Badass In My Bed 3 (Badass #3) (5 page)

I can only take what he offers, but when he doesn’t even offer me his heart, the only thing I can take is Blaine’s offer—the one I already agreed to.

I squeeze my eyes shut, unable to think of that now. I need to forget, need Dylan to make me forget. There’s one other thing he can offer, that I can take, to help me block out life for a little longer. “Remember that time in your hotel room?”

“Which time?” He grins.

“When we stood and you…”

“Oh, yeah.” He flips me over onto my belly, pausing to stuff a pillow beneath my hips so my ass is in the air. “Mmm, baby.” He caresses my ass and backs up, cool air hitting my crack when he parts my cheeks for better access. His warm, flat tongue laps at my clit and takes a long swipe up to my pussy, continuing up to probe my puckered hole.

God, it’s dirty and naughty and feels so fucking unexpectedly good I squeal in shock that he’s doing that.

He licks faster and shoves a finger into my pussy, curling it to hit my g-spot while he lavishes my ass with attention. I want him there, inside of me. I want him everywhere, and I squirm against the pillow, grinding against it, frustrated by its lack of resistance.

He grabs my hips, stilling them. “Sh, baby. I’ll take care of you. Relax.” He rubs the tip of his cock all over until it’s covered in my wet arousal and I’m losing my mind.

“Please, I need you.”

He shoves his cock into my pussy on one fluid motion. “I know what you need.”

I spread wider and brace my hands against the headboard.

Then he pushes the finger, still slick with my pussy, inside my anus, and my arms give out. As he fucks me, he keeps his finger sheathed, but presses down, increasing the amount of tissue his cock strokes with every thrust.

Everything between my legs is an erogenous zone, throbbing in a slow, deep pulse he directs with his thick cock and the wicked finger he starts wiggling inside me.

The fullness, the completeness, the overstimulation of it all makes my head spin and my nipples tighten into hard buds. Dylan strokes my back on the way up to my hair, where he wraps it in his fist and tugs. Hard.

“I want you to pinch your nipple with your left hand,” he grunts as he plunges in and out.

I do.

“Mmm. I forgot how tight you are, baby. Now finger your clit with your right hand.”

Oh, God, I can’t. It’s too much.

“Yes, you can.”

I said that out loud?

He inches closer, rubbing the backs of my thighs with his quads. He lets my hair trickle over my back and down my sides, touching there too.

He’s everywhere at once, and as soon as I touch my clit, I shatter around him, my pussy clamping down on his cock, my asshole seizing around his finger. I feel my cum drip down to my clit, soaking it, lubing my fingers like warm honey.

I still and sag against the pillow.

He pulls my hair. “I don’t remember saying you could stop.”

Blackness clouds the edges of my vision. Can you pass out from coming too hard? But I smile into the mattress as I start moving my hand again.

In the candlelight, Blaine’s cashmere sweater is the same shade of Dylan’s eyes. My heart squeezes, and I take a deep sip of wine and focus on my plate until I can breathe again.

Three weeks later and the pain of our last goodbye still hasn’t faded, echoing inside the emptiness inside my chest like it’s a hollow cavern. If he’d only said he loved me… But he didn’t, I remind myself. This is my life now, and I have to get used to it.

“How is the duck?” Blaine takes another bite of his squid-ink pasta.

“Fine, thanks.” I put another bite in my mouth, barely tasting the dish he ordered for me. I hate duck, but what does it matter now? The flavor’s gone out of my life. Everything fades to background noise with nothing to focus on.

These show dates are the worst. We get dressed up and go to the fanciest, hippest places in the city to be seen together. While I doubt anyone’s actually paying attention to us, Blaine’s convinced we’re under the microscope, so every motion is painstakingly choreographed to make it look like we’re a young couple in love.

It’s tough to fake something like that when I’ve forgotten how to smile. I’m drowning in this new, exhausting life, but I’m too numb to care, so I let myself be carried along in Blaine’s wake. It’s easier to do what he says.

The only things that make me feel alive are when I’m playing music or listening to Fallen Angels, but hearing Dylan’s voice sends shards of pain like glass straight to my heart. That’s not what I want to feel, so most days, I’m happier to be numb.

But in the cold hours of the night, when I remember the warmth of his body beside me, below me, inside me, I give in and gorge on his music, aching to feel one scrap of connection to the man who let me walk away.

Blaine leans closer. “Are you feeling all right?”

I nod. “Just tired.”

“I imagine it will be worse, once we start… you know.”

IVF. Blaine decided it would look more authentic if I get pregnant before we get married. He’s agreed to wait until mid-season. At least that way I’ll have time to finish one season before the baby comes.

Even with full-time nannies, it will be another year before I can rejoin the orchestra.

I swallow more wine, drenching the panicky feeling in my gut.

