Teacher's Pet (23 page)

I take back my hand and with it, a modicum of control over my galloping hormones. “There are exceptions to every rule.” Now I miss his warmth. “But for the most part? No one will know their names and you know why? Because the music people are playing is bubble gum. It tastes good for a minute or two, then the taste of it fades from your memory and you move on to something else. It even says so in the name: Bubblegum Pop.” I smile as I parrot him, and I’m rewarded with a flash of an answering smirk.

He shakes his head. “You’re cute.” He’s looking at me like he wants to devour me.

“I’m not interested.”

He leans in, so close that I can breathe in his musky scent and it sends me spinning. “Aren’t you?”

I can’t answer. My mouth has gone dry and, even if I could find the words, I wouldn’t be able to get them out. Because I can’t refute him. I
am
interested. No matter how much I don’t want to be.

Dylan stays close, his breath hot on my neck. “Do you know what I’m into?”

“Uh…” I know what I want him to say. It terrifies me.

But he surprises me, sitting up, away from me.

“
R
ock
. That’s what I’m into. It’s raw and real.”

I
laugh
, half out of nervousness and half at his statement. “No, really?”

“That obvious?”

“You’ve definitely got the whole rocker-vibe going on.” To put it mildly. His vibe screams “danger”, but it won’t let me run.

Dylan stretches his arms along the top of the booth, drawing my gaze toward his sleek muscles, the mysterious inkings. “Something wrong with that?”

I’m not sure if he means his look or his choice in music. Either way, the question flusters me and I can’t answer.

A wicked grin lights his eyes up, and he digs into his pocket for an MP3 player and a set of small, white earbuds. “Promise you’ll listen all the way through one song.”

It’s that commanding voice again, and I can’t refuse. “Okay.”

He gently tucks the buds into my ears, tingles spreading up my spine when his fingers softly tracing the delicate cartilage, and the din of the bar fades. Noise-cancelling headphones.

“Turn it up,” I say, aware that the quiet in my ears might mean I’m the one that’s too loud.

“Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to ruin those classically trained instruments.” But he’s smiling as he increases the volume.

I give him a thumbs up as the music begins, bold chromatic strikes in an ostinato, almost discordant, but…interesting. A bit percussion-heavy, but it drives along nicely. I adjust the buds and close my eyes to better feel the notes. By the time the singer starts, my fingers are itching for my cello to join in.

The singer’s voice is familiar, dreamy and scratchy, but his name eludes me. Brass cuts in then things change, zig zags of harmonies and oohs and a voice stalled by emotion, like everything was caught up in the singer’s mood and he sings of waste. Maybe not waste, but heat, and sand, and a dreamy emptiness. An unfamiliarity.

I drift between loving and hating his voice. It pierces and seduces and rasps and is too sharp. It doesn’t know what it wants to be, but beneath that is the same beat, same pulse driving us along in the journey together. I can’t decide if it would be better with more singing or less, but when the song begins fading, I strain to hear more, to stay in the moment. I open my eyes. “It was good.” Amazing, actually. I remove the earbuds and hand them back to him. “Who was it?”

“You really don’t know it?” He eyes me sceptically.

“I really don’t know.”

He grins and shakes his head, winding the cord around the device after powering it off. “It’s like you grew up under a musical rock, starved in contemporary and only fed the classics.”

“Are these guys new and huge?”

He drags his fingers through his hair. “Well. Yeah. Fresher than Beethoven, anyway.”

I shrug, not feeling one bit deprived because of my musical tastes. “I love what I love.” Okay, that’s a lie. Because if my musical tastes have been what have kept me from intelligent debates with hot tattooed men, then I do feel deprived. Very deprived.

“That band is on the top of the charts. And there’s no cellos on any of those tracks.”

“There could be, though.” I’d even heard a counter-melody as I’d listened. It would be easy to throw in the line. “And that band—” he still hasn’t told me their name, “would never be able to mesh with my symphony.”

H
e takes a sip of beer
. “And your point is?” He smirks. Somehow even sexier when he’s smug.

I lean closer so I don’t have to yell over the music that’s gotten louder with something auto-tuned and lifeless. “Real music is the stuff I play.”

Dylan’s expression loses all humor, and he turns his face toward to mine. Is he going to kiss me? I lick my lips, unable to exhale at the need that slams through me.

He swerves at the last second, bringing his mouth to my ear instead. “Real music is the stuff that makes you feel, Rachel. It transcends genre, musician, time, place, everything.” His words tickle my neck.

“Mmm.” I close my eyes, savoring his closeness and his words because they’re true. “The way a melody sweeps you away and you’re powerless to stop it.”

