Broken Chords (Songs and Sonatas Book 4)

by Jerica MacMillan

  Now, though?

  That seems like it’ll be unnecessary. There won’t be any more reason to avoid “going too far” once we’ve crossed this bridge. That thought has me giddy with anticipation.

  Male voices outside draw my attention, but I can’t really tell what they’re saying. The conversation is short, though, ending with a knowing laugh from Damian’s roommate. Then the door opens and Damian’s back, a red candle in a jar in one hand, a small book of matches in the other.

  “Sorry. It took me a few minutes to find the matches. Then Zeke wanted to know why I was stealing the candle from the bathroom.”

  “What’d he say?”

  Damian moves to the desk, busying himself with striking a match to light the candle. It takes a few tries, but I can see the pink tipping his ears. “He, uh, wished me luck. And gave a crude suggestion.”

  I bite my lip to keep from laughing at his embarrassment. It’s cute.

  But then his lips purse to blow out the match, and he waves it in the air a few times, waiting for the smoke to dissipate before setting it on the desk. The scent of sulfur is strong in the air, but is quickly displaced by the cinnamon-scented candle.

  When Damian turns, his eyes rake over me where I stand next to the dresser. “What are you doing over there? Get on the bed, Charlie.”

  This is a whole new side of Damian. Commanding. Decisive. Hot.

  Who knew the sweet, quiet guy had a hidden alpha side?

  I hesitate for the briefest second, in which Damian simply raises an eyebrow at me, waiting patiently, and I cross the few steps to the bed, climbing on and turning to sit with my hands propped behind me, my legs dangling over the side, curious what’s going to happen next.

  Damian crosses to the light switch, his movements sleek and fluid, and flicks it off, plunging the room into near darkness, only the glow of the candle illuminating the room. Even in the low light, the predatory cast to his gaze is clear and makes me suck in a breath as he stalks across the room, his eyes never leaving mine.

  When he reaches me, he bends and captures my lips with his. His hands fall to the hem of my shirt, wasting no time lifting it up, breaking the kiss to bring it over my head. He makes quick work of my bra as well. With my hands on either side of his face, I bring his mouth back to mine, wanting nothing more than that sweet connection again. Placing his hands on my shoulders, he guides me to lie flat on the bed. When his fingers slide into my waistband, I lift my hips so he can peel my leggings off.

  He stands over me, his eyes scanning over every inch of my body, and the sharp intake of breath is audible even over the hammering of my heart.

  “You’re breathtaking,” he whispers. His fingers trail up my thigh, sliding farther between my legs the higher he gets, until his whole hand cups my mound, his long, thin fingers completely covering me. “And so smooth.”

  “I like it that way.” His statement sounded almost like a question, and I feel the need to answer. “It feels cleaner. And it makes this”—I place extra emphasis on the word—“much better for me.”

  He hums, a low sound of agreement. “Makes sense.”

  The whole time we’re talking about my personal grooming habits, his fingers continue moving. Small, barely perceptible strokes at first. Massaging me. Growing firmer, until his middle finger parts my lips, covering me from clit to opening. The tip of his finger presses inside, and I lift my hips to meet it, letting out a hum of pleasure.

  “I liked it when you touched me earlier,” he says, his eyes focused on what his hand is doing to me as he settles onto his knees next to the bed. “Do you like it when I touch you?”

  I press myself into his hand again. “Very much.”

  His eyes flick up to mine, and a small smile tips his lips. “Good. Because I like touching you very much too.” His left hand slides over my belly, up to my breast, caressing, kneading, pinching my nipple until it grows hard between his thumb and finger. The way we’re positioned reminds me of a pianist playing his instrument. Only now, I’m the instrument. He’s a cellist, and he’s clearly very good with his hands.

  A gasp escapes me as the angle of his hand changes, his middle finger plunging all the way inside. Soon, another finger joins it, the small stretch making me crave more. The heel of his palm grinds into my clit as his fingers stroke and tap inside me.

