Teacher's Pet (26 page)

I can feel his cock twitch inside me.

Our breath fogs the window in fast bursts, tiny patches of condensation that disappear as quickly as they’re made.

I never want to forget this feeling.

While keeping me in his arms, Dylan’s fingers make quick work of the knot in the scarf, and I’m freed.

But I don’t want to be. “Thanks.”

I’m almost indecently wet when he pulls out. He smiles and rubs my wrists, encouraging more blood flow into the indentations—I pulled the knots harder with my movements while we were having sex.

“What’s that smile for?” he asks.

I shake my head, not knowing how to explain that tonight was like a vacation, like being dropped into someone else’s life and instead of being strange, it was empowering. “I feel really good.”

“Good.”

“And I was thinking about what you asked me earlier—about your soundtrack. I know what it is now.” I heard it the whole time he moved in and out of me, the melody of it spinning in my head as he pounded out the rhythm with his thrusts.

He raises an expectant brow.

“It’s that song you played me at the bar. It’s you. Completely.” Maybe the association simply comes from the fact that he’d been the one playing it for me, but it feels like more. It feels like it was his song. “I don’t think you ever told me the name of the band that sang it.”

Dylan looks away. “Uh, it’s Fallen Angels. I’ll be right back.” He scoops his boxers up off the floor on his way to the bathroom.

Slowly trailing my hands over my arms, luxuriating in the sensation, I gather my clothes and put them on, unhurriedly in the dark. I’m more comfortable in the afterglow than I was last time, and my thoughts get away from me. Maybe Dylan will stay all night. Maybe he’ll curl up with me in my bed, holding me, making love. We’ll have to go out for breakfast, though. I really have nothing in the house. I wonder if the diner down the street delivers…

Again, I take the bathroom when Dylan exits, cleaning myself up a little, and brushing my teeth before heading back out to the living room. I’ve decided to be brave and invite him to spend the night.

But when I find him, he’s fully dressed and talking on his phone. “Thanks.” He hangs up and turns to me. “Cab will be here in a few minutes.”

I school my features, hiding my disappointment as best I can. “Ah.” Do I thank him for giving me the best sex of my life? “I had fun.”

“Me too.”

I walk him to the front door, and lean against the wall while he puts his boots back on, and pats his pockets, nodding that he hasn’t left anything behind.

“I hope your move is a good one.”

“Thanks.” I wish I could think of something else to say, but it’s nearing four AM and my endorphin flooded brain is not doing me justice. Besides, all I want to say is, “Stay.”

He hesitates. “Well. I should probably get going.”

“Then I suppose this is goodbye, Dylan with no last name.”

“The pleasure was all mine, Rachel who is moving.” He wraps his arms around me, ravishing me with one last kiss that makes my heart pound.

He winks and walks out my door without another word.

It takes a few minutes for the regret to settle over me. I was afraid I’d feel it, and I do. But it’s not the regret I thought it would be. Because I’m not at all sorry that I let Dylan into my bed, even though I don’t know his last name, even though I’ll never see him again. I’m not at all sorry that I let my guard down or that I became as much of a stranger with him as he was to me.

The regret I have is completely unexpected—I regret letting him leave.

H
umming to myself
, I clean up the remains of the picnic and fold the sheet, holding it to my face and breathing in the remnants of his cologne mingling with my perfume. The scents complement each other.

\

I
t’s
after eleven-thirty when I wake up—nearly unheard of with my strict schedule, but these last few days are fairly empty, allowing me to lie in my bed, luxuriating first in the memories of last night, then continue wallowing in that languid feeling in a long, hot shower. Dylan’s given me enough Rabbit fodder to last me years, when the vividness of the memories of last night fade in intensity then finally dissolve completely like chocolate on my tongue.

I dry my hair and dress in a khaki skirt and a light blue sweater that gently caresses my skin, and swipe on a little mascara and lip gloss. Alex has sent me a text demanding details but also sending a sneak peek at the playlist I promised I’d listen to. I press play on the song called
Summertime Sadness,
and with the first few swelling chords I’m taken away.

Striding to the bathroom, I grab an elastic and hastily weave my hair into a braid, throwing it over my shoulder and out of the way. I use a blue plastic tub as a seat—the chairs buried behind a mountain of boxes and impossible to get to—and unlock my cello case. Pulling her free, I restart the song on my phone, nestle my instrument close and close my eyes, letting the music flow through me, then from me.

My fingers fly over the strings, my body sways with the movements of my bowing, and I nail down the vocal line of the chorus, smiling when I get it just right and the notes reverberate back, full and stentorian.

The knocking at the door kills the moment, tearing me from the song.

I huff impatiently, not expecting company, not wanting to stop playing. If the movers came early...gently placing my cello back in the case and shutting it, I pad over to the door, ready for conflict when I open it.

“Hey, Cello Girl.” Dylan smiles, freshly shaved and changed and smoldering on my threshold.

