Record, Rewind (6 page)

The thought floored me. Interested in
me
, the girl I’d been, the girl that was still buried down beneath layers of cynicism and exhaustion. That he had
admired
me, the smart girl who worked hard and tried her best. She had been
worth
something, to someone worthy.

That was powerful stuff.

“Do you want to talk about what’s wrong?” I asked him.

He frowned.

“You know,” I prompted. “The drama?”

He rubbed his hand over his face. “No,” he said after a minute. “I really don’t.”

“Oh.”

“It has nothing to do with you,” he said quickly. He pursed his lips as a thought occurred to him. “And I think I like it that way,” he added.

“That I don’t know anything about it?”

“That I can pretend it isn’t going on,” he said. “Being with you is much nicer than thinking about my dumb drama.”

God, how many times I’d wished he’d say that sort of thing to me? He could say anything to me he wanted.

“All right,” I said. “That’s fine.”

The wind shifted again, gusting across us, and we were both set to shivering as it howled around us. It was gone in a moment, but so was the warmth, yet again.

“We aren’t going to make it if we don’t get closer,” Damien said.

His voice. God. I’d always dreamed about that voice, rumbling up and down my skin. And now he was saying the things I’d wanted to hear.

“You’re right,” I said. I scooted toward him, trying to get closer, but he chuckled at my attempts and I couldn’t tell if it was Dalton or Damien laughing this time.

“No,” he said. “Here.”

Then his hands were on my shoulders, pulling me across his body. One hand stroked down my back, over the curve of my ass and to my leg. Gently, insistently, he lifted my thigh and pulled me over him, until I was straddling his lap, my breath suddenly short and sharp.

“Um,” I said.

“I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to,” he said softly, “but this is the best way to conserve warmth.” Then he leaned forward and his cheek met mine.

His skin was cool against me, and I felt the scratch of his stubble over my cheekbone. In front of me he twisted and my breasts brushed over his chest as he worked his arms out of his coat sleeves. I could hardly think by the time he managed to get the thick wool from his shoulders, but when he wrapped it around me, draping it over the both of us, I realized that he was right. The warmth of our bodies mingled under the wool, and if I hunkered down we were both well covered.

I also realized that he was turned on. Between my legs I felt the insistent hardness of his cock nudging me, and I nearly fainted as all the blood left my head and went to where the action was.

His arms came around me and held me close, and everywhere our bodies touched I was on fire.

“Warmer?” he asked.

“Except my feet,” I said, breathlessly.

“May I kiss you?” he asked, and it was just what I’d always dreamed he would say. That was exactly what Dalton would say. Sweet, respectful, dashing Dalton.

“Yes,” I said.

Then he kissed me, and everything was hot, hot, hot.

S
omewhere far away in my head, I was still convinced that this was all a dream. That this couldn’t be happening. That this just wasn’t possible.

My body told my brain to take a long walk off a short pier and got down to the business of getting kissed.

And my
god
, what a kiss.

My eyes slipped closed as his lips landed on mine, and everything in the world narrowed down to that contact of skin on skin. His mouth burned as he kissed me, his lips parting, his tongue darting out and tasting me, and I couldn’t help but taste him back. I’d been kissed a few times in my life, but nothing like this. All-consuming, all-encompassing...his touch roared through my brain like a forest fire, turning my thoughts to ash and leaving only my body behind to contend with his assault.

Hungrily I kissed him back, my hands weaving into his hair, and deep in his chest I felt him moan with pleasure. That voice, that same golden voice that I’d dreamed of countless nights, that sang in the hallways of our high school, that belted out on our stage, that went on to the world of music and reached across the globe, touching and transforming everyone who heard it—that voice was now all for me. Just for me.

The thought enflamed me and I found I wanted to make him moan more than anything in the world, just to hear that voice again, my own private serenade on the roof.

His hands on my waist were hot and busy, circling and touching the arch of my lower back. I wanted him to go lower, to cup my ass and bring me closer to him, but I had no idea how to do that. I’d saved my virginity for him in so many stupid ways, and now that I had a chance to have him I had no idea what to do with it. A frustrated moan bubbled up in my throat as I slid my fingers through his hair and parted my lips, inviting him inside.

