He reaches around my hip and rubs my clit while I unlock the door, this time with laser precision because my body’s now calling the shots—and it wants him now. We burst into my apartment and slam the door behind us, tearing at each other’s clothes with frantic movements and almost angry expressions on the way to my bedroom. I take his glasses off and set them on my counter because I want to see his eyes.
They’re wide open and fixed on mine.
I hate that he’s not already inside me.
Mouths locked together, we stumble around the boxes in my room, unable to part until we’re next to the bed and all that’s left are his boxers and my panties. He pushes me away by the hips and I land on the bed and tip my hips up to help him get me naked. I rub his engorged cock through his boxers before tearing them past his hips, the soft sound of them hitting my floor the best thing I’ve ever heard.
Everything’s hazy, every cell of my body demanding I spread wide for him, but he’s been so very good to me today, and I’m an orgasm ahead, so I bend and suck him into my mouth. He grinds out a low moan which hits me straight between the legs, reverberating in pulses reaching deep inside me.
This. This feels powerful, and sexy, and I suck at him greedily, wanting more of this feeling, wanting him to be as turned on as I am.
I want him to be more turned on than I am.
He grabs the back of my head, and I take him deeper in my mouth, looking up at the ecstasy on his face as he fucks my mouth for three hard thrusts before pulling out and reaching for his pants, pulling a condom out of his pocket and rolling it on.
“I need to be inside you.”
I lie back on the bed.
Afternoon sunlight streams through the window, highlighting the definition of his physique and the dark ink decorating it, and I take a second to just look, soaking him in. Never wanting to forget this man and the adventurous person I was when I was with him.
Impulsively, I flip over, get up on my hands and knees, shamelessly spread my legs, and look over my shoulder, smiling at the surprise that streaks across his features.
He strokes a hand down my back and over my ass, barely skimming his thumb along the crack. My spine tenses a bit in surprise and a little fear—I don’t want him in there—but he settles behind me and thrusts inside my pussy, and concern falls away.
I think Dylan could do anything to me and it would feel good.
I came hard at Tilt, but it was nothing compared to the completion I feel with him driving inside me now in deep, thick, thrusts. His hands dig into my hips, holding me steady as he pushes inside hard enough to nudge me farther across the bed. The friction heats my knees and they’re going to be pink and marked, but I don’t want him to ever stop.
After a few minutes, he pulls out. “Turn over.”
I do, but pout. “I liked the other way.”
“Me too, but I want to see your tits shake.” He wastes no time plunging back inside and going slower but harder.
Sure enough, my breasts bounce every time in a way I find amusing, but with the way he’s biting his lip and staring like he wants to devour me, I don’t feel like laughing at all.
He lifts my knees, spreading them out like a butterfly’s wings, grinding against my clit when he’s fully sheathed inside me, drawing more pleasure from my body. His hands knead my breasts, tracing thumbs across the tight buds of my nipples, lightly squeezing them.
But I want even more. I can tell this man what I want. “Dylan?”
“Yeah?”
Do it. Tell him what you want. “I want you to bite me.”
He laces his fingers through mine, throws our hands above my head on the mattress, and sharply nips my lip, sending a spasm through my innermost muscles, gripping his cock.
“Mmm, you really like that, don’t you, baby? You like it when it hurts a little?”
“Yeah,” I answer in between kisses and nibbles.
“Tip your hips up.” He puts a hand under my ass to help, tilting my hips at a more severe angle so his cock rubs against my g-spot before sucking my tongue into his mouth hard enough to hurt a little, in the perfect way I didn’t know I liked until he came home with me last night.
His hips do a little shimmy that steals my breath, and he does it again, kissing me rough and fast like he can’t get enough of my body’s reaction to the things he’s doing.
He thrusts deep and moves his knees, scooping me up until he’s kneeling on the bed and I’m on top, straddling him. In this position, I’m taller than he is.
“I bet I know something else you’ve never done.” He places his lips on my neck and licks hard before sucking the skin. It pinches. It stings.
It feels fucking amazing.
I’ll never razz Alex about another hickey again.
Unable to stay still, I start riding him with complete abandon.
He bends to my chest, placing his lips above my left breast. He sucks my flesh into his mouth. Hard. Oh, God, I might come from this. He nibbles and licks his way across the valley of my breasts to place a matching mark on the right one. Each pinch caused by the warm, wet suction of his mouth drives me higher, makes me bob up and down faster, so desperate for release I’m dizzy.
Dylan reaches down and starts massaging quick, light circles over my clit. That’s all it takes, and I unravel completely, shuddering, moaning his name as I spasm around him, tossed by waves of pleasure like a tiny boat on a rough sea. Wrapping his arms around me, he increases the speed of his thrusts until he comes a moment later.
We collapse in a messy tangle of limbs and smiles, and he tucks me against his chest so I’m the little spoon. The warmth of his body and the past couple days catch up with me, and I succumb to the heaviness of my eyelids.
“Hey.” He strokes my back and kisses my shoulder again. “Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey.”
