Vibrato

by Tamara Mataya

He laughs, eyes filling with dark promises that make heat pool in my core as he trails a hand lazily up my thigh. “Baby, I’m taking you home and you’re not leaving my bed for a very long time.”

  I melt into his arms. “Promise?”

  EPILOGUE

  Three months later...

  My bow glides across the strings of my cello, filling the room with long, sensual tones. I remember the way Dylan’s fingers ran through my hair when we said goodbye two weeks ago, and infuse some of that feeling into the music I play.

  Fallen Angels wanted something a little deeper to make their sophomore album resonate, but keep it on the sexy side, so I’ve been laying down string tracks. Their first album went triple platinum, so to say this is a career coup for me is an understatement.

  But today I’m playing strings for a band called Flannel Apocalypse. Their name is strange, but who am I to judge. Their music is catchy, their lyrics are surprisingly deep, and I’m proud to be a part of their first album. I’m no longer the music snob I was.

  I know I nail it because the producer, Nick, goes very still in the booth. When he hates what you’re playing, he fidgets terribly. I continue playing it through one more time, making the chords arch like my body beneath Dylan’s when he’s fucking me just right, cock hitting me at that perfect angle. Music and Dylan are intertwined for me now; they both fill me with the same powerful emotions. I play the best when I channel my feelings for him into my instrument.

  Love is the purest emotion in the world; music is the purest language for expressing love. It’s no wonder the two come together and transcend.

  Behind the glass, Nick gives me a thumbs up and speaks through the intercom when the last notes fade. “Good job, Rachel, we’ve got it. That’s a wrap, guys.”

  I try not to look too pleased with myself, but this is the third job he’s hired me for in the last two months and from the look on his face, it won’t be the last. Nick heard me live one night—I’d been traveling with Fallen Angels, and they’d invited me onstage to play a few songs with the new arrangements that now include strings. Traveling with Dylan and making music together is amazing, but when Nick offered me the job recording for this band, I accepted immediately. I love playing with Dylan, but I still want my own career as well.

  One job has led to another, and a few newer jobs have been lined up for me, including a solo piece on a movie soundtrack.

  It’s kept me busy while Dylan’s on a mini tour of the south.

  But he’s back today.

  I pack up my cello, smiling thanks at the compliments coming from the band in the booth and their manager. This glowing happiness about my new life hasn’t faded after three months; I really made the right decision when I left the orchestra.

  It didn’t hurt Blaine, my leaving. He’s still the director and under his ministrations, they’re having their most lucrative season to date. I’m not surprised—he cares too much to allow them to be anything but the best. The board doesn’t seem to mind.

  I’m happy for him.

  I snap my cello case shut, and stretch my calves before standing.

  “Rachel, I’m going to insist you get into this booth right the fuck now.” Dylan’s voice filters through the speakers, snapping my head up.

  The members of Flannel Apocalypse behind him are glowing, but their huge smiles pale in comparison to the one Dylan’s giving me. I head for the door, and he meets me right outside it, wrapping me in a hug.

  I’ve missed these arms. “I thought you weren’t back until tonight!” I snuggle closer, breathing him in.

  “We decided to come home after the concert, drive straight through and sleep on the bus instead of staying over in Dallas.”

  It’s only been two weeks, but it’s the longest we’ve been apart since we moved in together.

  “I missed you.” I used to be more embarrassed about public displays of emotion, but when you find the one you love more than breathing, you don’t give a shit who sees you hugging. Besides, the band members look even more impressed now that Dylan St. John has crashed the end of their recording session and can’t keep his hands off their cellist.

  Fallen Angels have been nominated for a few Grammy Awards this year.

  “I missed you too.” He lowers his voice so only I can hear his next words. “Have you been a good girl while I was gone?”

  “Of course.” I’m pretty sure the night his bandmates busted us naked skyping doesn’t count since he was an accessory to those sexy shenanigans.

  His wicked grin makes my belly flutter. “Then let’s get you home and remedy that.” He grabs my cello, and we speed walk to his truck after saying goodbye to everyone.