“Dylan. What are you doing here?” I’m surprised I don’t stutter. My heart’s certainly tripping.

He leans against the doorjamb. “I know you probably have a million things to do before you leave town in a couple of days so I thought I’d come by and ask if you’d spend the day with me instead.”

“You’re leading with the fact you’re inconveniencing me? That’s not the best strategy to sell yourself.” But I’m already sold, and the truth is in the smile I give him.

He holds up a small white paper back and two takeout cups. “I also brought breakfast.”

My stomach rumbles at the rich aroma of coffee, and I take a cup and motion for him to come in. “Hard to say no to that.” It’s impossible to say no to him period.

The cocky way he strides past me, I’m pretty sure he knows it. Damn, cocky looks just like sexy the way he wears it.

“I didn’t take you for a Lana fan.”

Alannafan? “A what?” Admittedly, I was focusing more on his ass in those jeans than what he was saying.

“That song.” He follows me into the living room, where I point at a blue plastic tub he can sit on, and take my seat again a few feet away, shutting my phone—and the music—off.

“Oh. It’s something Alex sent me to listen to, but yes, I really like it.”

He sets his cup down and digs into the bag. “Let me guess: you’ve never heard of that artist before.”

“Well, I can’t think of other songs of hers, but her voice sounded a little familiar.”

He shakes his head at my defensive answer and hands me a pastry. “Are you this out of touch with all of pop culture, or just the music?”

It’s not a put-down—it’s curiosity. I know this so it’s easier to answer. It’s very easy, actually, because he’s interested in me and that…well, that’s nice.

Glazed icing crumbles on my lips as I take a bite of the fruit-stuffed goodnes“It’s not that I mean to shut it out. I like to think of myself as an attentive person.” Glazed icing crumbles on my lips as I take a bite of the fruit-stuffed goodness.

“You just get busy?” His eyes are on my mouth and the space between my legs feels suddenly warmer.

I fight to focus on the conversation. “And I love playing”—I nod at my cello—“but that’s hours a day of practice, maintenance of the instrument, learning the music, perfecting bowing, listening to different peoples’ interpretations of those songs I’m supposed to learn. When I’m done with that, I like it to be quiet. I don’t care about the latest reality television show, or who’s marrying who in the tabloids. Entertainment becomes noise instead of information. I’d rather go out with my friends and talk about their lives than go see a movie, or talk about celebrities we’ve never met and never will meet. I have goals, but they require work. I don’t expect things to fall onto my lap.”

I lower my eyes hastily, aware that I likely sound boring and lame.

“You’re so different from most women I come across. In a good way,” he clarifies hastily.

I look up, my eyes meet his and I’m moved by the sincerity I find there. I feel myself blush.

“Thanks. I don’t want much, but the things I want, I
need.
”

“We’re more alike than I thought.”

My cheeks heat further as I smile and finish my pastry.

He balls his napkin and puts it back into the empty bag. “Confession time.”

A mild panic flashes through me as I imagine all the horrible things he could confess. Oh, God…what if he’s married? My gaze flicks to his left hand, searching for a ring, or a tan line where a ring would be.

He notices my stare and laughs. “I’m not married. And I don’t have a girlfriend, if you’re wondering. But I’m also not from Chicago.”

“Oh. Well, neither am I.” I shouldn’t feel so happy that he’s single. It really doesn’t matter considering where I am in my life.

“No, I mean I don’t live here. You’re moving and I’m only in town for another day or so, myself.”

I brush crumbs from my fingertips, a distraction from how disappointed that statement makes me. Not that he doesn’t live here, but that he’s only here for another day and that I’m moving. It’s an emphasis that we’re just ships passing in the night. Though, right now it’s daytime…

I cock my head at him. “What brings you to Chicago?”

“Just visiting.” He tilts his head, mirroring mine. “And I need a tourguide.”

He’s asking me to show him around. And I can’t. It’s not on my agenda. It’s not something I’d be good at. And, most importantly, it’s a bad, bad idea.

But saying no to him…“Do you have family here who can take you?”

“Nope. ”

I toy with the bottom of my cup. “And you can’t ask any of your friends to be your tour guide?”

“To be honest, the people I know here would be into going to loud bars and things I’ve already seen.” He pauses, makes sure I’m listening and I am. “Besides, I want you.”

I feel like I’ve fallen down a flight of stairs the way my pulse speeds up and my head gets all dizzy.

“I’m not the best to show you this city. I’ve barely seen much of it, myself.” I’m not even sure how I got those words out when all I’m thinking is
he wants me
!

Dylan grins. “All the more reason to see a few places before you move, right?”

He’s not wrong; it’s not the first time I’ve regretted not seeing more while I was here. But it doesn’t influence my answer. My answer was pretty much decided the minute he walked in the door, as bad as it is, as wrong as it feels. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

His smile is lightning fast and twice as hot. “I don’t want to see my normal things either, nothing loud and crowded.”