Blinking hard, I realize the light’s changed with the setting sun. I fell asleep in his arms. “I wish. I’m jealous of Old Mother Hubbard’s cupboards. Wait, her cupboards were bare. I think.” I stretch and pull the sheet tighter around me, suddenly ravenous. “Do you like pizza?”
“Two things you never have to ask a guy: Do you like pizza? And Voulez-vous cou—”
I slap his chest and smile. “What kind do you like? Pizza,” I hastily clarify as a wicked gleam enters his eyes.
“As much as I’d love to stay in bed and eat pizza with you, I’ve really go to get going. I didn’t mean to fall asleep, but it’s later than I thought and you felt so damn good.”
I push up and nod, and for a moment we just look at one another like we’re both memorizing the lines of each other’s faces. I run my fingers through his floppy hair, and trace the tattoos on his chest, wondering why he chose each piece of ink. I want him to stay so badly, spend the night, but that’s more than I’m comfortable asking for, and he’s definitely not fishing for an invitation.
“Do you leave soon?”
He nods. “Tomorrow afternoon.”
I have things to do to get ready for the move, annoying and important things to finalize tonight and tomorrow, but I’d put everything off to spend another night with him. “Ah.”
“Back to the grind.” He sighs and swings his feet over the side of my bed, turning his back on me. I may want to spend more time together, but he isn’t suggesting it.
The sheet’s still warm from the heat of his body, and I wrap it around myself instead of getting dressed. Besides, I think my bra’s still in the living room, and I’m definitely not putting those panties back on.
He grabs his clothes and holds his hand out for me to take. We negotiate our way around the boxes until we get to the living room and he picks his shirt and hoodie off the floor before heading to the bathroom.
I call for a cab and stand in front of the window, looking down at my neighbors below.
How many times have I stood here, sat here, playing music while the world went by without me, living lives I’ll never have? I can’t fade away as soon as I step off stage anymo
re. I’m more than a vessel for music—I’m a human being. I’m Rachel. I can’t lose myself while pursuing my dreams. The single-minded focus I’ve had has gotten me far, but it’s taken some of the glow from my life, rendering me less present than I should be.
Dylan wraps his arms around me, nuzzling my cheek. “I had a great time with you.”
I tip my head back. “Me too.”
Weakness takes my legs when his lips touch mine again, and I turn in his arms, pressing myself against him, wanting the feeling of his body stamped against mine, tattooed in my memory forever. The sheet slips down to my waist, baring my breasts, and he palms them, thumbing my nipples into stiff peaks.
I grab the back of his neck, pulling him closer to deepen the kiss. The way he kisses spreads warmth to every part of my body. Consuming, demanding, insistent. This could be the last kiss of my life and that would be fine by me.
Maybe it will be.
He breaks away and grabs the sheet before it falls away completely, covering my skin again. “Okay, you are trouble.” He shakes his head and bites his lip, pressing one last soft kiss to my mouth. “If I don’t leave right now, I’m going to be late for work.”
What do you do? I don’t ask.
He takes a step away and turns back, pulling out his phone. “You should give me your phone number or email address.”
Oh, I want to. I’d love to see Dylan again, spend more time with him, but that feels more like overindulging in something decadent and ultimately bad for my health. I forget myself when I’m with him and I have obligations, plans that were set into motion before he stormed into my life. Besides, what future do we really have? “Every minute I’ve spent with you has been amazing. But it’s not like we’re going to be bumping into each other a lot. I think we should leave this as a vacation fling for you, and a wild goodbye to Chicago for me.”
Dylan’s little smile is sad. “You’re probably right. We won’t even be living in the same state.” He tucks his phone away and we stand awkwardly for a moment.
I hate that I’m disappointed he didn’t push further. But it’s the best thing. It’s the right thing.
I want to know where he lives, but the less I know, the easier it will be to move on with my life—though I’ll never forget him. “I’ll walk you to the door.” A flash of out of place silver catches my attention on the way through the kitchen. “Oh, your shades.” I grab them from the counter and hold them out.
He takes them, opens the arms and slides the sunglasses onto my face, lightly tapping the tip of my nose. “Keep them. They look better on you, Cello Chick.” With that, he turns and leaves my apartment.
I lean against the door and sigh. What a good way to end my life in Chicago. It really has been a wild goodbye. Maybe I’ll never do anything like this ever again, but one thing is certain—the last couple days have brought a spark to my time here that I’ll cherish forever.
I cannot believe I did...well, everything I’ve done in the past day. I let the strange sorrow settle over me.
Odd that this adventure has also made leaving seem sadder than it was before.
CHAPTER SEVEN
As much as I want to welcome the future, thoughts of Dylan capture me the whole flight to Boston a couple days later. To stave off the mid-flight chill, and hide my hickeys, I wore a scarf—the same one he tied my hands with. I cross my legs, too aware of the throbbing between my legs that will never be relieved.
No one’s ever going to compare to him.
I should have taken his number.
For what? We have no future together—it’s better I didn’t take his contact information. Look at what happened—two days in his presence and he had me doing things in public. Worst of all, I don’t even feel bad about it. No, he’s far too tempting, the type of guy who doesn’t help you with your goals, he distracts you from them, and I’ve worked too hard to let that happen. I can’t be derailed by a sexy fling.