He didn’t need a second invitation. Warm and insistent, his tongue slipped inside my mouth, sending a quiver of pleasure straight down through my core. Our tongues danced together in the dark between us, breath mingling. He tasted smokey and sour, cigarettes and beer, and it should have been a bad taste, but on his lips it wasn’t. It was almost sweet, beguiling hints of where he’d been and what he’d done before kissing me, and I savored the flavors like a fine glass of wine. His hair slid through my fingers as his hands roamed up my back, and I arched into him.

“Oh,” he said, and almost immediately he abandoned my mouth for my throat as one hand slipped from my back and swept up my stomach, over my ribcage to my breast.

Except he didn’t touch my breast. As though holding something of great value, he circled it with his fingers, keeping his hand very studiously away from my aching nipple, from the heavy flesh that yearned for his touch. I wanted him to be rough, or gentle, I didn’t know, I just wanted him to
touch
me.

“Dalton,” I said. “Please.”

His teeth had found the long, tense tendon in my throat and I shuddered with each nip and lick he administered, but to my despair he had to pause to speak. “You are all right with this?” he asked. As though I might not know what he was talking about he let his thumb circle over my rib, just beneath my breast, and now everything ached.

“Yes,” I said. “Touch me, please.”

His hand moved up and covered me. I sighed with relief, but that relief was short-lived because as soon as he satisfied that urge a new one arose. He’d managed to slip his hand under the hem of my hoodie, so the only thing that separated his hand from my breast was the linen of my work shirt and the lace of my bra. I felt his fingers on me like a brand.

Leaning in, he nipped and licked my throat again, his hand circling my breast, rough and possessive, and I clung to him and sighed.

Of their own volition, my hips moved restlessly, sliding against him and nudging the achingly hard lump of his arousal swelling beneath the denim of his jeans, and to my satisfaction he groaned again. His voice entered my head and zipped down the inside of my skin like lightning. Then he did what I’d been longing for and put his hand on my ass and squeezed tight, his hips rising up to meet me. He brushed over the hot, hungry place between my thighs and it was suddenly sweltering inside our little cave.

Immediately he picked up a rhythm, insistent and urgent. With each squeeze of his hand on my ass, his hips rocked upwards, and each movement sent my head flying as he rubbed himself against me.

The hand on my breast still moved restlessly, roughly, and now he let his fingers fall over my nipple and gave it a sudden, sharp pinch that made my body jump like a live wire.

“Oh!” I squeaked, and he laughed.

“You are delicious, Cassie,” he said. “I wish I could taste you tonight.”

Taste me?
I almost asked, but at the last second I realized what he meant and blushed.
Yes
, I thought
, I want you to taste me, too
. I slipped my arms around his neck and held him close as I tipped my hips forward. There had to be some way to work this thing with that thing, some way to move that didn’t scream of incompetence...

Tentative, unsure of myself, I rolled my pelvis, and the hot, wet space between my legs lit up with desire. I was wearing only hose and panties, and I could feel every ridge and bump of Damien’s jeans pressed against my sensitive flesh. The sensation made my mouth go dry, and I liked it. So I did it again. And then again.

In my arms, Damien moaned, a hungry, maddened sound, and it vibrated through my whole body. Burying his face in my chest, I felt his shoulders rise and fall as he inhaled, smelling me. I hoped I didn’t smell too much like Clorox.

I stroked my hips over his again, anxious to see where this was all leading, but the hand on my ass tightened. “No,” he said, dreamily into my cleavage. “Don’t.”

Immediately I stopped. “You don’t like it?” I asked. The thickness of my voice shocked me, but I didn’t have time to think about that now.

He laughed, softly. “Not that,” he said. “Not that at all...”

For a moment he held me there before gentle pressure on my hip encouraged me to start moving again, I obliged, happily, and was rewarded with another groan of appreciation.

“God, Cassie, you feel so good,” he murmured, and I felt his breath heating the fabric of my jacket, spreading warm and wet over the skin beneath.

