Badass In My Bed: Badass #2 Read online

  “Nice to meet you.”

  Meet you? Is he joking? I search his eyes for the punch line that doesn’t come. Dylan used me for song fodder. My face burns. How could I think for a second he cared about me as a person?

  Why did I think I meant something?

  Because he pretended to be sad and let me keep his sunglasses and I got carried away by the sweetness of the gesture? He could buy a sunglass factory for crying out loud. He’s probably used the same sweet gesture on hundreds of women.

  The song had nothing to do with any latent feelings for me. It was just regurgitation, an artist using the materials around him. What else about myself am I going to find on that new album? Would he so casually destroy everything about our time that I’d held so dearly with a few lines of lyrics? How dare he. I feel ill.

  Dylan smiles pleasantly. “You guys want a picture?”

  Is this a sick joke? He wants me to play the part of just another fan?

  I shake my head.

  At the same time, Paul says, “That’d be awesome, bro. Hey, we’re musicians too, you know. We bonded over your band, actually. We’re both huge fans, aren’t we, Ray?”

  Bro? Ray? Does he hear how bad he sounds? He’s trying way too hard, and I’m slightly embarrassed for him and for Dylan if this is how most grown men react in his presence. The women screaming and throwing themselves at him is bad enough, but the guys acting like they’re buddies would be just as annoying. It feels so fake.

  Dylan smiles, hands Paul’s camera phone to an assistant, and stands between us, throwing an arm around us both like we’re old friends. Why is he doing this? God, it hurts. I don’t want him to out me as someone he fucked a couple weeks ago, but I wanted to see something warm and familiar in his eyes. Even if it was a tiny shared glance between us that said “you’re special and I remember you.”

  Instead there’s a polite nothing. He used me for inspiration and doesn’t even remember me.

  “You want one with your phone, Rachel?”

  I shake my head at Paul’s question, wanting to disappear. How can Dylan stand here and touch me like a stranger? Easy. He never gave a shit, and he’s brought me back here to show me how little I meant.

  Dylan cocks an eyebrow. “Are you sure? It’s no problem.”

  It takes all I have to speak steadily as I look at Paul. “You can forward yours to me. I’m sure Dylan’s incredibly busy greeting all of his other…” I almost say groupies. “Fans.”

  He removes his arms from our shoulders. “Yeah, I should probably get going. Nice meeting you both.” He swaggers off to the next group where Sutter has posted up, a trio of scantily clad women with sex in their eyes, grabby hands, and giggles I want to silence with my foot.

  Paul makes me pose with the drummer for a quick pic. Then the band leaves to change or do whatever they do after a concert. Probably banging groupies on the tour bus.

  I keep my gaze on my shoes, or my phone, the most subtle disengagement I can manage, growing angrier by the second.

  We don’t hang around long once the band’s gone.

  “That was so cool.” Paul leads the way out.

  Dylan obviously doesn’t give a shit, but a part of me can’t let this go. Resentment’s dug its claws into my guts, and if I don’t follow through, I’ll be emotionally disemboweled. “Now I really have to go to the bathroom.” The lie comes easily.

  “Oh. There should be one before the exit. Let’s go.”

  I shake my head and hope my expression is casual. “No, you go get the car. There should be less of a line by now, but there’s no point both of us waiting. I’ll meet you out front on the south side.”

  “Sure.” He’s enough of a gentleman to do as he’s told.

  I head back the way we came and slowing down as the hallway gets quieter. The doors grow farther apart until I hit a dead end—an emergency exit—and my anger stutters with my feet.

  You used him too, Rachel. For a wild experience, a fling to be someone else with.

  I know I used him too, but what he’s done is so much worse. It’s exploitative and hurtful, and he needs to know that’s not okay. Is this how he gets his songs? By moving from one woman to another, singing about the intimate details of their dalliances? I love Fallen Angels’ songs, but have I loved songs that broke other women’s hearts when they heard them? Their personal heartaches becoming beautiful songs I devoured and wished for more? I feel awful.