“Porter!” Blaine warns me with his eyes while shining a smile at Porter Lofthouse, ambling toward our table. “What a pleasant surprise. Care to join us?”

Porter shakes Blaine’s proffered hand and shakes his head. “I’m just here for a meeting with a grants committee. If all goes well, we’ll be able to upgrade the lighting. How are you?”

“We’re fine, just enjoying a nice meal.”

Porter looks at my plate. “How’s the duck? I always mean to try it then end up going for the lamb instead.”

“It’s delicious,” Blaine answers for me.

“Oh, looks like that’s my group over there. Have a good night, you two.” Porter saunters off toward another table.

Blaine’s already rigid posture gets more severe.

Spikes of annoyance drive right through my temples. Father did the same thing, parading me around at his events, but God forbid anyone actually speak to me or listen to my opinion.

“Can we skip dessert? I’ve got a headache coming on.” I massage my temples for effect, though a headache is appearing, strong and fast.

“Sure.” He leans closer. “It will make it look like we were… eager… to get home.” He motions for the check as I finish my wine.

Blaine’s hand dips inappropriately close to my ass as we pass Porter on the way out.

Porter winks at Blaine, enjoying the show.

I seethe.

The valet brings Blaine’s Range Rover around, and he opens my door, waiting until I’m nestled in the seat to shut it for me.

This whole thing is making me feel less and less like a capable adult. He chooses what I wear, what I eat, where we go. It’s all for show, not because he actually cares.

I turn on the radio and punch the pre-set buttons—only classical stations—so I fiddle with the dial, wading through static until a rock song comes on. The crunchy tones of the guitars cut through my numbness a little, and I bob to the bass line. The unfamiliar singer weaves through the rhythm guitar, making an interesting counterpoint that—

“How can you listen to this noise?” Blaine kills the radio, buckles up, and pulls the vehicle away from the curb.

“Some of it’s pretty interesting if you’d give it a chance.”

He derisively snorts. “You could hand a five-year-old a guitar, and they’d accidentally play something just as ‘complicated’ as that. You know what they say about monkeys and Shakespeare. It’s the same concept.”

The city lights go by, a blur in my window. Was I that snobby once? Will I become that way again if I stay in this world with Blaine?

Numbness creeps over me once more like a blanket, and I welcome it.

It isn’t until we pass the gates to his community that I realize he’s not dropping me off at home.

I sit up and turn his way. “Why are we at your house?”

He pulls into the driveway and shuts the engine off. “I think you should come inside.”

“Can we do this another night? I’m really tired and just wanted to go home.”

He actually looks sincere. “I’m aware this is tough on you. I can be demanding, but it’s going to benefit us both, you know.”

“I know.” My voice comes out with an edge. “Sorry. I really only wanted to go home to bed.”

He removes the keys from the ignition. “I understand, but we’re supposed to be young and in love and out on the town. If we’re going to spend the next five years pretending to be in love, it’s probably a good idea for us to actually get to know each other for real. Spend some time together really talking.”

He has a point. It is a good idea to get to know my husband and soon-to-be father of my child.

“Outside the orchestra, I’m not a horrible guy.” He smiles, and for the first time there’s warmth in his eyes, transforming his features into something pleasant. Maybe I can do this. If there’s warmth in him when he isn’t performing—with the symphony or the public—then maybe this won’t be so bad.

I follow him inside his house.

I’ve been here before, briefly. Chrome, marble, glass. Tasteful, modern, no personality. It could have been decorated by anyone for anyone whose income was above half a million per year. This is where we’re going to live while married, he said. Probably sooner, since we’ll have no reason not to live together, now that everyone knows about us—and in a couple months, I’ll be pregnant. I’ll get rid of my little house and move in here.

It looks more like a museum than a home.

Blaine shows me to the living room, and he goes to the kitchen to make us drinks. Wanting something for background noise for this odd experience, I find the remote and turn the television on, flicking through the channels to find something appropriate. Not that there’s bound to be anything right for a “getting to know my fake husband” conversation.

“…on all the things I didn’t say,” Dylan croons into the microphone, singing straight at the camera. “Words I never said sent you away.”

My finger stalls on the button. I should turn the television off, hit mute, or run from the room, but the words he’s singing aren’t from any Fallen Angels song I know and I need to hear them. Only the band ends the verse with a C Sharp Minor chord, and it’s over, and they’re walking over to sit in tall stools in front of a crowd of screaming fans. A blonde host claps along with the audience, light blue cue cards in her hand. I missed the song.

My heart pounds as I soak in the sight of Dylan’s dark eyes and scruffy hair as the host shakes his hands. I hate her because she’s touching him, breathing the same air as him, standing close enough to smell his cologne.

