Vibrato

by Tamara Mataya

  He wants me naked and waiting for him and despite every rational part of my being screaming at me to stop, to not do this to myself gain, I can’t help it.

  I don’t want to be rational tonight.

  A red carpet leads up to the doors, between the gold pillars with lights shining toward the sky, making my last steps outside feel like a Hollywood event even though there’s no one to see them except for the doorman.

  The entrance’s ceiling is lower than I’d expected from the outside, but I flash my key card at the bored-looking woman at the front desk flanked by rough red bricked walls, and head for the double escalators that lead to a huge, airy room, with balconies wrapped around it on a few levels. Trying not to stand around with wide eyes, spinning in a circle like a girl from a movie, I head for the nearest elevator. There’s no time to marvel at the gorgeous hotel. Is what I’m about to do written all over my face? Can the people in the lobby smell the guilt and exhilaration on me?

  I don’t realize I have a key to the presidential penthouse suite until I get there.

  The décor of the hallway is too tasteful for what I’m about to do, but I blot my hands on my jeans and employ the keycard into the lock. My hands shake too much the first two times, but on the third I unlock the door and push inside the dim room, breathing heavily but still not getting enough air.

  There’s still time to run away, go back home, be the responsible Rachel I should be.

  I want to be the version of Rachel Dylan makes me. I want to be wilder, braver, bolder.

  Freer.

  Even if it’s only for one more night.

  I close the door firmly behind me. Does Dylan have another key? What if he gave me the only copy and I end up locking him out? He’ll have to go to the lobby again and probably be mad when he gets back up here.

  A pulsing ache between my legs grabs my attention. Maybe I’d like to see Dylan mad, commanding.

  The living room of the suite is decorated in muted greys and beiges, accented with black pieces that pull things together in a boxy, modern way that feels expensive without trying too hard. A lamp is on in the corner, illuminating the room with its soft, warm light. Clean straight lines with no personality included. Some things are universally appealing.

  The suite occupies a corner of the building, and the floor to ceiling windows give breathtaking views of two directions, revealing vast portions of the city I’m trying to forget outside, so I head straight for the bedroom, pulling out my phone to check the time. Seven minutes until he gets here. Seven minutes until we...

  The bedroom has the same windows, a king size bed covered with a luxurious, silvery quilt with small squares sewn into it. More sharp lines. I’m sure that’s a metaphor for our generation, but—

  “You came.”

  I startle towards Dylan’s voice, so close by, heart slamming into my ribs like a caged bird trying to escape. “Yes. I can’t be late, I had a few minutes left!” Is he going to be mad at me for failing to do as ordered? Will he send me away, wanting, for it?

  Please don’t let him send me away.

  “You're not late.” Dylan shoves my backside against the wall, clawing at my clothes as I drop my phone and purse and don’t care one bit. He runs his fingers through my hair, pushing it back from my face. “I couldn't wait. I'm early.”

  Thank God.

  His lips roughly part mine, his tongue delving inside my mouth in quick, deep stabs, punctuated by nips at my lips with his teeth that turn my insides to jelly.

  His hands are rough, too, and a small tearing sound lets me know my shirt didn’t make it through this encounter unscathed.

  I hope I don’t either.

  I want him to mark me like he did in my apartment. I hated when the hickeys he left on my body faded away like we’d never been together. When I went out, I hid them with scarves and high-necked sweaters, but alone, looking at them in the mirror brought it all back in a very vivid, sensual way.

  He’ll never be mine, but I want to be his again, even if it’s only for tonight.

  He slaps my hands away when I reach to undo his jeans. “Don’t.”

  “But I want—”

  He yanks my bra off over my head, which hurts a little, but turns me on so much my head spins me into silence.

