Vibrato

by Tamara Mataya

  Understanding lights his eyes. “How did I become good at making something from nothing?”

  “I’m sorry, that’s way too deep for someone you hardly know, and altogether none of my business.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I do okay now, but yeah, I grew up without much.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He shrugs, but his posture is tenser than before—this isn’t something he’s over. “It was my mom and me. Dad left when I was a kid.”

  “That sucks.”

  “We made do. And then I hustled my ass off as soon as I could to make sure I took care of her.” He shrugs and I get the impression he didn’t mean to say all that, but it’s out there now and he can’t take it back.

  My privilege slaps me in the face. I never had to worry about money growing up. I was never a greedy child, never demanded new cars or designer anything, but I always had the best. I’m almost embarrassed that right now there’s a twenty-four thousand dollar Bernd Dimbath cello a few feet away in my living room. I had summer jobs for extras, but I didn’t have to work for my instruments. Father saw them as an investment in my future, and I never really thought about it; if I was going to be a professional cellist, I needed a professional grade instrument, and as cellos go, that isn’t even a big price tag.

  Maybe Dylan’s shady, or maybe he’s a blue-collar guy who’s honest as the day is long. Suddenly, I don’t want to know what he does. With muscles like his, he’s either in the gym a lot, or doing something physical—landscaping, maybe?

  Unlike me, he’s probably never taken an easy way out in his life, but he doesn’t seem to be judging me for mine. How many other people have judged me as a snobby bitch based on the way I dress, or the way I speak?

  He licks some peanut butter off his thumb. “Too bad your record player’s packed up. You could play me some moldy oldies.”

  I shake the thoughts away and focus on him again. “Not all the classics are boring.”

  “I know. I do listen to songs with instruments that don’t need to be plugged in.” He sighs. “Sorry I went all ‘If I was a rich man,’ on you earlier.” He sings the line, sending a jolt down my spine at the clarity of his rich tone.

  “You have a really good voice.”

  He shrugs. “So does everyone nowadays.”

  “No, I mean, like, really good.” I want to recapture the lightheartedness of earlier and also hear more of his voice. “Sing me something else.”

  He digs another olive out of the jar and pops it in his mouth. “Can’t.”

  “Why not? Shy?”

  He crawls around the perimeter of the blanket. “My mouth is busy with other things right now.”

  I swallow my bite as his lips hit mine. Our kiss tastes like a warm, dirty martini, and even though Dylan left me completely satisfied not even half an hour ago, I want him again.

  I want him inside me again.

  I suck his tongue into my mouth, sighing happily when he understands my physical invitation and presses me to the floor, plunging his tongue deeper, kissing me harder. The carpet provides minimal cushioning so when he lies on top of me it’s like being embraced from both sides. He nudges my legs apart, sensuously grinding his hips in a slow, rolling motion that tips my head back.

  Until this moment, I never realized my ceiling has a crack in it. I’m discovering all kinds of new things tonight.

  He licks and sucks his way down my neck, shaggy hair tickling my skin as he moves lower, stripping off my shirt and bra and covering the skin beneath with kisses and caresses.

  “Hold on a sec.” He abruptly stands, leaving me panting on the floor.

  No! Why? “Where are you going?”

  “Stay there.”

  I watch every ass-flexing step he takes to my bedroom before kneeling up and moving the cranberry-grape juices a safe distance away. I won’t be able to relax if I’m worried about an errant limb flinging out and making a giant red stain three days before I move. Relieved, I lie back down on the sheet and wait for Dylan.

  “I believe we were going to use this.” He throws his hand out and something soft lands on my chest.

  My scarf. Oh, boy. “I’ve never actually—”

  He laughs, but it’s not mean. “I know you haven’t. I bet there’s all kinds of interesting things you haven’t done.”

  I prop myself up on my elbows. “We’ve done a few of them tonight.”

  He stands over me. “Hold out your hands. We’re going to do a couple more.”