“Welcome back. We’re here with Fallen Angels, arguably America’s favorite band right now and some of the world’s hottest musicians, am I right?” She looks to the audience, who fills the room with their appreciative screams.

Two words on the bottom of the screen capture my attention.

Previously recorded.

How long ago \? It has to be after my visit; Dylan’s had a haircut. He looks edible in a gray tank top and dark jeans, but his eyes are haunted—or is that my imagination?

Blaine walks into the living room and holds out a glass. “Here’s your water. Are you sure you don’t want sparkling water instead of flat?”

Shut up!
I take it from him. “I’m sure.”

“Wine maybe?”

“This is fine.” Dylan’s said something that made the audience swoon, but I’ve missed it because of Blaine’s annoying voice.

Blaine sits at the opposite end of the couch and swirls his wine in his glass. “I prefer red wine to white, myself, but I suppose I should stock both for guests. The guy at the store who sold this to me…”

Does he ever shut up? I nod, but my ears strain to hear Dylan’s voice over Blaine’s babbling.

He grabs the remote and changes the channel.

No! “Put that back. I was watching it.” My hand twitches, but I keep it at my side instead of snatching the remote and turning it back to Dylan like I desperately want to.

Blaine rolls his eyes. “Seriously? More of this drivel? I wasn’t aware you were so devoted.” He seems more interested than anything else, but he doesn’t change the show back.

Frustration and tension tie my shoulders in knots. “Yes. I do. I used to be a terrible music snob, hearing only discordant sloppiness until I heard the right band. Music isn’t only about who can play the most complicated riffs the fastest. It’s about what songs can make you feel. It’s about discovering a musician who opens your mind and your soul to their emotions and makes them feel like your own.”

“A tad dramatic, but you’ve piqued my interest.” He changes the channel back, and the camera’s zoomed in on the host once more.

“If you’re just tuning in, we’re back, live with Fallen Angels, who just gave us a sneak peek of a new, previously unreleased song they’re working hard on. Wasn’t it amazing?” The audience goes nuts, and I hate that I missed all but the end of it.

Blaine sniffs. “Hmm. He’s cute but mangy. He probably wouldn’t know a pentatonic scale if it bit him on the ass. I don’t know how you can take them seriously when they know nothing about what they’re doing. Do pop stars even know the basics of theory? It’s like they’re lucking into anything interesting they do.”

“Theory isn’t everything, and he knows music.”

“Right.” He rolls his eyes then notices my tension. “Wait, do you have a crush on this guy? You do! That is so pedestrian, Rachel, falling for a rock star. Do you have a poster of him in your bedroom as well?”

My blush says it all.

Blaine laughs and turns the volume up. I don’t care that he’s doing it to torture me, now I can hear Dylan clearly.

They’ve cut to a short film of Dylan playing a snippet on his guitar—the same one I played in his hotel room. It’s the same song I just heard the end of, judging by the mournful notes fading from his guitar.

The show cuts back to the studio, where the host makes a slow show of crossing and re-crosses her long legs, and I hate her for trying to dazzle Dylan. He didn’t look at her legs, which makes me feel slightly better.

She flips to the next cue card then focuses on Dylan again. “This new song is a little more personal, am I right?”

Dylan shrugs. “All of our songs integrate parts of our lives into them. I think regret is something universal. Who hasn’t made a decision they wish they hadn’t, or said something they wish they could take back?”

The host leans toward him like a flower angling itself to the sun. “Why is that a topic you’re interested in, specifically? There are other things that are universal as well. This song seems more personal. Why regret instead of another theme?”

Every cell in my body perks up, waiting for his answer as he fidgets in his seat, foot making his knee bounce up and down agitatedly. He runs his hand through his hair and sighs as the camera zooms in to him. “Like I said, regret’s something we can all relate to. It can bring us to our knees, haunt our days and nights. Regret’s like this dark cloak that people wear so close to their skin they feel it every minute. It’s more than a cloak. I guess it’s not like clothing; it’s a part of you. It’s skin—sensitive, damaged skin, like a burn—something harder to shed or hide. Hard to get rid of no matter how they try, and even if they try to hide it underneath their clothes, it’s always there, searing your body and soul.”

Like a tattoo.

“Wow. So what would your advice be to our viewers about regrets?”

“Avoid doing things that will create them because that’s easier than remedying them after the fact.” He stares at the camera, and I can’t breathe. “Some things you can’t take back. The wrong job, the wrong partner. Passing up an opportunity to get away from it all with someone who’s perfect for you. With someone who knows your soul and would give you his world if you’d just say yes…”

Is he talking about me? My skin prickles. He is, I know he is.

He continues, “You might think a decision you make is just a means to an end. Maybe it even gets you what you think you want, but those easy decisions have consequences. They’re not just throwaway things you’ll be able to live with.”