He grazes my neck with his lips and his next words come out in a deeper voice. “But you wouldn’t even if you could because it feels so damn perfect.”

My heart thunders in my chest. “How it builds and builds inside you.”

“Taking you higher, faster.”

“And then it bursts and floods you with everything.” Opening my eyes, I squeeze his hand, not knowing when I took it again. Maybe it’s the wine. Maybe it’s how far he is from my usual type, but I need to experience this kind of man once in my life. Alex is right.

And even if she were wrong, I’d still be going home with this guy. My body buzzes with anticipation. I have no idea what being with someone like him would be like, whether I could even begin to keep up, but I’m desperate to try. “It’s powerful. Undeniable.”

“It’s orgasmic,” he says.

I swallow hard, not moving away from him, not even wanting to. In fact, I want him a whole lot closer than he is right now. I’ve never felt so connected to someone before who understands music yet has such varied taste from mine. I’ve also never been so turned on by a guy so completely opposite from me.

Hell, I’ve never been this turned on period. This connection is as primal as my reaction to Bach’s prelude if it was played by a thunderstorm. While I don’t understand this thrum of electricity between us, I want to. I want to know it as well as I know the placement of my fingers on a G chord. And I think Dylan could be the one to show me.

“Hey, Rachel?” He feels this too, and he’s going to ask me to go home with him.

And when he does, my answer is going to be yes. I peer up at him in response..

He leans back and traces my jaw with his thumb. “Wanna get out of here?”

“
Y
es
.” The word comes out breathy, and my skin flushes with shyness and anticipation.

Those gorgeous lips that are going to be on mine soon pull into a smile. “God, your sexy when you pink up like that. I can’t wait to see if that blush extends to all your skin.”

My breath catches. This is the dirtiest anyone’s ever talked to me, and I have a feeling it’s only the beginning. Heat runs through my veins, and I’m sure that I’m both not ready for this and more ready than I’ve ever been.

Dylan leans in to kiss the lobe of my ear and I shiver. “Let me take care of my tab. Don’t move.”

It’s that tone of his—the one that makes me want to obey. But even though I’m about to do the craziest thing in my life, I’m still responsible.

“I should probably say goodbye to my friend while you’re doing that.”

He nods and heads to the bar.

My phone buzzes in my purse as I slide out of the booth. I’ll look at it after I talk to Alex… who’s already looking at me, holding her phone up and motioning for me to stop, so I pull my phone out and read her text.

Alex: You have my blessing, go forth and fuck!

Rachel. You’re terrible. And possibly psychic.

Alex: And you’re getting laid! Don’t worry, no one will ever know you have a fetish for tattooed badasses.

I shake my head.
Rachel: Love you. I’ll call you.

Alex: Turn on your GPS and send me the address, wherever you end up. Safety first. And then I’m going to need DETAILS about this guy! Length, girth, time. And “the sex was adequate” is not going to cut—

“Ready?”

God, that was quick. I guiltily jerk and turn my phone off before reading the rest of Alex’s inappropriate message. I feel myself blushing. Again. Even though

Dylan seems like he couldn’t care less about who talked about him, and I somehow doubt anything about him can be summed up by a mere ‘adequate.’

I nod, unable to squeak a word out as his hand splays across my lower back and gently but firmly guides me to the door and outside into the cool, night air. What the hell am I doing? Can I handle a night with a guy like Dylan?

I’m scared of the answer. Not because it might be
no
but because it might be
yes
. And if I can handle him, what happens after that?

“Did you drive?” he asks.

“No.” I never had a car while going to school here—didn’t need one. “Is your car parked nearby?”

“I cabbed it. Do you live close?”

“Too far to comfortably walk there.”

A few people stare at us on their way into the bar. Do we look that ill-matched? They do say that opposites attract; I’m more conservative and he’s got that bad boy thing going on, but superficially, we’re both reasonably attractive.

Well.
I’m
reasonably attractive. Dylan’s smoking hot.

He steps forward and hails a cab, opening the door for me as soon as it stops. “After you.”

I duck in as fast as possible, hoping my ass looks good if he’s looking at it. “Where are we going?”

He slides in beside me, leg brushing against mine in a delicious way that makes me wish we were alone right now. Though, on the other hand, I’m grateful for this time not alone. To prepare. As if I can possibly prepare for wherever we’re headed.

“Where are we going?” the cabbie asks.

I turn to Dylan. “What’s your address?”

He plucks at the seam of my jeans on the inside of my knee. “How about your place? It’s probably closer.”

My bed’s pretty much the only thing that hasn’t been packed up yet. “It’s a disaster right now with the move.”

