Wild Licks

by Cecilia Tan

  “They say I’m too passionate,” he began.

  That sounded a little like his I-love-you-too-much thing. “They say, or you say?”

  “They say I care too deeply about the music. That I’m fighting tooth and nail to defend it from the forces I feel will destroy it…but that I’m fighting the wrong people, for the wrong reasons.” His fingers found the stray strands of my hair and smoothed them into place as he spoke. “I feel the producer’s been gradually seducing the other members of the band, convincing them of his ideas, until I am the lone voice clinging to the integrity of our music, our songs.”

  I frowned. “Mal, the guys care about you. I know they do. I know they care about the band, not just…whether the band has hits or makes money.”

  “That’s the thing, I suppose. The record company and Johns, they only care about whether we make money.”

  “You think Larkin Johns has convinced the guys to care more about money?”

  He let out a long sigh. “No. If it were that obvious, they would resist. But he has his ideas about what will ‘make hits.’”

  “Like what?”

  “Like…horns.” He said the word like it was disgusting, which I suppose to him it was.

  “You mean saxophones, trumpets, that sort of thing?”

  “Exactly.” He shook his head. “Horns are all well and good if you’re Lord Lightning doing a massive show production or some pop band doing a little turn through soul or R&B. But that is not The Rough.”

  Something clicked for me in that moment. Mal seemed very clear about his vision for the band, but I wondered if he communicated with Larkin Johns as badly as he had with me about what he wanted. Like with me, had he assumed there was some reason why he couldn’t have his way? “Did you tell Johns that horns were a hard limit?”

  He twitched, then carefully said, “Don’t joke about that.”

  Déjà vu. “I’m not joking. It sounds to me like you’re positively offended by his suggestion of horns, but I have to wonder if he has any idea why you’re so upset. It would be one thing if you had said ‘no horns’ and then he trampled your boundary and insisted, but it’s something else if—”

  “He should know perfectly well that horns are a terrible fit,” Mal said, but he didn’t sound sure.

  “He doesn’t know what the image is you have in your head of what the band is,” I said. “It’d be great if he could just ‘get’ that from listening to the songs, but maybe he can’t. Maybe he’s hearing something else. Maybe you have to tell him flat out, no horns.”

  “Well, I did, eventually, but it isn’t only the horns.” As agitated as he was about Johns, his fingers continued to smooth my hair. Perhaps it was as soothing to him as it was to me. “I can’t deny that he’s produced many hits, but he can’t leave anything alone. He’s constantly wanting to change things that don’t need changing. As if he doesn’t truly understand what makes a song work.”

  “Or doesn’t understand what’s important to you about a song?”

  “Hmm.” He seemed to be ruminating on the possibility. “You may be onto something there.”

  “I hear you talking about specifics when maybe you should be talking in generalizations. I also hear you making generalizations and expecting Johns to figure out the specifics. Maybe you and he just don’t draw the line in the same place. You need to negotiate the individual things and the bigger picture, too.”

  He let out a huff that might have been the start of a wry laugh. “You mean he’s like a submissive who says yes to whips, paddles, and nipple clamps, but says no to pain?”

  “Kind of? More like a submissive who might say yes to obedience but not assume that implied punishment?”

  I could feel him nodding slowly. “You may have a point. The thing is, our goal isn’t simply to make a song that people will like. It’s to make a song that we like. Otherwise, what’s the point? Why even write the music ourselves if they can manufacture something that will be universally accepted? I’m not interested in sounding like Justin Bieber, or Justin Timberlake, or Justin Moore for that matter. No matter how many records they sell.”

  “I’m betting that Johns has no idea you feel he’s turning you into Justin Bieber.”

  Mal slid his fingers under my chin and tipped my face until we were looking into each other’s eyes. “What makes you think that? Truthfully, Gwen.”

  “Mal, honestly, I don’t think you realize that things you think are obvious or self-evident are only obvious to you. Everyone else needs to hear it out loud.”

  “At this point, I have made my feelings unambiguously clear, though. I’ve told him to go fuck his horns, his reggae backbeats, his—”

  “No, I mean have you actually said, ‘Hey, mister, I feel like you’re trying to make the song sound like yours and it’s more important to me that it sound like ours and that’s non-negotiable’?”

  Mal narrowed his eyes as he thought back. “Not in so many words, no.”

  “That would at least give you a basis for discussion, right? If he still doesn’t get it, well, at least you set your boundaries, and if it comes to firing him you’ll have a clear reason why. That’s what will make him the bad guy, not you.”

  “And the rest of the band?”

  “Mal, I think you’re so used to playing devil’s advocate that you’ve forgotten they really do agree with you. They all have a stake in the music.” And they love you, I thought, but didn’t say.

  He sighed and kissed me on the forehead. “It all seems so clear when you boil it down like that.”

  “I have the benefit of an outsider’s perspective,” I told him. “I’m not weighed down by everything you have going on in your head. Plus”—I stretched up and kissed him on the forehead—“there’s your whole postsex clarity thing.”

  He rolled me onto my back and pressed a trail of kisses down my face and neck, licking at the sore spot he had made. “You are the only person I am interested in having sex with, Gwen.”