This way, he’ll always be the perfect memory of the time I went a little wild before knuckling down. A memory that will put a sparkle in my eye when I’m eighty that makes the grandkids wonder what I’m thinking about. Of course, I’ll never tell them I’m remembering the time a stranger named Dylan ate me out in a stairwell in public!
I flip through the inflight magazine, focusing on nothing. By the time we begin our descent, I’ve finally put Dylan firmly behind me. The plane comes to life after we land with a bump and come to a stop a few minutes later. People start stretching, a few grab their carry-on luggage despite the seatbelt sign still being on. When the guy next to me turns on his phone, I do the same to text Alex that I’ve landed safely.
In the one-hundred-and-seventy minutes since I turned my phone off, I’ve missed three calls and four texts from Alex.
Dread weights my limbs and my skin prickles with nerves. What the hell happened?
Alex: Omg. OMG. CALL ME AS SOON AS YOU LAND!!!!!!!
Alex: Without context you’re going to think there was an emergency. I’M FINE! But omfg you’re not going to believe this. Tattooed guy? Dylan? He’s not just some random!
What the hell does that mean? Do we know him from school? No, I’d have remembered him if we’d met before.
Alex: Remember that band Fallen Angels who won that reality tv contest last year? Google Dylan St. John.
Alex: I’m dying! I knew he looked familiar! CALL MEEEEE!
Is that his last name? A strange humming begins in my mind. My fingers tremble as I punch his name into my search browser.
And get forty-seven million search results.
Holy shit.
The memory is vague but there, refreshed with the snippets of information my eyes skim over and my brain numbly processes. Last year, the band Fallen Angels had taken a reality talent show by storm. They were young, bad boy rockers who the girls went nuts over, the kick being that they could actually play their instruments and wrote their own music, so they reached a broader audience. They were real musicians, and they were touted as being commercially appealing without being mainstream.
Alex had initially called them a boy band with instruments until she heard a few more songs and begrudgingly admitted they were damn good. I’d barely paid attention, too busy trying to learn an audition piece for Boston.
I scroll through article after article, learning their history in the ten months since the show. They went on to record a studio album that went gold almost immediately, then double platinum. They’re finishing up a hugely successful world tour right now with a few stops in America.
They played Chicago the night before last.
And Dylan is the frontman.
If even I’ve heard of this band, that means Dylan is a famous motherfucker.
In a slow motion slideshow, memories flash through my mind.
The guy fistbumping Dylan at the bar.
Dylan asking if Alex was the fan when I told him she was the one who really bought him the drink.
The way he evaded my pressing when I said he had a great voice when he sang in my apartment.
The looks he got when we went to Millennium Park—it wasn’t because people were judging him for his appearance.
His acceptance of my lack of interest in personal details about him—he was probably relieved I wasn’t prying like everyone else.
The big shades he wore that are now on my head—he was hiding behind them because people know his face.
How the operator of Tilt looked the other way when Dylan broke the rules by standing behind me, and then took me to the stairwell.
The reason Dylan had to leave—he was performing that night and I almost made him late for the concert.
I thought he was a regular guy who was struggling, or ashamed of what he did for a living.
Dylan St. John could probably pay my entire graduating class’s student debts without breaking a sweat. He could rent out Tilt and have an orgy with the trail of supermodels he’s been linked with—if these pictures haven’t been photoshopped.
Well, why would they have been? He’s a star.
He’s not my memory.
He’s not just my anything.
The scruffy man who made me cracker sandwiches and tied me up and fucked me in front of my window was on the cover of Rolling Stone Magazine last month. And I refused to give him my phone number or email address. Most women would have given anything for his contact information.
I turned him down.
While I don’t have his contact information, I know entirely too much—When Dylan St. John’s not touring, he lives in Los Angeles.
I close the browser, mind reeling.
LA’s so far away, but now he’s too real.
All the warmth is sucked from the memories, confusion swirling through, muddying the waters. He was supposed to be a part of my past, that hot, nameless guy from a wicked weekend. I was supposed to be able to go on and leave our time together as a happy memory, moving on with my plans and serious career with no regrets.
He was supposed to be forgettable.
Now he’s only an entertainment magazine, a celebrity news show, an internet search away. Now that I know who he is and how easy he is to google, how will I ever be able to forget him?
And what if someone saw us together?
CHAPTER EIGHT
Two weeks later...
The vibration spreads through my fingers and up my arm, tickling my skin but I can’t stop. I move faster, harder, relishing the hum moving down my thighs, needing more, wanting more. At the critical moment, something swells inside me and Dylan’s face pops back into my mind.
He filled me with this feeling too.
He made me want more.
His hands danced across my skin, lighting me up with need before I burst and peace washed over me. I’m so close to that now.
The look in his eyes when he ordered me around, taking control. That sexy, filthy mouth sucking patterns on my body that have faded and I hate that they’re gone now because our time together feels less real.
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