  I kneel, the fabric delicately sliding across my inner wrists, and before I can convince myself that letting a stranger tie me up is a Very Bad Idea, my hands are bound in front of me.

  He pulls a condom from the band of his boxers, kicks them off and slides the protection down his erection. “Stand. Now, I want you to walk to the window.”

  I scramble to my feet. “What?”

  He slaps my ass. “Don’t argue.”

  The thing is, I should argue more, but I don’t. I don’t because this man knows how to make me feel good—and I want as much of that as I can get while I can get it. Folding my hands up so my forearms cover my nipples, I walk to the window. “What now?”

  The lights go out and a moment later, his chest heats my back. “Now you look down on the street where you’ve lived, where you’ve given all these people songs of their own. And you’re going to take something for once.”

  I lean back against him. “What am I going to take?” I whisper.

  My shorts and panties hit the floor.

  “Whatever I give you.” He guides my hands up and hooks them behind the back of his neck, baring my breasts for the street to see—if anyone cared to look up. I suppose I’m not really exposed up here—it’s not bright out and the street’s quiet—but my breaths leave my lungs in ragged gasps.

  Dylan pushes me forward until my nipples press against the cold glass, and reaches between my legs from behind, plunging two fingers deep inside me, buckling my knees.

  “You like this, don’t you? I can see your face in the reflection, Rachel.” He adds his other hand, pinching my clit between two fingers.

  I whimper.

  “Look at yourself,” he whispers, breath hot in my ear.

  My gaze shifts focus from the street below to my face, pale and perfect in abandon, in pleasure.

  “You’re so sexy.”

  I am. Right now, I am, and it’s because of this man. “I want...”

  He sucks my earlobe into his mouth. “What do you want?”

  “I need...”

  He presses his hardness against my ass. “What do you need?”

  “I—”

  He nuzzles my neck. “Don’t be ashamed to ask for the things you need. For the things you want.” He abruptly takes his hands away from me, and I groan.

  “Please.”

  “Tell me what you need.”

  Frustration borne of desire tears the words from my mouth in a demanding voice. “I need you to fuck me in front of this fucking window.”

  He kicks my feet apart and nearly splits me in two with the depth of his first thrust. I cry out and pull on the scarf, wanting desperately to brace my hands on either side of the window, to push back against him to better feel every inch of his length plunging inside, unable to do more than spread wider and moan, taking what he gives me.

  “Anyone could look up and see me fucking you, Rachel.”

  Exhilaration jolts through me, spiraling in my belly, sharpening my senses, which only makes everywhere he touches that much more sensitive. I’m hyper-aware of his hard body pressed against my soft curves.

  Of his mouth, tracing patterns with his lips and breath against my neck and jaw, and the incredibly delicate skin below my ear.

  Of his ten fingers digging into my hips, urging me off and on his cock to a rhythm he’s creating.

  Of that cock, stretching and filling me, stroking my g-spot, weakening my knees.

  Of my spine curling when everything tightens and blows out my
senses with a deep orgasm wracking through my core and rippling out in a crescendo of yes.

  He unhooks my bound hands from behind his neck and holds me tight, pressing me against the window, burying himself deep as he comes.

  I can actually feel him twitch inside me.

  Our breath fogs the window in fast bursts, tiny patches of condensation that disappear as quickly as they’re made.

  I never want to forget this feeling.

  While keeping me in his arms, Dylan’s fingers make quick work of the knot in the scarf, and I’m freed.

  But I don’t want to be. “Thanks.” I don’t want this wild, sexy feeling to go away.

  I’m almost indecently wet when he pulls out. He smiles and rubs my wrists, encouraging more blood flow into the indentations—I pulled the knots harder with my movements while we were having sex.

  He nips my wrist then drops a kiss on it. “What’s that smile for?”

  I shake my head, not knowing how to explain that tonight was like a vacation, like being dropped into someone else’s life and instead of being strange, it was empowering. “I feel really good.”