  And then wet heat envelopes my nipple. His lips at once soft and firm, and I arch my back at the touch of his tongue. Wishing, hoping, he’ll move south with that touch.

  Releasing my nipple with a pop, he brushes tiny kisses across my torso, and I lift my hips again in silent plea. But he doesn’t continue that direction, instead making his way to my other breast. I let out a sigh, a mixture of pleasure and disappointment. His mouth feels good on my nipples, and oh, his thumb feels wonderful drawing circles around my clit, but I’d like it better if the two were reversed.

  But his mouth never goes below my belly button. He switches between breasts as his fingers pick up the pace, ramping my arousal higher. Is he going to get me close with his fingers and then fuck me to orgasm? But he still hasn’t undressed, and the box of condoms is unopened on the dresser.

  The pressure of his thumb gets more insistent, the circles tightening, becoming more of a strum across my swollen clit, his fingers pressing into my G-spot.

  He’s not just very good with his hands. He’s excellent. A master. I’m writhing beneath him, arching my back then pressing my hips into his hand, needing more.

  He answers my wordless cries by moving so he has more leverage, his fingers never stopping, his thumb working even harder, his left hand taking over from his mouth again, tweaking and plucking my nipples, rolling them back and forth, and finally giving one a good, hard squeeze, sending me cresting the wave of pleasure and falling into my orgasm, my muscles shuddering and clenching out of my control.

  His lips caress mine as his tongue slips into my mouth, his hand gentling as the aftershocks continue to jolt through me, not stopping until I’m completely finished.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Harmony: when two or more pitches sound simultaneously; the combination of simultaneously sounded musical notes to produce chords and chord progressions that have a pleasing effect

  Damian

  Charlie’s eyes shine in the candlelight when I pull back from our kiss, her skin glowing and luminescent. She’s right. The candle is so much better than the overhead light. God, she’s gorgeous. Her eyes, her smile, her curves. The way she fell apart in my hands. It’s been so long since I’ve done that for anyone. I’ve forgotten how enjoyable it is.

  “Wow,” she breathes, looking up at me.

  I smile and bend to kiss her once more.

  When I pull back, she examines my face, her brows crinkling together. “Not that I’m complaining, but I thought we were going to …”

  “Oh, we are. Don’t worry about that.” I don’t say out loud that I know girls don’t always get there from just sex. Adriana, my high school girlfriend, always enjoyed things more with a warmup orgasm. I figure that’s the gentlemanly thing to do. Ladies first, after all.

  Standing, I strip off my clothes, enjoying the way Charlie props herself up on her elbows to watch me. It’s a relief to get out of my jeans. They’ve been too tight since the drive home. But I wanted to make sure she got what she needed first, and it’s best to stay clothed to make it easier to resist temptation.

  Now, there’s no need to hold off. And I’m not sure how much longer I can control myself anyway. The need to be inside her has only grown since she told me she loved me an hour ago.

  I tear open the box of condoms, almost dropping it and spilling a strip of condoms onto the floor. Charlie leans over, her breasts squishing together so temptingly that I stop, watching the way she moves as she retrieves the strip, rips one off, and holds it out to me.

  “Or did you want me to do it?”

  Blinking, her words sink in. “Oh God. I don’t think I could take that right now.”


  She chuckles, her eyes dancing as I take the square packet from her fingers. “Hurry up, then. No need to wait.”

  Her next words almost make me shoot into the condom before I even get inside her, even though the blowjob earlier should’ve taken the edge off enough to make that unlikely.

  “I’ve been aching to have you inside me all night.”

  “It would be rude of me to make you wait any longer, I suppose.”

  She chuckles, the sound low and sexy and hitting me straight in the groin, and reaches for me.

  Crawling onto the bed with her, I cover her body with mine. She opens her legs, making room for me, her arms wrapping around my neck to pull me close for a kiss. When our mouths fuse together, I nudge at her opening.

