I move my fingers faster.
His cock, stretching me, jabbing into the deepest places of my body.
I open my eyes, make a slight adjustment, and find the rhythm, let it carry me away, back to the place I need to be, building higher and higher, faster and faster. I’m going to finish this, thinking of him again.
My toes curl despite my efforts to relax into the next swell. So close to perfection...
“Stop!” Maestro pinches the bridge of his nose and we all grind to a quivering halt. “Swear to Christ, if I hear a C Sharp from the violas one more time...”
I dampen the strings of the cello between my knees, mourning the loss of the escape the song was giving—until Dylan intruded in my mind and made me crave more than a musical release.
The tension of ninety suppressed annoyed sighs at the one musician stalling our progress instantly fills the room, though none of us dares express it. I especially hate Maestro for stealing my release away from me when I was so close to finding peace.
Maestro stares down the viola section and I resist the urge to adjust the bra strap that’s slipped off my shoulder beneath my blouse, lest I bring his attention—and wrath—upon me instead of the sloppy-fingered viola player a few feet to my right. I’d bet money on it being the other new girl Christine, judging by the vicious side-eye she’s getting from the woman to her left.
Maestro—Blaine Sanderson, rules the symphony with perfect pitch and withering scorn. He’s also the best director I’ve ever met, and the reason I’m in Boston with a coveted place in the symphony. We all worked our asses off to get here, some have been a part of the symphony for years. Getting here wasn’t the end of my journey—it was only the beginning of an even harder one.
And I’m loving it.
The new season hasn’t started yet, so we’re hammering the kinks out of the music, but compared to my crammed school schedule—with work on top of it—this is way less packed. When we begin performances next week, typically four per week, rehearsals will be a little less frequent than the five three-hour blocks we’re doing now. I’ll barely have time for a social life, never mind looking for new, sexy pictures of Dylan online that I can use for masturbation fodder, imagining all the ways we could run into each other in my new life, all of them leading to more of the best sex I’ve ever had.
Will ever have.
I fantasize about him secretly tracking me down and “bumping into me” outside the rehearsal hall, the rest of the orchestra buzzing with interest when they realize he’s here for me. I don’t care that he’s a famous rock star. I miss him and the way he made me feel.
I imagine performing a particularly difficult solo, feeling his eyes on me the whole time, then looking into the crowd and confirming it. Seeing the promise of being thoroughly fucked in his eyes, burning me from his seat in the first row.
Him sitting on my front step when I get home, wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung jeans and that scandalous smile.
Maestro’s baton hits the podium with an especially loud tap, drawing me back to my job. I wish Dylan could hear me play so he could see how good I am at this. We truly share a love of music.
The best part is that since this is now my day job, I’m getting paid to play—and it’s not a paltry sum, either.
I should use some of my salary to get a few strapless bras. Shrugging my shoulder doesn’t finesse it back into place, so I give in and reach for the strap, stopping when Blaine’s gaze snaps to mine. Hastily, I return my hand to my cello’s neck as slowly as I can in case his anger is provoked by movement.
Screw the strap; it’s not impeding my playing, it’s just uncomfortable. I can live with it.
“Rachel.” Maestro’s voice is as sharp as his gaze.
Mine is the only name I’ve heard him speak during practice. Everyone else gets a nickname or pejorative, like he’s too important or busy to bother with their names. “Yes?” Him singling me out shouldn’t make me nervous, but it does.
He arches an eyebrow. “Since you’re unable to sit still, perhaps you’d like to show the viola section the notes they’re supposed to play.”
Playing their part won’t make me any friends, and will only make me look like a show off. My face burns. “Oh, no, my strap was—”
“Do you not know the part?”
“No, I know it,” I correct him matter-of-factly.
“Then play it.” He glares when I hesitate further, icy blue eyes pinning me to my chair. “What part of that sounded like a request?” The authority in his voice reminds me of Dylan, and I shiver, shaking him from my mind for the twentieth time today.