  Dylan’s gaze is hotter than the friction burns left from the bra leaving my body. “This isn’t about what you want. Do you know how lucky you are? I let you in. Do you get that?” He sucks my nipple into his mouth, pulling a deep, aching pleasure from me. My head hits the wall as I slam it back arching beneath him. He drags his teeth across the tight bud as he releases it and strips my scarf off, tossing it away like it offends him. “No talking. No carpet picnics. No more words. We’re just going to fuck.” His mouth draws the flesh of my throat inside with sharp suction, and he lingers like he wants to make the biggest mark possible.

  It’s going to show and I should push him away before he leaves a mark, but I want him to suck every inch of me and mark me as his. I thread my fingers in his hair, yanking him closer.

  Maddeningly, he pulls back and pushes my hands away. “No. We’re not going to fuck, Rachel. I’m going to fuck you. I’m going to wreck that tight little pussy of yours.”

  Holy shit. Yes.

  He takes my bottom lip between his teeth and undoes my jeans, slowly, like he’s savoring the ragged breaths coming from my lungs. Like he can taste the yes pouring from my body in waves and he likes it and wants to draw it out. All I want is more and more and more of this, but he seems aggravated with me and it sharpens the pleasure. I feel like I need to be cautious, tread lightly, but I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the adrenaline from his show making him so aggressive.

  It couldn’t be because he wants me as much as I want him, could it?

  He doesn’t want me as much as I want him. Impossible.

  His teeth lightly abrade my lip when he lets me go, bending to whip my jeans and panties off, leaving me in nothing but skin hungry for his touch. This is what I want in bed for the rest of my life. This passion. This drunken need filling my body, making me heavy, making my head light, making everything but Dylan drift away.

  He invades my space again, bracketing his hands on either side of the wall by my head, gaze searching mine for something, but I don’t know what.

  “Please,” I beg, desperate for his touch, unsure what else to say.

  As though pleased, his lips soften into a gentle smirk, and his hand cups my crotch, palming my clit while his fingers curve slightly in, barely touching my wet slit. My moan encourages him further, and he rubs my arousal all over between my legs, slicking me with the evidence of my need, making me insane with want.

  “Please,” I beg again, louder than before.

  He swirls his fingertips around the entrance of my pussy. My hips twitch forward, trying to encourage him inside.

  He takes his hand away. “Stop.”

  I obey, but whimper and sag against him, throwing my arms around his neck.

  He unwinds them and spins me around by the hips, guiding me forward a few steps. “Put your hands on the bed.”

  I bend and splay my palms on the bed, ass in the air.

  “Open your legs.”

  I do, quivering with anticipation. Is he going to spank me? Draw this out until I’m a mindless wreck? Or will he fuck me like this without another word?

  Which do I want more? I hear his clothes drop to the floor and a condom packet opening and then the heat of his body radiates against the backs of my legs. He’s standing close without touching and those inches separating us are killing me.

  Please let him fuck me now.

  Please let him make this last forever.

  One long finger eases inside and I push back against his hand.

  “Don’t move, or I’ll put this finger somewhere no man’s ever been,” he growls.

  He wouldn’t really do that, would he? Somehow, I’m not opposed to the idea. In fact, with him, a dark, naughty part of me wants it. A wild
fascination seizes me in its jaws, and I push back against his hand again, accidentally-on-purpose.

  “Christ.” With the finger inside me, he works my g-spot as the other hand reaches around and starts rubbing my clit.

  A disappointed relaxation spirals through me that he didn’t call the bluff...until his slick finger leaves my pussy and meanders toward the crack of my ass. I tense, and he pauses at my puckered hole, the hand on my clit going wild until my arms give out and I collapse onto my elbows, spreading my legs wider to give him access to whatever the hell he wants because he makes everything feel so good.

  It takes my breath away, but doesn’t hurt when he eases his finger inside my virgin hole. It just feels like I’m pleasantly full—until he makes a rapid, subtle, come hither motion with that finger, stimulating nerves that have been dormant until now. I didn’t know it would feel this good. The hand dancing on my clit never ceases its onslaught of pleasure.

