . very . . . close.
He angles a look toward my face, then raises his eyebrows. “Let me,” he says. “Promises, remember?”
“And I’m going to love it.”
“Hell yes, sugar.”
“Okay.”
“Has anyone else touched you here?” He traces his forefinger down, down, down. . . .
“Jude. God, please. Do you want me to talk or just melt?”
“Talk a little?” His smile is changing again. Dares and wickedness. I recognize the dares from the night he got me onstage. He’s speaking a whole new language—almost literally. “You didn’t answer.”
“No one’s touched me there.”
He drags his head up and grins. His hair lays across his brow, as if an artist drew outside the lines. I slide trembling hands back along his temples. I love touching his hair and I love seeing his face. Double win.
“How about a cock?” He wiggles his eyebrows. “And yeah, I said that on purpose.”
My face is on fire. Pure flame. “What about one?”
“Have you ever touched a naked one? Aroused, like I am?”
“When you pressed our bodies together.”
“But not with your hands?”
I shake my head.
“Here,” he says, even more gently now. He moves up my body until he’s lying nearly parallel. “Like this.”
Covering my hand with his own, he starts with the easy stuff. The familiar stuff. Our fingers are twined as he guides me to touch his face. We’re locked eye to eye as we flutter across his temples, brows, nose, smiling lips, and cut-granite chin. His throat is tight and corded, although he keeps his guiding hand light on mine. It’s like he can read just when he’s taken me as far as I can stand, then brings me back to a place where I still have relatively firm footing.
I take a deep breath. “More,” I say against his cheek. “I’m ready.”
Still guiding, he strokes our hands down his body. I feel the shifting strength of his biceps. The hair along his forearms tickles my palm. I let myself laugh because this is heady and scary and just . . . us.
His breathing picks up, outpacing even mine, when we reach his defined pecs and abs. Below his navel, his rougher body hair tapers. What has yet to happen is still a drumbeat, but the journey—this exploration together—is just as exciting.
“I like foreplay,” I say just before I kiss him. I don’t remember if I’ve kissed him like this, some mix of needy and sweet. We’re still lip to lip when he takes my hand down those last few inches. He closes my fingers around his shaft. Of course he knew what would happen—he made it happen, after all—but he hisses in a sharp breath anyway. My grin feels wicked now. “In fact, I like foreplay a lot.”
He rolls me onto my back, and for a brief, panicky moment, I think, This is it. Instead, he just kisses the hell out of me. It’s like he’s taking out all his pent-up, gentlemanly restraint out on my mouth. I haven’t let go of his thick erection. In fact, I’m caressing him, learning him, still marveling that this was really happening.
“Okay, enough,” he says roughly. He grabs my hands and pushes them flat against the bed. “There. That’s safer.”
“For you.”
“Yeah.” He grins. “Because you’re in trouble now.”
He takes hold of my thighs. His hands are so strong, but I’m not going anywhere. He opens me, then dips his head. My spinning craziness becomes a whirlwind as he licks and nuzzles my . . . Maybe one day I’ll be able to think the same daring way he talks. Right now I just feel. I grab the sheets, but they’re not Jude. I grab the muscles of his back, but he’s slippery with sweat. Finally I grab his hair and pull.
He releases one of my legs and slows the rhythm of his mouth. Two fingers. That’s it. In the whole scheme of the planet, how important are two fingers? Jude’s are stunningly, blindingly important as he traces me and glides inside.
I cry out. There’s a sharp bite of pain, but then there’s Jude’s mouth to soothe and tease. I don’t know what he’s going to do next. The lack of control threatens to rob me of how good it feels. I force my mind back to the present. To Jude. To the gentle, almost lulling way he’s stroking with those two insanely talented fingers. His tongue is more insistent. He’s seeking out every gasp. It’s like he’s after me, chasing down my pleasure as his prize.
I shake, call his name, thrust my hips. He presses his fingers deeper as I clench around him. I’m sweating and I probably look like a wild animal, but that doesn’t freak me out when I can’t describe the hot-cold electricity coursing through my body. I don’t have to be anything else for him. His self-satisfied smile is as beautifully smug as any a guy’s ever worn. I’m crying or panting or something, until—
I freak the fuck out.
I don’t know what happens. I really don’t. It’s confusing and scary all at once when I sit up and take his face between my hands. I kiss him. Hard. I reach for any part of him I can get at. He’s so solid. Everywhere. Arms and pecs, shoulders and abs. Even his firm backside.
“Keeley, shit.” He tries to peel me off him. “I can’t go slow if you—”
I find his cock. Two hands. Fingers all the way around. He cusses until I can’t understand what’s a growl and what’s a word.
“That was the pain, wasn’t it?” I ask, just before biting his earlobe. “You did it with your fingers.”