  The drive home in his Jeep Wrangler takes forty-three minutes, but feels like hours. By the time we pull into the driveway, I’m drunk with anticipation and uncomfortably wet.

  The fact his hand’s been between my legs teasing me into a frenzy with no release for the last ten minutes hasn’t helped.

  He kills the engine and I crawl over to his lap, crushing my lips to his, straddling him, grinding against him as fast as I can, desperate for relief from the extended teasing he’s subjected me to. I nip his lip, dragging my teeth when he tries to pull away.

  “You’re such an asshole,” I murmur against his lips. “You think it’s nice to torture your sex-deprived girlfriend?”

  “I was only warming you up, baby. I need you nice and wet for how hard I’m going to fuck your pretty little pussy.” He sucks my tongue into his mouth and reminds me very quickly that in a battle like this, he’s the one who always wins. Not like there are any losers when it comes to pleasure. He’s a very generous winner.

  He grabs me and opens his truck door, thwarting my grinding efforts when I’m forced to wrap my thighs around him while he walks us to the door, unlocking and opening it while I do my best to get revenge by nibbling on his earlobe and sliding down his waist so every step reminds his cock of what’s only a couple scraps of fabric away. Unfortunately, his erection nudging my crotch only turns me on more as well.

  His hands slide down to cup my ass, his fingertips prodding at my slit through my pants, stimulating my pussy but unable to press inside me and I’ve never hated fabric as much as I do right now.

  He carries me up the staircase and down the hall to our bedroom, kicking the door open. “I’ve dreamed of being inside you a hundred times a goddamn day.”

  Lust rushes through me. I missed this filthy mouth. “Me too.”

  He tosses me to the bed and strips me with shaking hands. “Cold showers and jerking off don’t cut it.”

  The thought of him touching himself in the little bathroom, or when lying in his bunk on the tour bus while the rest of the band was only feet away drives me nuts. We skyped and had phone sex twice and it wasn’t enough to take the edge off—for either of us, apparently. My hips move like he’s already inside me.

  “I came home first, remembered you were at the studio and couldn’t wait to see you. I almost jerked off before coming to get you, but I didn’t want to come one more time outside of you.”

  I strip my tank top off, and then my bra, while he kicks his jeans off and his cock springs free, harder, fuller than I’ve ever seen it. “Holy shit, Dylan.”

  “The thought of being inside you and not being able to does this to me.” His eyes are hooded, lids heavy. “I’ve basically been walking around with blue balls like a goddamn teenager.”

  Dirty talking is easier for me than it used to be. I spread my legs and reach for him, thankful he’s been in the same amount of sexual pain I have while denied his touch. “I’ve masturbated more these last two weeks than I have my entire life and it didn’t help.”

  His cock actually twitches. “Fuck. Me.” He crawls up until his hard body’s stretched out on top of mine, pinning me to the bed. “How?”

  “How what?” I’m distracted by his hips spreading my thighs apart.

  “How did you fuck yourself while I was gone,” he growls, nipping my earl
obe.

  Oh. “My hands.”

  “Where?” He rubs the tip of his cock all over my pussy, coating himself with wetness.

  “Please, put it in!”

  “Where did you do it? Here in our bed?”

  “Yeah. And,” I start panting when he runs his cock from my clit back to my pussy, just about inserting it before rubbing it up to my clit again.

  “And? The bathroom?”

  “Yeah.” I grab his ass, grunting with the effort to get him inside me.

  He continues the ruthless teasing, easily avoiding my efforts. “With the detachable showerhead?”

  I nod.

  “How many times?”

  “I don’t know.” I arch my back in frustration. “I need you inside me!”

  “Every day?”

  “Yeah.” I blush but that’s when he rams his swollen length all the way in, and tears of relief actually spring to my eyes.

  Nothing feels as good as this, as this man thrusting hard into me, so turned on at the thought of me getting off while thinking of him he can’t take his eyes off me. He caresses my face, his hands the only part of him that’s gentle, except for the fierce love shining from his gaze. I don’t know if the rest of our lives will be like this, but god, I hope so. I love him so much.