  “Not like he’ll care.” Shaking my head, I lean against the wall, slowing my breathing, listening for the tone of his voice to show me where to go, but there’s nothing. No warm words drawing me forward, telling me it was all a joke, a lie to keep me safe from questions about how we know each other.

  Maybe he thought Paul and I were together? It doesn’t matter. I can only linger for so long before a security guard’s bound to find me. With a huge sigh, I push off from the wall and stride down the hall.

  A door opens behind me, and I’m pulled roughly inside a darkened room. A large figure slams the door shut and presses my stomach against it.

  I open my mouth to scream, and it’s immediately covered with a familiar hand.

  “I knew you were trouble, Cello Girl.”

  Dylan.

  I try to speak, but his hand presses harder against my mouth.

  “Don’t say a word.” The darkness in his voice, a raw edge in it, holds me captive.

  My eyes shut as I savor the feeling of his body behind me, as I breathe in his rangy, citrusy scent, incredibly turned on despite myself when he grinds against my ass.

  He moves his hand from my mouth and slides it down my shoulder, cupping my breast through the corset, long fingers dipping inside to scoop me out until my nipple is exposed.

  My throat dries out from my ragged breaths, and I swallow hard.

  His fingers skim my nipple with the barest brush of contact. I shiver, and he presses his hard body against my back, crushing me to the wall, pinning me exactly where I want to be.

  He gathers my hair and pushes it in front of my shoulder, yanking the back of my scarf down to access my neck with his mouth. Will he, is he—

  He sucks at the tender flesh, pulling a gasp from my lips. A hand circles around my belly and eases lower—oh, God, if he touches me he’ll know how fucking wet I am—and slips into my panties, circling their way to my clit, skirting to the side at the last second, heading lower, lower, dipping into the abundance of wetness between my legs.

  “Christ.” He nips my neck with his teeth and I shudder. “You’re so fucking wet for me already.”

  All I can do is nod.

  With ease, he works my clit, slicking me with my own wetness, letting those talented fingers slide around and around in a way that feels so perfect my eyes lose their ability to focus, so I close them again.

  “Do you know how fucking hot you are right now? All that creamy flesh exposed, these tight fucking jeans leaving nothing to anyone’s imagination,” Dylan’s voice rasps in my ear. “Showing off your perfect little tits.” He nips my skin where my neck meets my shoulder, hot breath flowing down my chest.

  The time apart evaporates like it never was.

  “I haven’t stopped thinking about you, Rachel, my good girl.” His fingers slide lower, and he circles my aching hole.

  God, I want, no, I need him to fuck me, but I shouldn’t. “Dylan,” I moan.

  He thrusts his fingers deep inside, and all my breath leaves my body. My head spins, and I spread my legs as much as I can to give him more space, to move deeper, to take whatever he wants.

  He pinches my nipple with the hand not buried inside me. “I said no talking. I can still feel your tight pussy clenching my cock. I think about it and jerk off.”

  He presses his erection against my ass while his fingers plunge in and out, and for a wild moment, I want him to jam his cock into me, even there, just as long as he gets inside me again and makes me feel free, makes me come like only he can. “Dylan, please.”

  “Shut u
p.” He curls his fingers inside me, hitting my g-spot.

  I sag against him, glad for the wall’s support; otherwise, I’d be on the floor.

  “I remember the surprise on your face when I ate you out and you came on my tongue at Tilt. In the stairwell. Anyone could have walked in on us.”

  He presses his thumb against my clit while working everything at once and I see stars.

  He grazes my earlobe with his teeth. “I can still taste you, Rachel.”

  Pressure builds, and my hips frantically buck against his hand. I’m gonna come. I’m gonna come.

  “I want to eat that pretty pussy again. I’m going to lick it clean and then kiss you so you taste yourself.”

  Oh God.

  “Then I’m going to suck and bite your tongue until you’re wet again. And when you are? I’m going to fuck you until you scream my name.”