“Yeah.”
“Then it won’t hurt now?”
“It will if you keep this up. Sugar, good Christ, stop.”
I let go of him completely, because, oh, his voice. When he means it. I don’t remember hearing that before. My bones seize and my whole body becomes his marionette. I flop back on the bed. “Stopped.”
“You wanted this to last. You— You’re acting like you know what you’re doing.”
My hair rasps against the pillow when I shake my head. “I can’t help myself.”
I take a deep breath. I won’t be able to live with myself if it’s all because of what Jude makes me feel. I’ve wanted to be memorable to him.
Now I can be memorable with him.
That means I want to be an active participant.
He matches my moves as I climb to my knees. We’re facing each other on the bed, stomach to stomach again, with his stern face looking down at mine with an expression near to pain. “I’m trying to keep my promises, Keeley. Help me out here. You’re making it so I can’t think.”
“You remember what you said?” I scrape my fingers down his chest, every line and graceful arc and stubborn ridge. “We knew it was going to happen. We just didn’t know how.”
“I remember.”
“You’ve kept your promises, Jude. Slow. Foreplay. I came and it barely hurt. Now . . . this is us doing it how we want. No more rules.”
I’d thought his eyes were filled with lust before. I’d thought his body tense and ready—so ready. I was wrong. No more rules blows his mind. I swear I see sparks shoot across his irises. He bares his teeth and settles back on his haunches. His cock is like a spear aiming up from between his thighs. He grabs a condom off the nightstand and rolls it on.
“Right there,” he says past gritted teeth. He nods to his lap. “You belong right there.”
God, God, God . . .
I’m frozen and racing at a thousand miles an hour. His hands on my hips break my paralyzed spell. He lifts. I lift. With my arms around his neck and his around my low back, I sink down his stiff length.
I throw my head back on a dizzy, giddy cry. He bows his forehead low, between my breasts, groaning, already thrusting up. I catch his rhythm and hold on. Who knew it would wind up this way? Here’s where I have to trust him again. No more rules. Sure. But he’s still Jude, and his pride is a fierce thing. I remember Yamatam’s, knowing he’d be watching me all night, waiting to see if I’d seek him out. He’s a man used to winning. To finish this without me? I can’t imagine it, even as he drives harder and holds me so tight—down, on, around him. I find the place where his neck meets his shoulder and nibble tense flesh.
“You’re . . . Jesus, so beautiful. Pink skin all flushed. Your lips plump from our kisses. I’ve wanted to kiss your lips from the beginning.” He groaned. “I wish the light was brighter. I want to see your eyes. Such brilliant green. And your body—Keeley, sugar, you’re so fucking perfect. Perfect for me.”
“Tonight,” I whisper in his ear, “I believe you.”
His grin is tight, almost pained, but it’s still teasing enough to flip my heart. “Good.”
“Show me the rest now. Please, Jude.”
He bends me back against the bed. I catch my heels together at his low back. There’s nothing gentle left between us, except maybe the distant knowledge that yes, we both want the other to come. I want him to. I want him—
He changes the angle of our bodies and hits . . . something deep inside me. I rocket into pieces. Fingernails become claws up his back. I see black and red and fireworks. There’s a moment when sleep and ecstasy seem to blend. Dreams on top of reality. Utter relaxation—totally lost in him—layered over a pleasure so great that I’m dizzy.
Jude buries his face beside mine on the pillow and drives deep. He’s saying my name and I wish that it had always been my real name, so that when he says it with such reverence and passion, he won’t be chanting a lie.
He knows how to make himself feel good now that he’s blown me to bits. His hips are—just, damn, where does all that strength come from? He’s amazing and beautiful and sweating, growling, grinding, and I come again without even thinking about it. Pleasure sneaks up on me and crashes down, almost as heavy as Jude when he stiffens, then collapses across my body.
We’re panting and he’s wiping my cheeks. “Tell me these are good tears.”
I start to laugh like a maniac let out of the asylum too soon. I wrap my arms and legs around him so tight.
Never let me go.
“Good tears,” I choke out, rather than say what my heart is shouting. “So good. Words all gone-gone good.”
“Christ, sugar.”
He eases off of me, ditches the condom, and folds me against his hot skin. We’d be steaming if the air was any cooler. As it is, we add ten degrees to the room’s thick mood. I can’t remember it being this heavy and perfumed when we walked in. It’s all us. The smell of sex and satisfaction.
“Getting up on your knees like that,” he says against the top of my head. “Was that trying to be memorable again?”
“It crossed my mind.” I stretch so hard that I can almost reach his toes with mine. “But I didn’t do it on purpose. It’s just . . . how I needed to do it.”