  I shouldn’t like this. I shouldn’t want more.

  But it feels so damned good.

  His hand leaves my clit for a second, returning as he thrusts inside my pussy, knocking his finger deeper into my ass.

  I can’t.

  I am.

  Everything between my legs contracts in deep throbs of pleasure that grab Dylan’s cock and finger and he groans and thrusts harder. “What was that? Does my pristine girl like it dirty and raw?”

  I moan. Face flaming, I nod to let him know I like it and want him to keep going, unable to say the words. It’s like being with two Dylans—a thought that brings my hands underneath me to tweak my nipples, giving into the images flashing through my mind. Dylan underneath me, thrusting inside my pussy, playing with my breasts. Another Dylan on top, claiming me there as well while he rubs my clit.

  He stops moving everything, and I cry out, incoherent with this disappointing development.

  “Say it, Rachel.”

  It takes three tries to form words. “Say what?”

  “That you love this.” He quirks his hips and hands.

  More. “I love it.”

  “Beg for it.”

  “Please,” I whimper.

  He withdraws his cock and finger until only the tips are inside me and I choke on the emptiness. “I said beg,” he growls.

  The words burst violently from deep inside me like a dam bursting. “Please fuck me hard and dirty. I fucking love everything you’re doing, just please don’t stop anymore, please, God, please.” I give my hips a tiny wiggle, hoping he’ll start again.

  He doesn’t move, so I continue my slow grind, being dirtily specific. “I love the way your finger feels in my ass. I—” I can’t tell him what I was imagining a moment ago.

  “You what?”

  I close my eyes. “I like it because I can pretend there are two of you, taking me, claiming me everywhere. Making me like things that are wrong.”

  He fills me again, slow and deep. “Does this feel wrong?”

  My heart actually stutters with relief. “No.”

  Staying deep inside, he grinds his hips and moves his finger all the way in and out. “How does it feel?”

  I moan into the mattress. “So good.”

  “How does it feel?”

  I look at him over my shoulder. “Like I’m yours.”

  He fucks and fingers me so hard I come almost immediately, spasms wracking my body from so deep inside me it feels like he’s found a direct line to my soul and makes it come too. The strength leaves my body with each languid pulse between my legs, drawn out more with his cock driving in and out. I scream his name into the mattress, beg him not to stop fucking me because even as perfect as that was I need more of him, more of this, never want it to end.

  “I’m not done, baby.” His finger leaves my ass, which also feels pleasant, and his hand winds into my hair, forcing my head back.

  Pain skitters across my scalp, mingling with my pleasure-soaked body, sharpening my senses until I’m hyper-sensitive. Dylan uses my hips to pull me on and off his cock like I’m a ragdoll, like I’m a thing for his pleasure alone and he’s going to use me up.

  I revel in it.

  “Rub your fucking clit,” he barks out the order through clenched teeth.

  I do as he says.

  He batters me with his cock, driving into me again and again, each thrust just shy of painful but delicious, the sound of his skin slapping against mine the best music we’ve ever played, driving my pleasure higher, building faster until I’m on the brink again.

  His next words are punctuated by thrusts. “Someday, I’m going to fuck your ass while using your vibrator on you. Not because your pussy isn’t goddamned perfect, but so you see you’re my dirty Cello Chick. So when you’re pretending to be an innocent, good girl, we both know that’s not who you really are. You’re my wild Rachel. Never forget that.”

  The words unravel me with a brutal release that takes my mind along with it, pleasure bursting through my core and rippling out. Trembling, moaning, my body clamps down on his cock and I’m lost in the perfect bliss that claims my body as he goes rigid with his own release and pulls out of me, collapsing at my side on the bed.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  My throat is uncomfortably dry, both from the moaning and from breathing heavily. A couple minutes go by before I catch my breath and realize Dylan’s not spooning me like he did the last time—times—we slept together. Now that we’ve had sex, he’s turned away from me, deliberately not letting our bodies touch.