  I wrapped my legs around him and looked up into his eyes. “Then let’s do it. Your fantasy. Keep me here in the room, naked, ready for you to come and take anytime while you’re working on the album. Anytime you need a break.”

  He leaned down to take one nipple into his mouth, suckling it gently until it hardened to a peak and then trapping it between his teeth. He bit down for an excruciating moment and then let go just as I gasped. His tongue soothed the hurt he’d made and then he raised his head again, his eyes darkened with lust. “Two weeks. We have two weeks left in the studio here.”

  A thrill ran all the way down to my toes. He was going to say yes, I could feel it. “My calendar is open.”

  “Your pussy is open,” Mal said, rolling his hips. He wasn’t hard again yet but I felt the tension in his muscles rising just as deliciously. “You’ll really do this? No clothes at all. My captive. You might grow bored if I’m in the studio at all hours.”

  “And you might find yourself needing to vent some steam in the middle of recording, too,” I said. “I’ll be at your mercy, Mal. Your fantasy and my fantasy are the same.”

  “Who will you be in this fantasy?” he asked.

  “That’s the best part.” I licked my lips. “It’s just you and me. No roles. Gwen and Mal.”

  “Gwen the obedient,” he murmured as he nuzzled my skin. “Gwen the willing.”

  “Mal the cruel, Mal the demanding,” I answered. “My keeper.”

  “Mine.”

  “Yours.”

  Perhaps the idea was simply that arousing or perhaps we had talked long enough that his refractory period had passed, but I felt him hardening between my legs, and a moment later he thrust into me, right where he belonged.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Muse

  GWEN

  That first morning I woke up in Mal’s arms, I felt such a thrill run through my whole body that I instantly grew damp between the legs. He was still deeply asleep, snuggled close, one of my hands cradled in his against his che
ek.

  Two weeks. He’d promised me two weeks of glorious imprisonment. At least, I hoped it would be glorious. All I knew was no clothes would be allowed, and I was to be ready and willing for sex whenever he demanded. No clothes undoubtedly meant no leaving the room. Other than that I couldn’t really imagine what was going to happen, but at that moment reality felt very far away. Or rather the reality of being here, with him, blocked out all thought of anything else. He rolled onto his side then without waking, and I found myself gently tracing the wings of the dragon on his back. His skin was uneven under the black lines of the tattoo and I wondered why. Bad acne when he was a kid? That could leave scars.

  The next time I woke, he was kissing the bruises on my neck. I stiffened for a moment, sensing how sore I was, but his lips were soft, and his teeth stayed behind them. I was laughably unsure how to react, half expecting a sudden bite at any moment yet melting under the pleasure of his touch.

  He drew aside the covers and his hand sought between my legs, an appreciative hum escaping him as he discovered me already wet. He thrust a finger inside me and merely held it there, not stimulating me, not pushing in or out, just sitting there like it belonged where he’d put it.

  Like I belonged to him. I felt a deep pulse of lust as that thought sank in.

  He sat up without removing his finger. His hair fell in wild, dark strands across his face and over his shoulders.

  “Good morning,” he said, fingertips of his other hand brushing the inside of my thigh.

  “Good morning.” I smiled and stretched against my pillow, tightening my inner muscles around that digit inside me. “How are you?”

  “Calmer than yesterday, certainly,” he said. “We shall see when I arrive at the studio whether that equanimity is sustainable.”

  “I hope so. You can always come back and have another dose of Gwen’s Common Sense if you need it.”

  His hand gripped my thigh warmly. “Or another dose of your delicious body.” He shrugged his hair back over his shoulder. “Speaking of delicious. Order room service if you’re hungry. Half the TV channels here are in French but you can rent movies if you like.”

  I felt excitement spread through me. This was going to be fun. “May I use my tablet? It’s in the other room with my suitcase.”

  “I’ll retrieve it and your toiletries, but I was quite serious about no clothes for you. If I find you wearing anything, or find out you did, I will throw what you were wearing out the window.”

  I grinned. “You won’t find me wearing anything. I don’t even think I’ll be tempted to.”

  He returned my smile. When had I ever seen Mal smile like that? Maybe it was my imagination, but he seemed as happy as I was. “Did you ever read The Story of O?” he asked.

  “A long time ago. I think I snuck it out of the library when I was a teenager.”

  “Hmm, likewise. It’s funny. I remember only two things about the book. One was the fur-trimmed shoes she wears when they get to the Château. The other is a scene in which her lover casually penetrates her with his finger. I think she’s naked on a table and he’s socializing with other men, and he inserts his finger into her as casually as slipping his hand into the pocket of his waistcoat.”

  “I really can’t remember any of that book, either,” I said. “Although the finger thing does sound sort of familiar.” I squeezed again. “I can see the appeal of that.”

  He gave a quiet laugh through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “Neither of us remembers one of the foundational works of BDSM literature, but we can practically recite Nightfang word for word.”

  “I know. For me the kinkiest books were always the ones where my imagination filled in the details.” The two weeks ahead seemed a thrillingly blank canvas, awaiting whatever Mal and I might dream up. “I’ve been meaning to read all her UK-published books that we didn’t get over here. Maybe that’s what I’ll do while you’re out.”