“That’s okay.”

If my place is closer than his that’s definitely an incentive to go there. “If you’re sure you don’t mind boxes stacked everywhere.” At least that would put me in a safe place and not in some random stranger’s house. Not that I don’t trust Dylan. That’s the problem, actually. We just met, and I’m ready to trust him completely.

He presses his leg harder into mine, stealing my breath as he leans in and lowers his voice. “The boxes are not going to be what have my attention. I promise.”

I must tell the cab driver the address, as we pull out and begin the longest cab ride of my life, but I can only focus on Dylan. Every jostle of the car rubs his leg against mine, causing heat in another part of me at my core, and I’m dazed with want and desire.

He’s quiet, but I know he’s looking at me because my skin is burning with awareness like a deer in a forest with a predator about to pounce. I want him to pounce, just not in front of the cab driver. Or maybe that would be all right now that I think about it. In fact, the idea is somewhat of a turn on. The driver wouldn’t really be able to see if our hands started wandering. I wonder if he’d try to watch us in the rear view mirror…

And that’s totally not like me—usually I avoid Public Displays of Affection. Now I’m getting hot imagining our cab driver watching me get it on in the back seat.

Lord, help me.

I shouldn’t be doing this. I should not…

Dylan’s hand squeezes my thigh and begins sliding up.

Just like that, I forget why this is a bad idea and lean closer. He puts his arm around me and I melt and sizzle like oil on a hot grill.

Then he takes my hand and strokes the sensitive flesh of the inside of my wrist, and that’s when I get really scared. Because if I feel this crazy, this out-of-my-mind bewildered from just his this, how will I ever handle him touching me anywhere else?

It’s a fear that I eagerly want to face.

B
ut somewhere after
pulling up to my building and taking his hand as we get out of the cab, my courage starts draining out of me, awkwardness slowly replacing the certainty. How the hell do I do this? I’ve never had a one-night stand before. I don’t know the protocol. Is there foreplay? Or do I just let him in and start taking off my clothes? Or do I let him take off my clothes? Do we talk about it first? Will he want me to tell him what I want? Because I have no idea what I want.

Oh, God. I’m in so much trouble.

Dropping his hand, I slide the key into the lock and lead him up the three flights of stairs in silence. Each step, my nervousness grows. Each step, my need grows in equal proportion.

By the time I unlock my door I’m so keyed up all I want to do is lay my forehead against the cool metal and stand still for a few minutes to formulate a plan—I do well with plans, but I push it open and head inside.

I dodge the box I know is there and flip on the light just as he barks his shin on it and swears.

“Oh my God. I’m sorry! I’m so used to stepping around the cardboard landmines around here, I didn’t even think to warn you.”

“It’s fine,” he laughs, his laid back demeanour in total contrast to my flustered one. His eyes sparkle with naughtiness and I think I have my answer—he’s going to pounce.

But then he says, ““It’s fine. You going to give me the tour?”

“Sure. Wait.” I throw my hand out for him to stop.

“What?”

I kick off my heels. “Shoes off. I want my damage deposit back.” I cringe inwardly as soon as I say it. That’s my anal self talking, and that’s not who I want to be tonight. But I’m not sure I know how to be who I
want
to be.

And Dylan doesn’t seem to mind who I
am
. He tilts his head with a funny little smirk on his lips, but does what I say.

When I start leading him further in the apartment, though, he murmurs behind me, “Better get it all out of your system now.”

I turn back to him, my eyebrow raised in question.

“Just, pretty soon, I’m the one who’s going to be giving the orders.”

I swear I can’t walk as a new wave of excitement and anticipation and holy-fuck-what-am-I-doing fear sweeps over me.

But he smiles again. “Don’t worry so much, Rachel. I might not be nice, but you’re going to like it. I promise.”

I’m not sure if that was meant to be reassuring. Strangely, it is.

“Now, show me your place before I get too distracted to care.”

He has me twisted up inside. I’m already too distracted to care about a tour of the apartment. But I’m also nervous and anxious and glad to have something else to focus on.

I push open the door to the spare room. “I used this as the library/storage room, hence the mountain of boxes.”

“You a big reader or are they all school-related?”

“Bit of both? But most of these are records.”

His eyes light up. “You’re a vinyl hound too?”

“If that means do I like records, then yes.”

“I’m impressed, Cello Chick. Then again, the music you like probably isn’t popular enough yet to be made into cd’s.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to suppress my grin. “Though I do hear that they’re working on 8 tracks for next year.” I flick off the light switch and step past him into the hallway. “Living room’s this way.”

“That you know what 8 tracks are is so sexy.”