  “I love you more,” he whispers, kissing my temple, and then my lips.

  I angle my hips severely when he pulls out, milking his cock for all I can until his self-control shatters and he pounds into me the way I’ve dreamed he would every day he’s been gone.

  I come with a scream and the biggest smile.

  Later, after we pass out with him curled around me, we wake and order pizza, eating it in a picnic on the living room floor like we did in my apartment the first night we met. He plays me something new on his guitar, and I tell him all about my recording sessions that have been occupying my days.

  The Fallen Angels are only in LA for three weeks before heading out on another tour. We’re going to make the most of every single day, not taking any minute for granted. We lost each other once—it’s an experience neither of us care to repeat.

  Stuffed with too many calories, we head back to bed for a nap, and when we wake, we make our way to the bathroom. I wasn’t lying about that showerhead. It’s my favorite part of the house.

  We run a bath in the jetted tub, and he puts that showerhead to use on me while I suck him off. His superior technology wins, and he makes me come first, moaning around his cock.

  After I come, he pulls me to his lap, nudging my hands away from his erection. “I got you a present.” He reaches into the cupboard where there’s a bright purple bag, and pulls out a waterproof vibrator and a tube of lube. “Now, didn’t I make you a promise about this once?”

  Being a good girl may keep me out of trouble.

  But being Dylan’s bad girl feels so much better.

  The End

  If you’re into something a little edgier, check out MAKE ME, Book One of The Submission Games...one woman’s decadent journey into an exclusive BDSM club, now available on Amazon.

  "A VISCERAL EXPERIENCE...Make Me made me feel like a voyeur, glimpsing a raw, gritty world. Mataya's BDSM playground is brimming with a brutal sensuality that fascinated me until the very last page."

  -New York Times Bestselling Author, Geneva Lee

  "THIS BOOK HAS EVERYTHING lovers of dark, erotic stories want... Scorching hot scenes, both sexual and sensual, that will have you reading with one hand. If you've ever wondered what BDSM is about but were afraid to ask, pick up this book—like main character Sloane Winters (and myself), you might be pleasantly surprised. See you at The Underground..."

  -USA Today Bestselling Author, Melanie Harlow

  The currency is pleasure and the cost a surrender of power.

  Everything is built on fantasies here.

  There’s a surreal feeling in my bones like I’m a second away from waking up from the most vivid dream I’ve ever had. I’m not sure if I want to wake up and escape, or sleep forever and live here.

  And that is why everyone needs to know about him.

  Darko Aralica...one of the most dangerous tools in The Underground’s arsenal.

  He gets inside your head and switches off your inhibitions, cuts off all common sense.

  With him, I found myself doing things I’d never dreamed of doing—of even wanting to try.

  Darko found his way inside my fantasies and exploited them one by one. He appears cultured. Refined. A gentleman even.

  But that’s how he gets close enough to strike. And when you’re in his arms, it’s too late. Because you no longer care if damage is done. You’ll beg him not to stop taking you apart.

  My exposé will show everyone the truth. But the truth doesn’t always set you free...

  https://www.amazon.com/Make-Me-Submission-Games-Book-ebook/dp/B00RKO49RE

  Complete novel available now!

  TAMARA MATAYA IS A New York Times and USA Today bestselling author, librarian, and a musician with synesthesia. Armed with a name tag and a thin veneer of credibility, she takes great delight in recommending books and shushing people. She puts the 'she' in TWSS and the B in LGBTQIA+. She’s the co-creator of Pitchmas, a bi-annual pitch contest for writers, a Pitchwars mentor, and as a freelance editor has worked with New York Times Bestselling authors.

  If you loved this story or any of my others, please leave a review on Amazon! Readers don’t always realize how very vital honest, spoiler-free reviews are for us, but we truly appreciate every single one.

