Badass In My Bed: Badass #2 Read online

  I don’t realize I have a key to the presidential penthouse suite until I reach it.

  The décor of the hallway is too tasteful for what I’m about to do. I blot my hands on my jeans and employ the key card into the lock. My hands shake too much the first three times, but on the fourth, I unlock the door and push inside the dim room. Although I’m breathing heavily, I can’t get enough air.

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

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

  Freer.

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

  An ache pulses between my legs. Maybe I like when Dylan’s mad.

  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 outside, so I head straight for the bedroom and pull out my phone to check the time. I’m okay.

  The bedroom has the same windows and a king-size bed covered with a luxurious, silvery quilt with small squares sewn into it. I try to imagine Dylan wrapped in it, but—

  “You came.”

  I startle at Dylan’s voice, so close by, my 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 refuse me now?

  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 and pushes 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. A small tearing sound lets me know my shirt doesn’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 like we’d never been together. When I went out, I hid them with scarves and high-necked sweaters, but when I was alone, looking at them in the mirror brought it all back in a very visual, 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—”

  His yanking my bra off over my head, which hurts, but turns me on so much I’m spun 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.

  “No talking. No carpet picnics or chatting about anything. You don’t get to talk. We’re just going to fuck.”

  Oh, he is mad. And I like it just as much as I thought I would. 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, 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.

  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 wants to draw it out. All I want is more and more and more of this, but he seems so angry with me it sharpens the pleasure. I feel like I need to be cautious and tread lightly, but I don’t know why. Maybe it’s just the adrenaline from his show making him so aggressive.

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

  His teeth lightly abrade my lip when he lets me go. He bends 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.

  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, 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, and my hips twitch forward, trying to encourage him inside.

  “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 just 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 me, and him being so close and yet to far is driving me insane.

  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, 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 goes 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—and then 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 amazing.

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

  I can’t breathe.

  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, Rachel? Does my pristine girl like it dirty and raw?”

  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 development.

  “Say it, Rachel.”

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

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

  “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 breaking. “Please fuck me hard and dirty. I fucking love everything you’re doing. Just please don’t stop anymore. Please, God, please. I might die.” I give my hips a tiny wiggle, hoping he’ll start again.

  He doesn’t move.

  Desperate, I continue, 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 with me, 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 there, he grinds his hips and moves his finger all the way in and out. “How does it feel?”

  “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.

  “I’m not done, baby.” His finger leaves my ass, which also feels pleasant, and his hand winds in 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’m more than willing to submit to that demand.

  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 of his cock. “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 never forget the things I can do to you. So you see you’re my dirty Rachel. So when you’re pretending to be an innocent, good girl, we both know that’s not who you really are. Good girls don’t scream like that when they come.”

  The words unravel me with a brutal release that takes my mind along with it, pleasure bursting through my core and rippling out. I can’t stop trembling, moaning. My body clamps down on his cock, and I’m lost in the perfect bliss that claims my body just before he goes rigid with his own release and pulls out of me, collapsing at my side on the bed.

  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’s 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 it needs to happen. At least I was honest with him about who I was. My sketchy details can’t change his life if they come out.

  I haul in a deep breath.

  “You knew the whole time, didn’t you?” Dylan’s voice is flat, like he’s suppressing a lot of anger.

  This is why he’s pissed? I thought it was because he didn’t know if I was going to show up, feigning anger at having to wait.

  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. He finally turns to look at me. “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 were.”

  “Why?”

  “Because people deserve the truth.”

  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 hot.

  “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? Because he doesn’t care?

  Dylan sighs and walks into the en suite bathroom, closing the door behind him. I think back on the time we spent together. He’s right. He omitted certain things but he never outright lied to me.

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

  Maybe I don’t want a different thing from what we just did. Ugh, how screwed up is that? He basically just admitted this was a hate-fuck for him, and I want more of that?

  I wrap the blanket around myself and spot his guitar in the corner of the room, some kind of black Gibson. Guitars aren’t my thing. The carpet is luxurious beneath my feet as I pad over to the instrument, propped up against a chair. He probably wrote the song about me on this instrument.

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

  I shrug one shoulder 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.

  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 just happened in bed, I need to take a little control back. He strips away my identity, 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 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 s
ays it, like he’s remembering our connection instead of mocking it.

  “Thanks.”

  “Do you play much?”

  I shake my head. “I play cello and violin, a little upright bass. I’m okay on the piano. Do you play anything other than guitar?”

  “A bit of piano, but I started out in percussion. I learned the drums before anything else. Don’t you dare make a drummer joke. My uncle had a set in his basement, and I always beelined straight for it whenever we went for a visit. He started giving me lessons, probably because he got tired of listening to my loud flailing.” His smile is soft, gaze faraway. “It really opened things up for me musically, gave me the fundamentals, and showed me different layers of the music I write.”

  “I wouldn’t joke about any instrument. Well, maybe the triangle. Your music is amazing, Dylan.”

  “Thanks.” He stares at the carpet, posture closing.

  “No, I really mean it. I didn’t know who you were, but when I found out, I listened to your albums.” It feels good to get the words out. Part of the frustration with finding out who he was after I discovered his music, was knowing I couldn’t tell him how much I liked it.

  He bites his lip, betraying the fact that he actually cares about what I think about his passion, his creative expression. His music means the world to him, and it’s written in his eyes, but then a careless grin slides into place, covering it. “You liked my music? Even though there were no bassoons?”

  “I love it. It’s rich, complex, beautiful. I could talk about the things you do with chromatics or time signatures, but really, the thing I love the most about it, is how it makes me feel.”

  It was like having a piece of you with me when we were apart.

  Does he remember that conversation we had about what makes music matter? “If more modern music was like yours, I’d be a raging fan.”

  His silence stretches out.

  Feeling self-conscious, I try to draw him out again. “I had a sort of lonely childhood, crammed with my father’s expectations. Music gave me a way to soar despite the weight of his goals for me. In a song, I could fly away for a few minutes at a time. Classical is the type that showed me that freedom first, but your music does that too.”