I want him so much it stuns me into silence and I can’t react to his words, can’t stop walking to the living room, turning lights on as I go because I don’t know what to say. I’ve been trapped inside the rules of appropriate behavior for so long I’m frozen solid inside myself. In this short time of knowing Dylan, I already feel the ice melting away.

It feels good. It feels daring. It feels…badass.

I head for the windows and look down at the street.

Dylan walks to stand beside me. “Hell of a view.”

I nod, tracing the windowsill. “My neighbors all have personal soundtracks that only I can hear. I sit by these windows, day after day, and look down at them and play their songs.”

“What do they sound like?”

“Different every day. It changes with the weather, with how fast they walk, with the things they’re carrying. With the stories I imagine their lives to be.”

He edges closer. “What would my soundtrack sound like?”

I close my eyes to feel the crashing notes. Bold, bright but sustained. It would sound like passion unrestrained.

“Rachel?” His tone has gotten thick and gritty, and I know it’s time.

My breathing is shallow, and the invitation to my bedroom is on my lips, I can taste them.

Chickening out, I turn right and stride forward into the little galley kitchen, flipping on the light. “Do you want something to drink?”

“Rachel?” What have you got?” His voice comes from right behind me, and I startle forward, pulse racing, focusing on the fridge.

“I don’t have much, unfortunately.” I’m stalling. I’m running away. I open the door between us. “Water, or juice. A soda?”

He pushes the door closed and turns me to face him. “I’m really more hungry than thirsty.”

“Oh. In that case, I’ve got—”

His hands land on my hips and press me backwards, slamming my ass against the counter.

Oh. Yes.

He steps into my personal space. “Rachel, are you a good girl?”

“Yes.” The word is barely above a whisper, layered with anticipation. I’ve been taught that good girls get rewards. And I’m ready for my reward.

But his eyes flash with something wicked. “Not tonight.” He presses closer against me. “Tonight you’re going to be bad.”

Every nerve in my body lights and flares with pulsing need. I reach for my scarf and he grabs my hand.

“Leave it.”

“Why?”

His eyes are nearly all pupil. “Because I said. Now It’s time you showed me your bedroom.”

He removes his hands but stays in my space, making me slide out from between him and the counter, but he hooks a finger in one of the loops of my jeans, keeping me close as I pull him toward my bedroom with my hips. He shuts the door behind us closing us in the dark and I use the opportunity to break away, weave between some stacks of boxes, and slip beneath the blanket on my bed.

“There’s a box—a few actually, so be careful on your way over here. Just follow my voice.”

He flips the light on and my lids try to squeeze shut in protest. “Are you actually hiding under the covers?” He makes his way through the stacks like a jungle cat weaving through trees and peels the blanket back, exposing me to the harsh overhead light.

Damn it, I need to pull it together. I invited this man to my apartment for one reason. Smoking hot sex. I can do this—it’s not like I’m ever going to see him again after tonight. I don’t have to worry about what he thinks of me. I go for what I hope is a casual shrug. “Maybe I was cold.” Never mind the fact I’m still fully dressed.

He climbs over me, his mouth hovering inches above mine. “If you aren’t into this, Rachel, you need to let me know right damn now. Because in approximately two seconds, it’s going to be about impossible for me to leave.”

His breath is warm on my face, his lips ready to meld mine to his. His eyes flicker from mine to my mouth. “So, do you want me to leave?”

It’s the one thing I know with certainty. “No,” I whisper.

The word is barely out when he crashes his lips to mine, his tongue darting along my teeth as he invades my mouth. His kiss is eager and urgent and bossy—not at all like the polite kisses I’m used to. I drown in it, under it, but it’s a good kind of drowning. The kind of drowning that baptizes as I give myself over to him.

I’m desperate for air by the time he pulls away. He scoots down my body, his large hands peeling off my jeans. After he’s worked them over my feet, he

tosses them across the room, then slowly drag their way up my calves to my knees.

Goosebumps roar up my legs, covering every inch of my skin.

He opens my legs, kneeling between them. “I want to see everything.”

“So do I.” The words surprise both of us, but I press on. “I want to see you too, I mean.”

He reaches over his head and grabs the back of his t-shirt, pulling it off and tossing it in the same vague direction as my jeans.

But who the hell cares about fabric when a tattooed God is between my thighs.

I’ve never seen muscles like this outside of Greek statues and a few movies with Hollywood celebrities Alex made me watch. My ex was a bassoon player, studious and wiry. Bassoon players aren’t renowned for their chiseled biceps and pecs and abs. Dylan’s got an eight pack. I thought they only came in six and I’ve never seen a set of six up close either.