Why is Blaine doing this? Is it a test? Something to show I have the skills to justify the strings he’s pulled to get me here lest he be accused of favoritism? The longer I don’t play, the longer we all have to sit here—he’s not going to let us leave early. I swallow hard and play the notes like I was told, fear and embarrassment sharpening my movements into precise, resounding tones I barely remember playing once I’m done.
“Good.” Blaine nods and promptly ignores me again. “Everyone, from the top.” He raises his hands, and we play through the section, this time flawlessly. Every note brings relief, carrying me a little farther away from being put on the spot in such a confrontational way. I’ll be bringing this up with him as soon as possible—maybe when he asks me on another boring dinner, where I sit and eat and he sits and plays with his phone, or rants about the pressures of being in such an intense, prestigious position the whole night.
Maybe I should have expected it; his ruthless ambition is no secret. Barely thirty and he’s poised to be the first ever to both conduct and be a director. Everything he is depends on us and how well we perform under him. Support for the arts has been dwindling for years, economic abilities and interest wanes, so we’re battling to get back to where we were, never mind increase sponsorship. Two of our patrons had to withdraw their support for chairs this year, unforeseen circumstances forcing them to cut back. It’s awful and a big part of what’s driving Blaine to be the best, be so aggressive with us, so demanding.
On the plus side, the tense practice sessions have been the only things that successfully kept my mind off of sexy rockers who screwed me senseless a couple weeks ago. But those sexy thoughts come flooding back when my fingers catch onto an intense melody. Too many things remind me of Dylan. Even settling in the past couple weeks, unpacking my apartment, and practicing cello, Dylan invades my mind every time I stop focusing on something.
I’ve spent an embarrassing amount of time with my vibrator, reliving the more salacious moments between Dylan and I. There hasn’t been much time for a social life, but there’s been plenty of time to think about him. My new apartment has a great view, but every time I play, making songs up for the neighbors, all I can picture is the way he fucked my from behind, pressing my breasts into the cold glass window of my old apartment where anyone could have seen.
God, I know what I’m doing as soon as I get home. The gently vibrating cello between my legs only exacerbates things.
Now, bowing an arpeggio, I focus on Maestro. He’s cute in a dark, over-coiffed way. Could I ever really like this passionate, angrily intense musician? I can relate to the raw way he loves music. We’re both more than willing to make sacrifices to get to the top. He breathes for, lives, and would die for his music. The man’s got ambition to burn, but his passion only reminds me of Dylan.
Maestro and I both went home alone and frustrated the other night after our second date together. I’m trying to move on after Dylan, but nothing is intense enough to eclipse him. Not even my larger-than-life Maestro.
If Dylan had been waiting for me at home, I wouldn’t have been frustrated. He’d have filled me with his cock, made me come so hard...instead, I ended up falling asleep after pretending my hand was Dylan’s. It wasn’t the same, wasn’t enough. I tried.
Stop thinking about Dylan St. John.
I’m trying.
My strap slips ag
ain.
I’m burning this bra when I get home.
We come to a stop and wait.
“See to that bow before next rehearsal,” Maestro addresses a violinist, whose bow is in terrible shape, before turning to the pianist. “Middle C sounds muted. I’ll have someone in to take a look tonight.”
Carl the pianist looks relieved that his instrument’s problem isn’t his fault.
Blaine’s gaze sharply sweeps across the rest of us. “Practice the third movement this week. I want it crisp with no mistakes—nothing like today.” He focuses on Christine. “C Sharp, meet me in my office.”
She blanches but nods. None of us envy her, but the way he doesn’t even bother saying her name makes me cringe. That ruthless disregard for common courtesies nearly erases every attractive thing about him.
After we’re dismissed, I dawdle to be the last one out, slowly packing my cello away before heading back to my chair. Blaine’s probably going to want to discuss more expectations he has for me now that I have the first week under my belt.
Another week without Dylan.