  SIGN UP FOR MY NEWSLETTER at http://eepurl.com/bemAOb

  IF YOU WANT TO BE ONE of my Trouble Makers, join my facebook group to hear about my latest releases, get sneak peeks, and win freebies! https://www.facebook.com/groups/1464714043607049/

  OR KEEP IN TOUCH USING the following links:

  Website:http://www.TamaraMataya.com

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  Also by Tamara Mataya

  *Make Me (Book 1 in The Submission Games)—Investigative journalist Sloane Winters thought she wanted the truth about the BDSM Club that swallowed her sister. But the truth doesn’t always set you free. https://www.amazon.com/Make-Me-Submission-Games-Book-ebook/dp/B00RKO49RE

  *MISSED CONNECTIONS (Book 1 Summer Love)—The bad boy she can’t keep, or the sensitive stranger who bares his soul online? Sarah must decide which man is the one for her...before her meddling hippie bosses ruin everything. https://www.amazon.com/Missed-Connections-Summer-Love-Book-ebook/dp/B01AO207G0

  *SUMMER INDISCRETIONS (Book 2 Summer Love)—1200 miles from home. One off-limits crush. One Nude beach. This uptight New Yorker’s summer just got a whole lot sexier... https://www.amazon.com/Summer-Indiscretions-Love-Book-ebook/dp/B01KMISK1K

  *I DON’T! (A NOVELLA)—If a great romance requires a grand gesture, a great break-up deserves a one-of-a-kind blowout! https://www.amazon.com/I-Dont-Tamara-Mataya-ebook/dp/B01GBU2XQG

  *THE SOWING (BOOK 1 of The Moondreamer Chronicles)—Learning she’s Fae and has powers should have been the coolest day of Syxx’s life. Instead, she’s plunged into a decades-long battle of free will vs survival. She’s got three options: Submit (no!), die (hell no!), or start a revolution... https://www.amazon.com/Sowing-Moondreamer-Chronicles-Book-ebook/dp/B00ZGTJX12

  Tamara Mataya Recommends...

  CLAIMING ATLAS

  The Completely Rocked Series,

  Book One By Jessalyn Jameson

  Atlas Reynolds has it made. The bassist for a thriving rock band, complete with a world tour under their belts, Atlas has everything he’s ever dreamed of. Who knew getting everything you wanted would become... boring? After a chance encounter on a last minute solo trip to Las Vegas, he finds himself one of a select few men invited to dine in the dark with the hottest playmates of the past decade. Seeking a new diversion, he heads out for a m
ind-blowing night of debauchery in the city that invented the word.

  After years in the Vegas spotlight, Kayla Sanders is ready to hang up her sequins and stilettos, until she receives an invitation to one last epic gig. Unable to resist the opportunity to let her persona ‘Kincaid Summers’ go out with a bang, Kayla accepts the invitation, landing her in the lap of Atlas Reynolds—bassist of famous rock band, Banging Cade. When one last hurrah turns into a night of unbridled passion, Kay thinks she just might be the one to tame Atlas’ wild heart.

  But when the lights turn on, will Atlas want the real woman behind the facade?

  Chapter One

  Atlas

  If Las Vegas isn’t the cure, I don’t know what is. I need a distraction, something—or someone—to take my mind off this constant feeling of unrest.

  I’m bored out of my fucking mind.

  And that’s a problem.

  What kind of prick travels the world doing what they love, what they dreamed of their whole life, and still isn’t happy?

  Me. I’m that kind of prick.

  I rise, stretching my legs. I never have been able to sit still for very long. Virgin Atlantic offers the perfect solution for restless people like me: you just can’t beat a bar on an airplane. It gets you out of your seat and fills your belly with booze. What could be better?

  Pussy. A good fuck is better than a belly full of booze. But I’m in the mood for both.

  A woman sits at the bar, her nose in a book and her jet black hair pulled tightly into a bun. Her red pinstriped suit jacket dips in at the waist, then spans out above a plump ass in a matching skirt. I let my gaze dip lower to her feet below the barstool. Black high heels cap off perfectly pale legs, crossed neatly at the ankles. A black pinstripe stretches up the back of each leg, disappearing into her skirt.