  It’s all I need. He’s all I need.

  My pussy clenches his fingers hard as I moan through clenched teeth, unable to keep it in, shaking when release crashes over me in spasms of heat so deep it almost hurts. Dylan’s hand leaves my panties and comes to my mouth. Caught up in endorphins and the moment, I suck his fingers into my mouth, tasting myself on him, wanting more.

  His hand leaves my mouth and returns to my breast, tucking it back into my bra—now with a piece of plastic nestled inside the cup next to my skin.

  “What’s this?” I brace my hand against the wall and reach for the item poking my breast.

  “Don’t take it out. I’ll be at the Liberty hotel in an hour. That’s the keycard to my suite. Be waiting for me there. Naked.” He pulls me back from the door and spins me around. The hunger in his eyes sends tingles through me. His hands are rough as he hauls me against him. Even through our jeans, I can feel how hard he is. He grabs my ass one more time with a small groan. “You’d better not surprise me again, Rachel. Be there.”

  He doesn’t even look at my face before opening the door and pushing me back into the hall, the key still tucked into my bra.

  The metal door closes, leaving me alone and confused in the corridor with a key card and a world of temptation.

  Dazed, I start walking with no idea where I’m going, body swollen and heavy with the post-orgasm haze Dylan dropped me into. Lazily, I adjust my clothes.

  What the hell was that about? The key card digs into my nipple, and I remove the plastic rectangle—Ebersol Suite—and tuck it into my purse. My phone buzzes, and I jump.

  It’s a text from Paul. I’m out front.

  Shit. I completely forgot about him waiting for me outside while I was being finger-fucked by the rock star we both adore. Chagrined, I type that I’m coming before deleting the unintentional double entendre. Yeah, I was coming a minute ago. Giggles rise in my chest like champagne bubbles in a glass. I need to pull it together before seeing him.

  The line wasn’t as short as I’d thought it would be, but I’ll be right out. What color is your car?

  It’s black and lime green and hard to miss.

  I wonder what kind of car he drives. Something flashy to overcompensate like a lot of men do? I’d have pictured a practical beige sedan, but he said lime green and black. Definitely not my first guess for what would suit him. Then again, he surprised me tonight with his appearance—before he went all fanboy on Dylan, acting like they were “bros.” Telling him we were musicians too, like that would somehow matter.

  Rock stars must be inundated with people trying to bond and relate with them, finding flimsy links in a grasping effort to forge a connection to stand out from the crowd. To be special. Like I was. Am?

  What would Dylan drive? He probably doesn’t, instead being chauffered around in a flashy limo, or town car. But if he does, I bet he drives an SUV or a truck. Something with muscle and room in the backseat for…

  Now moving with purpose, I make it outside in a couple short minutes. A few stragglers linger, but the street’s mostly deserted. Black and lime green. I start heading left when a car horn beeps, surprisingly high-pitched.

  “Rachel!”

  I turn back toward Paul’s voice and almost laugh.

  He’s driving one of those miniscule smart cars. Really, good for him for trying to reduce his carbon footprint, but they look so silly. So much for overcompensating. “Sorry for the delay.”

  “It’s all right.” He smiles and leans across to open my door

  I’ve never ridden in one of these before, but it’s about as cramped as I expected. The seats aren’t that comfortable, and the interior looks ultra-modern. I’ve got enough legroom, but as soon as Paul gets into the driver’s seat and his shoulder bumps mine, I know I’m in for a long ride.

  Now that I’ve sat, I’m increasingly aware of how badly I need a fresh pair of panties. Can Paul smell my arousal? If he can, will he think it’s for him? Of course he will. He may still think this is a date. Digging in my bag, I seize my flavored lip balm, hoping the bright mandarin scent will hide a multitude of sins. I give him my address and ask, “How do you fit your cello in here?”

  “Very strategically.” He eases us away from the curb and into traffic. “That was fun, hey? I can’t believe we scored a backstage invite.”