His words made me even more restless, even more urgent. I wanted his mouth on me, his fingers everywhere, but that wasn’t possible in this cold—any exposed skin would be frozen fast. Frustrated, I ran my hands down his back, his muscles leaping and clenching beneath my touch. The shirt he wore was so slick it that sliding my hands over it was like brushing my hands through hot water. The spicy smell of him, the smell I was now certain was his skin, rose as I leaned forward and inhaled, kissing the top of his head.

He groaned again and tilted away from me, his hungry hand stroking over my breast as he brought it to his lips, and then, through the fabric of my shirt and bra, he lightly sank his teeth in.

“Oh!” I squirmed. “Oh, my god.”

I heard him—felt him—chuckle deep in his chest and he did it again. And then again. Each time I jumped and jerked in his arms, while his other hand stroked down my back, his blunt fingernails scratching me lightly through my shirt. He kept at it until I was a mewling, squirming thing, helpless in his arms, not knowing which was was up or down, and he seemed to like it that way.

The hand on my back slid up and pulled my hoodie away from my face. Cooler air invaded, but we were still well-protected in the shelter of his coat, and then I didn’t give a crap about cooler air because he thrust his fingers up through my hair, twisting it around and around, pulling my head back with gentle insistence.

I gasped as he leaned forward and planted more hot, open-mouthed kisses on my exposed throat, while his other hand abandoned my breast and trailed down my body, down and down, the heat between us mounting until I was sure I was sweating beneath my clothes, until it reached the hem of my skirt.

Again he paused and I wanted to cry. “Damien,” I begged. “Dalton...”

“Are you okay with this?” he asked me.

I wanted to scream. I tugged against the grip he had on my hair. He let go immediately, and I glared down at him.

He gazed back up at me with heavy-lidded eyes, a sex-drugged gaze that did funny things to the cleft between my legs. I had to swallow and concentrate for a long second before I remembered what I wanted to tell him.

What was it? Oh yeah. I looked him in the eyes and said the boldest thing I have ever said to anyone: “I need you inside me. Do anything you want with me.”

His smile returned, this time lazy. “Oh really?” he said.

“Really.”

He blinked, slow and languorous. “Then I’d like to make love to you,” he said. “Up here on this roof. I’d like to open your legs and bury myself inside you. I’d like to wrap you around me and not let go until morning.”

My breath left me as shivers rocketed through my body at his words.

Damn
. This boy knew how to sweet talk a lady.

“Yeah,” I said, gasping for air. “I’d like to fuck you, too.”

He laughed out loud at that, the old Dalton laugh, free and easy, and then his hand was moving up beneath my skirt, over the inner curve of my nylon-clad thigh, up until he reached my burning center. I wished I hadn’t worn hose—they were going to make things difficult, weren’t they?—but then he growled and between my legs I felt him dig his fingers into the fragile netting covering my skin and pull.

I felt the nylon give way, ripping in his hands, and it was a good thing I’d worn panties as well because if I hadn’t I would have gushed inappropriately all over his jeans.

He found that out himself as he slipped one long, calloused guitarist’s finger beneath the elastic legband of my panties, brushing over my damp inner lips, then parting them to reveal the hot, wet darkness inside my core.

I wanted to return these favors, to nip at his ear, to scratch my nails down his biceps, to lick his
everything
, but the moment his finger slid along the long, damp opening between my legs I was paralyzed with a thousand different emotions.

Need. Anxiety. Desire. Anticipation.

Relief.

My hands were on his shoulders, and I clenched them, hanging onto him for dear life as he stroked his finger over my entrance. His thumb found my clit and gave it a little tentative rub, teasing it in a thrilling little circle, and I moaned and writhed against him.

“You’re so wet,” he whispered. “You’re so ready for me.”

“I’ve been ready for you,” I gasped back at him. “I’ve been ready since the day I first saw you.”

He inhaled sharply. Then: “Oh, Cassie...” And the sound of my name on his lips was almost enough to make me come right then and there. Then his finger pressed forward, sliding inside me, and it took all my willpower not to shriek and pull away.

No man had ever touched me there. I may have projected an air of cynicism and disgust with the world, but the truth was I hadn’t even known the pleasures of the flesh. And when Damien slipped his finger inside me, I was glad I hadn’t, because no one could have been better at this, could have made me feel this good, except Damien Colton.