Badass In My Bed: Badass #2 Read online

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  Books by Rae Lynn Blaise

  Badass In My Bed #1

  Badass In My Bed #2

  Badass In My Bed #3

  Copyright 2015 Rae Lynn Blaise

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Two weeks later…

  The vibration spreads through my fingers and up my arm, tickling my skin, and I can’t stop. I move faster, harder, relishing the hum spreading 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 pleasure before I burst. I’m so close to that now, to that peace that washed over me, the peace only he could give me.

  The look in his eyes when he ordered me around, demanding control. That sexy, filthy mouth sucking patterns on my body that have faded. They were only temporary tattoos.

  I move my fingers faster.

  His cock, stretching me, sliding 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…

  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…”

  The tension of ninety suppressed sighs at the one musician stalling our progress fills the room, though none of us dares express it. I dampen the strings of the cello between my knees, mourning the loss of the escape the song gave until Dylan intruded in my mind and made me crave more than a musical release.

  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.

  Blaine Sanderson rules the symphony with perfect pitch and withering scorn. He’s 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’s just the beginning of an even harder one.

  And I’m loving it. The new season hasn’t started yet, so we’re still hammering the kinks out of the music. 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, but I’ll barely have time for a social life. And never mind looking for new, sexy pictures of Dylan online that I can use for masturbation fodder. More than anything, I enjoy imagining all the ways we can run into each other in my new life, all of them leading to more of the best sex I’ve ever had.

  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.

  Performing a particularly difficult solo, feeling his gaze 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. I wish Dylan can hear me play so he can see how good I am at this. I want to impress him the way Fallen Angels impresses me. I want to see that look of awe on his face he used to give me in bed, and I want to see it for all of me.

  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. Blaine’s frown snaps to me. Thwarted, I return my hand to my cello’s neck as slowly as I can, trying not to provoke him further.

  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 hasty nickname, like he’s too important or busy to bother with their names. His singling me out shouldn’t make me nervous, but it does.

  “Yes?”

  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. My face burns. “Oh, no, I was just—”

  “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? A means to show I have the skills to justify the strings he pulled to get me here? The longer I don’t play, the longer we all have to sit here. I swallow hard and play the notes, fear and embarrassment sharpening my movements into precise, resounding tones I barely remember playing once I’m done.

  “Good.” Blaine nods. “Everyone, from the top.” He raises his hands.

  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 want to bring it up to Blaine—maybe when he asks me out for another boring dinner, where I sit and eat while he sits and plays with his phone or rants about the pressures of being in such an intense, prestigious position the whole night. But I won’t. Good girls don’t talk back to their bosses.

  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 direct. Everything he is depends how well we perform under him.

  On the plus side, the tense practice sessions have been the only things that successfully keep my mind from the badass rocker who screwed me senseless a couple weeks ago. No matter what I do, those sexy thoughts come flooding back when my fingers catch onto an intense melody.

  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. Can I ever really care for this passionate, angrily intense musician? After all, 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 songs. 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.

  If Dylan had been waiting for me at home, I wouldn’t have been frustrated. He’d have filled me with his cock and 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.

  Stop thinking about Dylan St. John.

  My strap slips again.

  Thankfully, we come to a stop and wait.

  “See to that bow b
efore 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 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 sharp and crisp with no mistakes. Nothing like today.” He focuses on Christine. “C Sharp, meet me in my office.”

  She blanches and 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. He’s definitely nothing like scruffy, sexy Dylan, who’s just as passionate, and the hottest fucking thing in the room without even trying. Dylan was certainly a lot easier to get along with as well. Passion should be shared, not beaten into submission.

  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 being part of his symphony and any expectations he might have for me now that I have the first week under my belt. I’ll wait for him to finish with Christine.

  Another week without Dylan.

  Giving my head a shake, I look up from the sheet music to find Blaine’s office door open, light’s off. He’s obviously 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 him. 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 for him to treat Christine so disrespectfully.