Giving my head a shake, I look up from the sheet music to find Blaine gone and the room mostly empty.
Damn it.
Today’s only my third day, but I’d hoped to have more of an in-depth conversation with Blaine. The man holds my future in his hands. Not that I’m eager for it after today’s display. He’s probably worried about showing preferential treatment, but I wasn’t expecting him to put me on the spot the way he did today—or to treat Christine so disrespectfully.
Then again, can I blame him? His ruthlessness is driven by desperation.
Being driven isn’t a bad thing—it’s a quality in me he responded to in my initial audition. The conservative Arts board thinks he has one strike against him because he’s young—which is irrelevant, if you ask me—but anything less than perfection will lose him the coveted position. It’s awful and a big part of what’s driving Blaine to be the best, be so aggressive with us, so demanding.
When it all comes together like our last number today, it’s beautiful. It reminds us all why we chose this.
And the tense practice sessions have been the only thing successfully keeping my mind off of sexy rockers, but only for a few minutes here and there. Mostly, passionate music makes me think about Dylan more.
I’ve also spent an embarrassing amount of time with my vibrator, reliving the more salacious moments between Dylan and I. There hasn’t been much time for a social life, but there’s been plenty of time to think about him.
I scrub my hands over my face, embarrassed even now about what I did with Dylan in public places. Worse, the fact I don’t regret it. While I was doing it, I didn’t give a shit who could have seen me. Now that time’s gone by, disbelief at my actions has been creeping in more and more.
Disbelief and a hell of a lot of fantasies that we’re doing those things again. I don’t regret doing a single thing with that man. I only regret falling asleep and wasting those hours by being unconscious when we could have used them... Latent heat crackles over my skin and a giant sigh escapes my lungs.
“Hey, don’t mind Maestro. He’s tough on everyone. Rachel, right?”
I look up at the cellist standing next to me, thankful he misread my frustration as professional instead of sexual. He's good-looking in a generic WASP-y way, except for the short, dirty-blond ponytail and spot of hair below his lower lip. He’s a bit older than I am, maybe thirty-one, and rather talented, if the past three days are anything to go by; his bowing is phenomenal. Too bad he isn’t buff and tattooed. Too bad he’s not Dylan.
I muster up a smile. “Yes.”
He smiles back. “And if it’s any consolation, you played remarkably well. Maestro couldn’t find fault with it—and believe me, if you’d played a note even slightly off, he’d have taken it out on all of us, so thank you. I’m Paul.” He holds out his hand and I shake it.
“Thanks, Paul. He is pretty intense.”
“I think the ‘I’ word you’re looking for is Insane.”
His criticism of Blaine makes me uncomfortable, but everyone else has filed from the room, leaving us alone. No one will think I was badmouthing Blaine with Paul, but I’m still going to be careful with my words. My future rests in Blaine’s hands. I shrug. “He seems tough, but he’s the best, right?”
Paul tilts his head. "Well, he does seem to have a soft spot for you." He sits in the chair next to mine, balancing his case with one arm. “But it could be the fact you're really talented."
The appraising look in his eyes so soon after sexy thoughts of Dylan makes me blush. “Thank you.”
“However, I could believe he's got a thing for you.”
Maybe he’ll think I have a crush on Blaine. Would that be a good thing? It’s better than the truth, I guess. I blush further and force the words past my lips. “Do you really think so?”
“Of course. You play better than some of the tenured players. Wait a second.” Paul rolls his eyes and digs into his messenger bag. “Oh, no. Don’t tell me the new girl has a crush on the Maestro? I wouldn’t have taken you for a masochist. I can’t imagine what dates with that guy would be like.” A small rectangle of stiff paper falls to the floor with a tiny slap he doesn’t notice, so I bend to retrieve it.
I’m not interested in Paul, so I could say that I like Blaine, that I don’t have some kind of schoolgirl crush on him, but I can’t explain that without sounding like I’m protesting too much, and I don’t know if Blaine would appreciate that. I focus on the paper on the ground—a concert ticket. I should be defending Blaine, but the concert ticket makes me think of another man.