  I keep my eyes on the road and smile. “Yeah, it was awesome. Thanks for inviting me.” I turn to face him, but in the cramped interior, we’re way too close and it feels too intimate.

  “It was my pleasure. You’re a pretty laid back date.”

  Oh, hell.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  His eyes sparkle in the darkness. “It was meant as one.”

  “Is that the correct time?” I point at the digital clock on the dash that reads 11:17PM.

  “Yes. Why? Are you late for another date?”

  “No, I—”

  “I’m just kidding, Rachel.” We pull up to a red light, and he shifts to face me. “So, the night’s pretty young. Do you want to make the most of it? I mean, we’re already dressed and on the road. I don’t know about you, but there’s no way I can sleep right now. We could go grab a drink.”

  I can’t remember exactly what time it was when Dylan gave me an hour. Maybe ten minutes ago? If I get Paul to drop me off, the drive should take about fifteen minutes. I’ll probably only have to wait ten minutes or so for a cab and then another fifteen to twenty to take me to The Liberty Hotel. God, that’s cutting it close. “Thanks, but it’s been a crazy couple weeks for me. I kind of just want to finish unpacking…” I finished days ago, trying to focus on something other than the memories of Dylan, and online… well, stalking. “And get to bed.”

  He nods, but his smile is a little forced. “No, sure. I hear you. Moving’s awful.”

  “It is.”

  “Maybe tomorrow? I could come over and help you with the unpacking?”

  An uncomfortable feeling squirms into my gut. I’ve got to address this. I should have done it when he offered me the ticket. I’m in too much trouble as it is.

  “I’m really sorry, Paul. I do like hanging out with you, I had fun tonight, but I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about a potential future between us. This is only going to lead to friendship.”

  “I see.” He focuses on the road.

  Taking a deep breath, I take the plunge and say the words I’ve been keeping to myself for ages. “There’s someone else. I’m sorry if I led you to believe this was something it wasn’t.”

  It feels like whole minutes tick by before he sighs. “I should have known someone like you would already be taken.”

  That makes me sound like chattel, but I can’t blame him for being a bit prickly. “Sorry.”

  This time when he smiles at me, there’s more warmth. “Don’t apologize. The situation wasn’t romantic going into the date, so it’s not your fault I was optimistic and got carried away. It’s probably for the best anyways. We wouldn’t want things to get complicated at work.”

  If only he knew. “We musicians are a tempestuous lot.”

  His
laughter fills the car. “That’s for sure. I wasn’t lying about having fun tonight. And it’s nice to talk to someone from work who has outside interests. I’m okay with being friends.”

  I smile and nod, and we drive the rest of the way to my house chatting about nothing in particular. Each minute that passes winds me tighter, and I don’t invite him inside when he pulls up to my curb.

  “See you tomorrow.”

  He nods. “Again, don’t worry about Maestro. He always gets like this before a new season, but he’ll mellow out in a few weeks. Then you’ll be more worried about the performances than the practices.”

  “Thanks.” Maestro’s the last man I want to think about right now. I wait until he drives away, giving a cheery wave while undoing my purse and dialing a cab company.

  I can’t bear to leave the street while waiting, and I pace quickly up and down the sidewalk in front of my house, one step ahead of second-guessing myself.

  Bad idea. Bad idea. I can’t do this.

  Bad idea. Bad idea. I don’t care.

  The cab arrives, and I climb in, not looking back, clutching the key card in my palm, taking comfort in the way it digs into my skin, making this feel more real.

  With just a few minutes to spare, we reach The Liberty and I thrust some bills at the driver. “Keep the change.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I nod, unsure of how much I gave him, but I slam the door behind me. Hauling in deep breaths, I stop to gawk at the hotel. It’s imposing and gorgeous. And Dylan’s got a suite up there.

  He wants me to be naked and waiting for him, and I don’t want to disappoint him. Despite every rational part of being screaming at me to stop, to leave, not to do this to myself again, I can’t help it. I don’t want to be rational tonight.

  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?