  Then again, it’s his signature style. Can I blame him? His ruthlessness is driven by desperation.

  Support for the arts has been dwindling for years, so we’re battling to get back to where we were, never mind increase sponsorship. Two of our patrons withdrew their support for chairs this year, unforeseen circumstances forcing them to cut back.

  Being driven isn’t a bad thing. It’s a quality he responded to in my initial audition. The conservative arts board thinks he already 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 so aggressive with us, so demanding. No one cares more about the symphony than he does. When it all comes together, like our last number today, it’s beautiful. It reminds us all why we chose this.

  Mostly, though, passionate music makes me think about Dylan.

  It’s just so frustrating. My body’s going through serious withdrawals, leaving me restless and hungry for more. I try to fix it by looking him up online to see where he is, what he’s doing… who he’s doing. It’s been a long two weeks. I’ve spent my time settling in, unpacking my apartment and practicing cello. Neither are enough to put him from my mind.

  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. My new apartment has a great view, but every time I play, making songs up for my neighbors, all I can picture is the way he fucked my from behind, pressing my breasts into the window of my old apartment. Anyone could have seen us, and I wouldn’t have minded.

  I scrub my hands over my face, embarrassed even now about what I did with Dylan in public places. 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. 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 his short, dirty-blond ponytail and the 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, revealing white, even teeth. “If it’s any consolation, you played remarkably well. Maestro couldn’t find fault with it—and believe me, if you’d have 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.

  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. Even though everyone else has filed from the room, I’m still going to be careful with my words. I shrug. “He seems tough, but he’s the best, right?”

  “He’s as big of a dick as the one he needs to get laid with.”

  I force a laugh, like his words don’t send unease sliding up my spine. “He’s not gay. He just needs to relax.” Maybe his ambiguous sexual orientation is putting off the board as well.

  Paul tilts his head. “Well, he does seem to have a soft spot for you.”

  “See? He’s definitely not gay, then.” If Paul only knew. “Unless you’re saying I’m not attractive?”

  Am I flirting? Dylan has changed me. I’m not interested in Paul, but my newfound confidence makes me bold.

  Paul sits in the chair next to mine, balancing his case with one arm. “I never said that, but it could be the fact you’re just 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? My cheeks become even more heated, and I 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. “Don’t tell me the new girl has a crush on the Maestro? For your sake, I hope he really isn’t gay, but 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 should say that I like Blaine, that he’s different off-stage, that he’s a good man deep down. I’m not sure if it’s true, though, and I really don’t know if that’s what Blaine would want me to say so I keep my mouth shut. I focus on the paper on the ground—a concert ticket.

  Flipping it over, I see rather pricey floor seats to a large venue dated for tonight. 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. 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 all the sexy things he wants to do to me.

  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 it to do over again.

  I still can’t believe he’s not just my dirty little anonymous fling. Only I could pick a random stranger out of the bar to sleep with and he’d turn out to be the biggest fucking rock star to emerge in recent history.

  After the plane ride, I spent a panicky few minutes worried someone may have taken our picture while
we were in a compromising position and plastered it online, jeopardizing my career. As the hours turned to days, a throbbing disappointment took over.

  It was like I never existed in his life. Like our fling never happened. I started searching for 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

  Despite scouring the Internet for pics of us together for hours, I found nothing linking us. I devoured stories of his life like a starving woman, even though there’s not much about him online. He tends to keep 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 he fucked me in my window, despite the scandal that would have caused for me professionally, just to have something more. Something to remind myself that for one beautiful day, he was mine. The 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 him is an unfortunate impossibility. It’s been two weeks, and I still feel him on my skin, like there’s invisible ink beneath the surface. No amount of hot baths or cold showers scrub away the feeling of his hands and mouth from my skin. So hot. So passionate. So badass.

  “Rachel?” Paul’s voice creeps in, snapping me back to the present.

  I look up.

  “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. 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.”