  “An excellent idea. But if you’re going to be lounging about reading stimulating literature, I had better put a prohibition on your orgasm. Save it for me.”

  Another spasm of lust ran through my body, primal and unexpected from the mere suggestion that my orgasm belonged to him. “Yes, Mal.”

  He eased his finger free of me and licked it as he stood and turned toward the bathroom. The dragon tattoo across his broad shoulders seemed to move its wings as he stretched. “Time for breakfast. Real breakfast, I mean. The room service menu is in the side drawer. Strong tea, two eggs, poached, with back bacon, and order yourself whatever you like. When you’re done placing the order, come join me in the shower.”

  * * *

  MAL

  After a long discussion that resembled a marriage counseling session more than a business negotiation, Larkin Johns and I had established enough mutual ground to get back to work. Gwen had been right. When I told Johns I felt what he was doing was trying to make the songs his instead of ours, he was defensive at first, claiming that wasn’t his intent.

  Surprisingly it was Ford who spoke up as the voice of clarity, Ford who normally didn’t speak unless asked. “Lark, listen. Your intent doesn’t matter. What we’re saying is that it feels like you’re taking the music away from us. If it doesn’t feel like ours, we may as well just do an album of cover songs. Do you see what I’m saying?”

  Larkin pushed his overlong, prematurely graying hair out of his face as he leaned against his arm on the table. “I don’t think you guys realize how distinctive you sound. It still sounds like The Rough to me even after the changes, and it’ll still sound like The Rough even if we add backing vocals or a horn line. But I get what you’re saying. Mal, I’m sorry—I didn’t realize you actually felt insulted by my suggestions.”

  “Not insulted so much as offended,” I said, my booted feet crossed on the table as I leaned back in my chair. “Though I realize the difference between the two is subtle. Apology accepted, regardless.”

  So we got to work. It wasn’t a perfect session. Everyone was still a little sensitive about things. We stopped after getting basic tracks laid down for a song and strategized which songs would be our priority for the rest of the week. It was midafternoon when we took a break.

  I took my break at the hotel and had Gwen for lunch. She was delighted I had returned so quickly and I delighted in emptying my balls into her with an urgent, unbroken rhythm. There would be plenty of time for imaginative cruelty and erotic games later.

  We did another three hours in the studio and then called it a day. The rest of the guys went off to see a band play at a local club.

  I went back to my room and had dinner delivered from room service. I sat Gwen across my lap and fed her gravy-dipped frites with my fingers while we talked.

  “So I guess recording went okay today?” she asked.

  “Yes. There’s still tension, but we at least produced some music today that I’m happy with.” I sipped some water, sucked an ice cube into my mouth, and then bent my head to suckle on her nipple until the ice had melted. “And you? Did you start your reading project?”

  “I did! The entire Ariadne Wood library is available for download. I decided to read them chronologically so I started with The Crow Prince.”

  “I used to imagine myself as him,” I told her. “My cousin played the part of Princess Sun. We were nine or ten, I think? She came to stay with us one summer. I don’t think I’ve read the book since. I wonder what I would think of it now.”

  “You can read it when I’m done,” she said, licking gravy off my fingers.

  The tender touch of her tongue sparked my lust, and my hunger for her body overtook my hunger for food. I don’t know which was more gratifying, the orgasm I experienced while buried in her or the knowledge that I needed only snap my fingers to have her.

  We slept skin to skin that night, as if even while asleep I did not want to cease touching her.

  * * *

  GWEN

  A few days rolled past, and although I expected to get restless
or bored at some point, I hadn’t yet. For one thing, it had become something of a game to hide from the hotel housekeepers that I had no clothes. One day I would pretend to be sleepy and tell them to come in and clean the bathroom anyway while I didn’t get out of bed, and then I made the bed myself. The next day the sheets really needed to be changed so I had them come and do the rest of the room while I was in the shower. One day I wrapped my hair and body in towels and painted my toenails, sitting in the corner in the room’s one armchair while the maid vacuumed around me. It was not always the same maid, so I figured it would be a few more days before they started to wonder.

  The only “work” I had to do was answer a few e-mails here and there. I got one from Thalia telling me they wanted to film a follow-up promo spot for the next phase of the WOMedia app when I got back. She also said they had gotten a couple of weird messages from an anonymous e-mail address with nothing in them but photos of me. She wrote:

  Not sure but maybe they were trying to sell us promo photos of you? Probably pirated photos, though, given the sketchy nature of the address. There’s a ton of that going on in Eastern Europe right now. I’m ignoring them.

  I ignored them, too. What a delight to lounge around reading to my heart’s content! The only thing more pleasurable than devouring books was being devoured by Mal and then talking with Mal. Sometimes he came in seething with frustration about the recording sessions and used sex with me as an outlet. Other times he wanted my advice on picking through the minefield of personality conflicts and the dynamics of the band.

  We talked. A lot. After all, even with all the sex and play, there were still generous hours to fill. And Mal had become generous with his words. I hadn’t had conversations like that since my undergrad days, conversing late into the night about politics, history, art, people.