  “Good. I’ll be right back.” He scoops up his boxers on his way to the bathroom. Slowly trailing my hands over my arms, luxuriating in the sensation, I gather my clothes and put them on, unhurriedly in the dark.

  Again, I take the bathroom when Dylan exits, cleaning myself up a little, and brushing my teeth before heading back out to the living room. Feeling braver than before, I decide to invite him to spend the night.

  Lights now on, Dylan’s fully dressed and talking on his phone. “Thanks.” He hangs up and turns to me. “Cab will be here in a few minutes.”

  I’m a little disappointed he’s already heading out the door, but school my features as best I can. “Ah.” Do I thank him for giving me the best sex of my life? “I had fun.”

  “Me too.”

  I walk him to the front door, and lean against the wall while he puts his boots back on, and pats his pockets, nodding that he hasn’t left anything behind.

  His gaze is intense enough I feel like he’s memorizing me before he speaks. “I hope your move is a good one.”

  “Thanks.” I wish I could think of something else to say, but it’s nearing four AM and my endorphin flooded brain is not doing me justice. And all I want is for him to stay.

  He hesitates. “I should probably get going.”

  “Then I suppose this is goodbye, Dylan-with-no-last-name.” I drop the hint that I’d like to know what that last name is.

  “The pleasure was all mine, Rachel-who-is-moving.” He wraps his arms around me, ravishing me with one last kiss that makes my heart pound.

  He winks and walks out my door without another word. The regret I expect to feel doesn’t come at all. For once, I can’t wait to tell Alex all the details—I never get to shock her, but I’ve got a feeling my tale with the scarf will make her eyes get pretty big. I’ll wait until tomorrow and facetime her so I can see her expression.

  Humming to myself, I clean up the remains of the picnic and fold the sheet, holding it to my face and breathing in the remnants of his cologne mingling with my perfume. The scents complement each other.

  How funny it is that I know nothing about him except his first name? I had a fantastic time with that badass in my bed.

  Too bad I’ll never see him again.

  It hits me then.

  I don’t regret the fact I let my guard down with him. I don’t regret letting him into my bed.

  I regret letting him leave.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It’s after eleven-thirty when I wake up—nearly unheard of with my strict schedule, but these last few days have been fairly empty, allowing me to lie in my bed, luxuriating first in the memories of last night, then continue wallowing in that languid feeling in a long, hot shower. Dylan’s given me enough Rabbit fodder to last me years, when the vividness of the memories of last night fade in intensity then finally dissolve completely like chocolate on my tongue.

  No matter what my future holds, I’ll always have last night to remember.

  I dry my hair and dress in a khaki skirt and a light blue sweater that gently caresses my skin, and swipe on a little mascara and lip gloss. Alex has sent me a text demanding details but also sending a sneak peek at the playlist I promised I’d listen to. I press play on the song called Summertime Sadness, and with the first few swelling chords I’m taken away.

  I grab an elastic and hastily weave my hair into a braid, throwing it over my shoulder and out of the way. I use a blue plastic tub as a seat—the chair’s buried behind a mountain of boxes and impossible to get to—and unlock my cello case. Pulling her free, I restart the song on my phone, nestle my instrument close and close my eyes, letting the music flow through me, then from me.

  My fingers fly over the strings, my body sways with the movements of my bowing, and I nail down the vocal line of the chorus, smiling when I get it right and the notes reverberate back, full and stentorian.

  The knocking at the door kills the moment, tearing me from the song.

  I huff impatiently, not wanting to stop playing. If the movers came early... “Hang on.” Gently placing my cello back in the case and shutting it, I pad over to the door, ready for conflict when I open it.

  “Hey, Cello Chick.” Dylan smiles, freshly shaved and changed and smoldering on my threshold.

  My skin’s heating with a full-body blush before my brain catches up and I rein in my goofy grin. “What are you doing here?”