  Her hips lift, and I press inside just barely. She groans when I pull back and press inside a little more. Her hands slide down my back, clutching my ass, trying to press us together.

  “God, you are the worst kind of tease,” she groans into my neck.

  “You want more?”

  “God, yes. Do you want me to beg?”

  I’ve never had a woman beg me for sex. “That wasn’t my goal. I like taking my time.”

  She presses up to meet me more insistently, driving me in farther than I intended. “Sweet Jesus, you’re going to be the death of me. You’re going to kill me with taking forever just to get all the way inside me.”

  Pressing up on my hands, I drive my hips forward, sinking all the way inside her and holding myself there. “That what you want?”

  Her back arches and her eyes clench shut as she moans. “Fuck yes. Finally.”

  She’s so hot and slick, and her muscles are already fluttering around me. It takes all my control to stay still and just be. Here. Now. This. This is all that matters in this moment.

  “Charlie.”

  At her name, her head tips my way, and her eyes open into the barest slits.

  “Look at me.”

  Her eyelids lift a little more, and I pull back slowly, sinking inside her again. My strokes measured, slow, torturous. For both of us. When her eyes fall closed again, I stop. “Don’t close your eyes. Look at me. Look at what you do to me.”

  “Oh God,” she moans, but she does what I ask. Her eyes open, her pupils huge, and I move again. Faster now.

  “You’re amazing,” I whisper. “I’ve wondered what you would feel like. And the reality is better than anything I could’ve imagined. You’re so soft and hot and open for me. I love it. I love you.” With each sentence I plunge inside her, my pace quickening despite my best efforts to stay slow. The urge to drive into her over and over until I’ve spent myself is almost overwhelming, but I manage to hold back enough. Just enough. Grinding against her each time our hips meet.

  When her hand finds its way between us, I know she’s close. Wanting to learn how she likes to touch herself, I don’t try to take over. Not tonight. There’ll be plenty of time for that later.

  Her fingers rub back and forth, fast and hard, and I go faster, harder, my balls pulling tight, and when I feel her clench me like a fist, that’s all it takes to trigger my own release.

  Both of us spent, I gently let some of my weight press onto her, my lips finding hers again for a sweet, deep kiss. The seal on our first time together. Everything I hoped it would be, even if it started out differently than I’d expected.

  She blinks up at me when I pull back, her eyes looking drugged. “I love you,” I whisper, happy to be able to say that so freely now.

  She smiles, a gentle curve of her lips. “I love you too.” She lifts her hand and cups my cheek, her thumb tracing along my cheekbone in a soft caress that says more than words.

  After dealing with the condom, I climb into bed with her, pulling the blankets over us, snuggling her back to my front. I drop a kiss on her cheek and bury my face in her hair, inhaling the mixed scents of her herbal shampoo and sex. “You’ll stay the night?”

  She nods into my pillow. “Wild horses couldn’t drag me away.”

  Soon her breathing grows deeper, more even, and she’s asleep. I watch her sleep in the flickering candlelight for I don’t know how long before I get up, blow out the candle, and rejoin her in bed, drifting off to sleep along with her, content and warm and sated in a way I haven’t been in a long time. Maybe ever.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Tritone: an interval consisting of three whole steps, can also be called a diminished fifth or augmented fourth, the most dissonant interval in Western music, nicknames include the devil’s interval, chord of evil, and the devil in music.

  Charlie

  I startle awake, blinking at the gloomy light managing to filter around the edges of the thick curtains. An arm is draped across my torso, warm and heavy, and warm puffs of breath fan over the skin of my neck.

  Damian.

  I’m in Damian’s room.

  His erection nudges against my low back, and I nestle back against him, reliving the memories of last night. Mmm. I’d be happy to have a repeat of that as often as he likes.

  Beyond the physical pleasure, the emotional connection we forged and solidified last night is something I’ve never experienced before.