God, I’m annoying. Everything isn’t about Dylan.
Flipping the ticket over, I see rather pricey floor seats to a large venue, dated for tonight. I move my thumb from the rest of the writing and my heart stops.
Fallen Angels.
Dylan’s band.
My Dylan.
My filthy, tattooed badass.
Chills cascade over my skin as heat pools between my legs and I squeeze my thighs together, assaulted by the memories of him I’ve tried to forget.
His teal eyes meeting mine in the reflection of the window as he fucked me from behind.
His dirty mouth, licking, sucking, telling me sexy things.
His hands, big and powerful, claiming me, making me come harder than I thought possible. Making me do things I never should have done, but that I’d do again in a goddamned heartbeat if I had the chance.
I shake myself. No. I couldn’t do them again.
I still can’t believe he’s not my dirty little anonymous fling. Only I could pick a random out of the bar to sleep with and he’d turn out to be the biggest fucking rock star to emerge in recent history. I didn’t even choose him to hit on—Alex did. Not that we knew that at the time. She didn’t even recognize him, only told me later that he seemed familiar, but she took that as a sign from fate that he was a good fit for me.
After the plane ride, I spent a panicky few minutes worried someone may have taken our picture while I was in a compromising position, and plastered it online, jeopardizing my career before it even started. But as the hours turned to days, a throbbing disappointment overtook the relief.
It was like I never existed in his life. Like our time together never happened, and I started searching for anything, a paragraph on a gossip site, a blurry picture, anything to prove that for two amazing days, Dylan St. John chose me, couldn’t get enough of me.
Days turned into weeks and I found nothing linking us. As well as filling too many hours scouring the internet for pics of us together, I devoured pictures of Dylan, stories of his life like a starving woman, though there’s not much personal about him online. He tends to keep the interviews about the music. I looked everywhere for a recent pic, something where he looked like my Dylan instead of some untouchable celebrity.
It got to where I’d have taken a blurry shot of him biting my shoulder while h
e fucked me in my window—despite the scandal that would have caused for me professionally, just to have something more linking us.
The prestigious classical world is so much about appearances it’s almost disgusting, but I have to play by their rules to get the life I want.
To get the freedom I want.
Freedom from being judged isn’t a part of that, so I need to forget about bad boys who make my pulse pound.
Forgetting Dylan is, unfortunately, impossible—and I’ve tried. Two weeks haven’t erased his touch from my skin, as if I’m the one who's covered with tattoos—only they’re the memories of everywhere on my body Dylan touched. His touch still claims my body and no amount of hot baths or cold showers scrub away the feeling of his hands and mouth. Every single place he touched remembers, inking my body with memories of our wild twenty-four hours together.
“Rachel?” Paul’s voice creeps in, snapping me back to the present. I look up and Paul laughs. “I lost you for a minute there. Geez, you must really like the Fallen Angels.”
No, say no. Sever the connection, already. “I love them.”
His laughter, startlingly loud but pleasant, fills the pit. “I can’t believe it! Hardly anyone else around these parts pays attention to anything from this century, other than the odd jazz fan. This crowd wouldn’t admit liking anyone spawned from a reality television show. Christine likes Rihanna, but I don’t think she’ll be here for much longer.”
I grimace, remembering Blaine’s anger at her. “That’s rough.”
He shrugs. “It’s music. We’re in the big leagues. How did you hear about Fallen Angels? I wouldn’t have taken you for a rock fan.”
I cross my arms. “Someone put me onto them before I moved.”
“Interesting. Who else do you like?”
“Lana del Rey, Snow Ghosts, Imagine Dragons.” Every artist Dylan mentioned in an interview, I immediately sought out and devoured. I wanted to hear what he was listening to, what he filled the silence in his world with. If Dylan hadn’t gotten me over my snobbery, who knows when I’d have learned my tastes are more diverse?
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