  He leans against the doorjamb. “I know you probably have a million things to do before you leave town in a couple of days so I thought I’d come by and ask if you’d spend the day with me instead. Bad girls blow off their responsibilities.”

  I can’t say I’m sad that he came back. Not that I felt bad about having a one-night-stand, but it’s even better that he’s reached out to me. “You’re leading with the fact you’re inconveniencing me? That’s not the best strategy to sell yourself.”

  He holds up a small white paper back and two takeout cups. “I also brought breakfast.”

  My stomach rumbles at the rich aroma of coffee, and I take a cup and motion for him to come in. “Hard to say no to that.”

  “I didn’t take you for a Lana fan.”

  Alannafan? “A what?”

  “The song you were playing just now?” He follows me into the living room, where I point at a blue plastic tub he can sit on, and take my seat again a few feet away, shutting my phone off.

  “Oh. It’s something Alex sent me to listen to, but yes, I really like it.”

  He sets his cup down and digs into the bag. “Let me guess. You’ve never heard of Lana before.”

  “I can’t think of other songs of hers, but her voice sounds a little familiar.”

  He shakes his head at my defensive answer and hands me a pastry. “Are you this out of touch with all of pop culture, or only the music?” It’s curiosity, not a put-down.

  Glazed icing crumbles on my lips as I take a bite of the fruit-stuffed goodness. “It’s not that I mean to shut it out. I like to think of myself as an attentive person.”

  “You get too busy?”

  “And I love playing”—I nod at my cello—“but that’s hours a day of practice, maintenance of the instrument, learning the music, perfecting bowing techniques, listening to different peoples’ interpretations of those songs I’m supposed to learn. When I’m done with that, I like it to be quiet. I don’t want to be bombarded with the latest reality television show, or who’s marrying who in the tabloids. Entertainment becomes noise instead of information. I’d rather go out with my friends and talk about their lives than go see a movie, or talk about celebrities we’ve never met and never will meet. I have goals, but they require work. I don’t expect things to fall onto my lap.” Wow, I just word-vomited my boring life.

  “You’re so different from most women I’ve met lately. In a good way,” he clarifies hastily.

  I’m
moved by the sincerity in his eyes. “Thanks. I don’t want much, but the things I want, I need.”

  “We’re more alike than I thought.”

  I smile and finish my pastry.

  He balls his napkin and puts it back into the empty bag. “Confession time—and a request.”

  A mild deer-in-the-headlights feeling flashes through me. My gaze flicks to his left hand, searching for a ring, or a tan line where a ring should be. He wants me to promise I’ll never tell a soul he cheated with me. Oh god.

  He notices my stare and laughs. “I’m not married. But I’m also not from Chicago.”

  “Oh. Well, neither am I.” I shouldn’t be pleased he’s single. It doesn’t matter if he is.

  “No, I mean I don’t live here. You’re moving and I’m only in town for another day or so, myself.”

  I brush crumbs from my fingertips. “What brought you to Chicago?”

  “Just visiting. But I was thinking maybe you’d be into showing me around a bit.”

  I toy with the bottom of my cup. Why would he want me to do this? “And you can’t ask any of your friends to be your tour guide?”

  “To be honest, the people I know here would be into going to loud bars and things I’ve already seen.”

  “I’m not the best to show you this city. I’ve barely seen much of it, myself.”

  He grins. “All the more reason to see a few places before you move, right?”

  He’s not wrong; it’s not the first time I’ve regretted not seeing more while I was here. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

  His smile is lightning fast and twice as hot. “I don’t want to see my normal things either, nothing loud and crowded.”

  “That’s a deal.” I grimace exaggeratedly.

  “See? You’re perfect for this adventure.”

  “Maybe. But I don’t exactly know where that ‘perfect place’ you’re looking for is in Chicago. We’ll have to research. I could sneak you onto campus?”

  “Let’s stay away from the usual stomping grounds. This should be fun and different for you too.”