  The sound of my phone buzzing on vibrate somewhere makes me realize what must’ve woken me. Carefully, I slip out from under Damian’s arm. When I sit up, he adjusts, rolling almost onto his stomach, curling the arm that was around me under the pillow.

  I reach for my purse first, digging my phone out. Clothes can wait till I see why someone is calling me over and over. The buzzing stops before I dig it out and starts again as my hand closes around the boring plastic cover. I used to have hot pink with rhinestones, but in my image overhaul as part of coming to Marycliff, I traded it for a slim black case. It’s boring and blends right in with everyone else. But I think it might be too boring. I miss color and sparkle. Maybe I don’t need pink and glittery, but red or purple or something would be nice.

  My mom’s name shows on the screen when I finally extract my phone, and I sit and stare at it for a second before sending the call to voicemail.

  After yesterday’s high, seeing her name on my phone is a painful return to reality. I don’t want to deal with her right now. But with five missed calls and three voicemails, all before seven in the morning, I don’t think I have a choice.

  Glancing at Damian’s sleeping face, his hair mussed, his glasses carefully folded and sitting next to mine on the nightstand, I decide not to wake him. I’ll get dressed first, if he wakes up from me moving around, I’ll say goodbye before leaving to deal with my mother. If not, I’ll send him a text and apologize for bailing like this and promise to call later.

  My phone pretty much never stops ringing while I find my clothes and pull them back on, running my hands through my hair to straighten it as best I can without a mirror. I need to pee, but I’ll wait till I get home. I don’t know the situation with Damian’s roommates. If they’re here. If they’re up. If one of them’s in the shower. Yeah, home is best.

  Damn. My car’s at my house.

  With another look at Damian, I decide to call an Uber and let him sleep. He doesn’t have eight o’clock classes. I do. Speaking of which, I won’t have much time for a shower or anything by the time I get home. I might just have to change clothes and brush my teeth, if I even have time for that after dealing with my mom.

  Grabbing my purse and stepping into my shoes, I slip out the door. The living room is empty, but I hear the sound of a shower running. Which confirms my choice to wait, even if I have to cross my legs on the ride home. Good thing my house isn’t all that far away. I’d consider walking if I had more time. The exercise would be a good way to burn off the anger already simmering from the nonstop calls from my mom.

  Once outside I shiver in the cool September air. I didn’t wear a jacket yesterday because it was warm by the time Damian and I went to his parents’ for dinner. But at seven o’clock in the morning, it’s chilly in late September.

  Stuffing the fi
ngers of one hand into my opposite armpit, I hunch my shoulders against the chill and walk slowly in the direction of my house. I don’t want to stand in front of Damian’s house like a weirdo waiting for my ride.

  After thumbing in a quick text to Damian—interrupted by my mother calling again, which I send to voicemail, again—I decide to start with the voicemails. I want to know what I’m getting myself into before calling her back. Her incessant calls make it clear she won’t stop until I actually talk to her. But I want to have a battle plan before I make contact.

  The first voicemail is calm and would sound sweet and normal to anyone else. Or from anyone else. “Hi, honey. It’s Mom. Call me back when you get this.” The time coincides with the first phone call, and gives me no indication about whatever bug’s gotten up her ass to make her call me nonstop all morning. Or maybe she’s just tired of me not returning her calls.

  Because the next one is about five minutes later. “I know you have class at eight o’clock every morning. So you should be up by now. Call me. I only need five minutes.”

  Ha. Right. Nothing with her ever only takes five minutes.

  I move to the next voicemail, which is another five minutes after the second. Though there were at least two calls in between. “Charlotte Daphne Baxter.” Uh-oh, she’s pulled out the middle name. I roll my eyes at the ridiculousness. “You’re sending my calls to voicemail, which means you’re awake. You answer me this instant. I’m just going to keep calling until you answer. And if you decide to be a little snot and turn off your phone, I’ll fly out there tonight. You have until noon to either answer the phone or call me back.”