  Well, good. Because he owes me some answers. It stings a bit, but part of me is glad I don’t have to push him away before I accuse him of not telling me who he was the whole time. This conversation isn’t conducive to snuggling, but needs to happen.

  It’s not right that he hid his true identity from me. At least I was honest with him about who I was. I have secrets too, but my sketchy details can’t change his life if they come out. My life could have been torn apart by the tabloids.

  I haul in a deep breath.

  “You knew the whole time didn't you? Admit it.” Dylan’s voice is flat, like he’s suppressing a lot of anger. He’s pissed? I thought he was feigning anger at having to wait for me.

  I sit up to face him. “Knew what? That you were the lead singer of a huge band? No. I didn't, actually. And fuck you for not telling me.”

  “You didn't?” His voice sounds more relieved than anything, and he finally turns to look at me. “You really didn’t. Huh. I take back all the shitty things I was thinking about you.”

  I flip the corner of the blanket over my naked body, giving me a slightly more secure feeling. “You were thinking shitty things about me and you still, you know...?”

  “Fucked you? I did.” He smirks at my disbelief. “You’re acting pretty scandalized for someone who just begged me to fingerfuck her ass.”

  A blush roasts my face. “Don’t change the subject. You should have told me who you are.”

  “Why?”

  “Because people deserve the truth. And if someone had seen us together, my life would have been upended.”

  He’s maddeningly calm. “I never said I was someone else. But I am glad you weren’t pretending.”

  My fist balls in the blanket at my side. “Of course I wasn’t. What’s wrong with you? You gave me the key to this room and do all that to my body tonight even though you were mad at me?”

  He grins. “Just because I was irritated doesn’t mean I didn’t want to fuck you.”

  God, that’s...kind of hot, actually.

  “In fact”—he walks two fingers up my thigh—“we should do it again now that I'm cooled down. It will be an entirely different thing.”

  I don’t disagree, but hesitation holds me back, and I cross my arms tightly. How can he change gears so completely and quickly? Is it because he doesn’t feel things as deeply—he doesn’t care?

  Dylan sighs and walks into the en suite bathroom, closing the door behind him while I try to gather my thoughts. I think back on the time w
e spent together. He’s right, he omitted certain things—as did I—but he never outright lied to me about who he is. He’s got me on a technicality.

  And it isn’t like I don’t have secrets of my own.

  Maybe I don’t want a different thing from what we’ve done tonight. Ugh, how screwed up is that? He basically admitted this was a hate-fuck for him, and I want more of that? Physically, hell yes. Emotionally? No.

  I wrap the blanket around myself, spotting his guitar in the corner of the room, some kind of black Gibson, but I don’t know the model. Guitars aren’t my thing.

  The luxurious carpet squishes beneath my feet as I pad over to the guitar, propped up against a chair. He probably wrote the song about me on this instrument.

  The bathroom door opens as I pick up the guitar and settle into the chair. “What are you doing?”

  I shrug one shoulder at his question and start strumming, plucking strings and getting a feel for where the notes are, coming up with a little progression in D minor. It feels strange at first, playing with the neck horizontal instead of vertical, like my musical world has been tipped sideways, but there are a lot of parallels between cello and guitar. Of course, since they have frets, guitars are easier to play.

  He clears his throat. “You know, I have another instrument you could be playing, if your hands need something to do.”

  I roll my eyes and keep playing. Maybe he’s feeling possessive over his guitar, but after what happened in bed, I need to take a little control back. He strips away my identity—or parts of it, at least. I don’t know who the hell I am when I’m with him, and music centers me, makes me feel more myself.

  He settles down on the foot of the bed, posture relaxing a bit like he was half expecting me to smash his guitar or something instead of playing it. "You're better than I assumed you’d be. For a cellist.” It should be offensive, but it’s sweet the way he says it, like he’s remembering our connection instead of mocking it.