He rolls me onto my back and lounges beside me, with his head propped on his hand. “Passion. Pure passion. I should’ve known. And there’s your answer again.”
“What answer?”
“To the question of Why you? ” His breath is a gorgeous shudder, while his smile is as slinky as when we started. “Why I wanted you. Why I still do.”
I lift my head, just enough to brush my lips against his. “Tell me?”
“I thought I had you all figured out, that first night. Not even close.” He wipes away one last tear, then touches it to his tongue. His eyes roll closed as if he’s just tasted the most exquisite dessert. It’s beautiful to watch. “I wonder if I ever will.”
Thirty-One
I’m obsessed with him.
Anyone inside my head or feeling the beat of my heart for the last three weeks would know that. I should be used to it by now, right? But no. I listen to music, where every lyric is my cliché. I watch the sky, where hazy clouds remind me of how contented and dark Jude’s eyes get after we make love. I look to the future—and feel as terrified as always.
It was hard to tell Clair and John that we got back together. I could hear the concern in every word, but in the end, they did what they’ve always done. They gave their advice, then backed off with the promise they’ll be there if I need them.
I’m warmed by their constancy, but I don’t want to imagine needing them like I did when I took that spontaneous trip home to Baton Rouge. After all, Jude and I having an amazing time. My version of amazing has the word “always” attached. His probably runs more toward, Wow, I have a great time with this girl. Isn’t that a nice way to spend the fall? No talk of always. But lots of sex. The man is a master and a very, very patient teacher. I’ve learned what a freak occurrence our first time was—that I surprised him. Now he has agendas that blow my mind. I learn something new whenever he touches me.
No matter what happens to my heart, I’m going to be spoiled for life when it comes to sex. The idea of a lover other than Jude is powerful enough to wake me from a sound sleep. How many eyes are on me in class when I fidget and can’t stop watching the clock? Probably only a pair or two. I feel like everyone should be able to see through my fake workaday calm.
Whatever professor is babbling in the background should use his mic to make an announcement. “This daughter of murdering druggie convicts has fallen for Jude Villars. She’s five years younger and a wannabe piano player. He’s a CEO. Go on, look at her. She’s about to barf. Of course she is!”
There’s nothing I can do but hold on. Every kiss. Every night spent in his arms. Every whispered word. His drawl is like honey in my blood, overcoming all the old bitterness until only sweetness remains.
I know that’s what would happen if he was really mine. Instead, I’m just borrowing him.
Adelaide makes it difficult to remember that. She and I have been practicing like crazy for the Fall Finish. We exchange snarky texts about the classes we’re forced to take, because they get in the way of meeting at Dixon. I’m still working on controlling my emotions and channeling them when I play. Adelaide is fighting to find the same fire in a lowly practice room as she can when surrounded by a hooting audience.
She finishes a really awesome rendition of “Seasons of Love” from Rent. The song really suits
her, because her voice has enough power to rival a song intended for an entire cast. “Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes . . .” She’s stripped what would’ve been human harmonies, replacing them with piano accents.
Basically, she reimagined the whole damn thing. I’m stunned and awed.
But I don’t clap when she finishes.
She looks up at me, eyes expectant. I keep my expression passive, although it’s really hard. “Keeley?”
“How do you think you did?”
Today she’s wearing a shapeless ’60s throwback floral shirt that has billowing sleeves, a deep V neck, and yellow rickrack trim. It flows over a pair of beige cords. A kerchief that picks up the blues of the floral print holds her hair back, but a few sweaty bleach blonde strands poke out by her ears, where three inch strings of opaque stones hang from her lobes.
On top of all that, she’s wearing an expression of helplessness. It doesn’t suit her.
“I don’t know,” she says tentatively. “Good enough. I was flat through the chorus.” She shrugs. “The ostinato is hard to keep even when I just wanna boogie away, but maybe that’s okay. My own spin . . . ?”
I stand and meet her at the bench. “You’re still waiting for my opinion.”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
“Of course,” I say, smiling. “Which is why I’ll put you out of your misery and say you blew my mind. The ostinato got a little out of control, yeah. It’s the backbone rhythm, not the thing to tamper with. But you’ve turned a song meant for an entire cast into a one-woman show. Tell me you’re not impressed with yourself, even without the applause.”
Bright red lips—the color clashes with the maroon trim, but on Adelaide, it doesn’t matter—smile wider and wider. “Yeah, I did good.”
She turns back to the piano and tinkers with a few keys. They’re still pieces of the melody, but just playing with sound. She sighs.
“Are things okay with us?” I ask. “You don’t seem like yourself.”
Her grin is lopsided. She hasn’t looked up from the keys. “What do you think it means for me to be myself?”
Blue Notes Page 21