“That’s a deal.” I grimace exaggeratedly.

“See? You’re perfect for this adventure.”

“Maybe. But I don’t exactly know where that ‘perfect place’ you’re looking for is in Chicago; we’ll have to research. I could sneak you onto campus?” I’m more excited than I want to be, but I can’t help myself. It’s another day in alternate Rachel’s shoes and the thought is exhilarating.

“Let’s stay away from the usual stomping grounds.”

“Hang on.” I text Alex.
Where should I take a tourist for something they won’t forget? Something cool and different?

Alex immediately texts me back a single word that makes me smile.

Alex: Tilt

I call for a cab and Dylan and I make our way downstairs to wait for it in the sunshine.

Tilt’s the perfect choice and definitely not something I’d ever do by myself, but I want to save that for last since it’s the showstopper, so I tell the cab driver to take us to Millennium Park first—somewhere, I learn, neither Dylan nor I have been.

“Isn’t that a little touristy?” Dylan slides on a pair of silver Aviator shades that hide too much of his face, reflecting too much of mine back at me.

I hate not being able to see peoples’ eyes when I’m talking to them. Correction—I hate not seeing Dylan’s eyes. “Maybe a bit, but it’s somewhere I’ve always meant to go. I’ve heard good things about—”

“—the Pavilion.”

I frown at his interruption. “I was going to say the Boeing Galleries. I thought you hadn’t been there?”

“I haven’t, but everyone’s heard of the Pavilion and its architecture.”

I hadn’t known it was so renowned, but at least he doesn’t seem bored. “Alex told me about these statues at the galleries that looked like milk crates once. It sounds sufficiently bizarre enough to investigate.” She has been known to tease me about odd things like that, knowing I’ll never see them, wanting to get a reaction.

He slides a hand across my thigh, stopping my breath, on the way to seizing my hand in his. “You are delightfully expressive.”

A warmth crawls up my chest and I hope the blush doesn’t look as obvious as it feels. “What can I say, I’m an open book.” That’s a lie, though, since there are things about me I can’t tell him. Things I
won’t
tell him.

He smiles and turns to watch the city go by outside his window.

I do the same, casually checking him out in the weak reflection of my window until we get there.

A few people mill about the entrance, and we pay and make our way through the central promenade, stopping for a couple of sodas. Dylan’s thin zip-up hoodie covers most of his tattoos, but he still gets a few looks from people. Maybe he’s hiding behind the shades, rather than shutting people out. I’d hate to be stared at the way he is. Is it because of his ink that they gawk? Or because he’s so damn attractive?

Spontaneously, I take his hand, feeling a little protective of him. Also, a little bit of kinship. Whatever it is about him that causes the stares, the judging, it’s not something he seems comfortable with. I get that. It’s the way I feel when my father parades me around at his charity benefits, as if I’m the reason to donate or support a cause.

He looks down at our hands—even with the shades, the surprise is visible on his features—but his lips quirk in a little smile, and he gives my hand a little squeeze, somehow sending a spark through the innocent gesture.

He’s definitely not out of my system, even after the incredible night we spent together.

“You’re into architecture?” I ask, remembering his comment in the cab.

“Not really, though I do appreciate good acoustics.”

Something the pavilion is famous for, according to my brochure. “Do you go to a lot of concerts?”

He takes a long sip of soda. “Yes. You?”

“Not as many as I’d like.” And I imagine they’re not at all the kind of concerts Dylan goes too.

“Maybe you’ll have more time now that you’ve gotten your degree.”

“Things are going to change, but I can’t see myself drowning in free time. Only new obligations in a new city.” Only this time, I’ll know ever fewer people.

He swings my hand a little. “Yeah, I suppose getting to the top is only half the battle. Maintaining it is just as time consuming.”

He glances at the plaza, a small frown appearing at the size of the crowd milling about. I’m not a fan of noisy throngs either, so I don’t try to entice him toward the Cloud Gate.

I take my hand back, fiddling with my straw as a pretense, but mostly because I need autonomy for my next confession. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it.”

“The time?”

I keep my gaze on the ground in front of me. “Yeah. I’m getting something I’ve always wanted, but it sort of feels like maybe I had to give up a lot of myself to get it.”

“A trade off.” He says it in a way that tells me he gets it. I wonder if he has something similar he can relate too or if he just is that good at making a person feel understood.

But I’m not brave enough to ask. “Yes. A trade off. I know the grass is always greener on the other side, but sometimes I wonder who I’d be if I didn’t want this so badly. Didn’t give up so many hours of my life to the dedication it takes.”

We amble along a few more paces before he bumps his shoulder into mine. “Let’s play pretend. Let’s say you never wanted to be a musician. What would you have done?”

“I don’t even know.”

“You suck at this game.”

I snort. “Okay. I like to think I’d still be doing something in the arts, but I think the exact same thing would have happened if I’d chosen any other career in the arts. So, I guess in that vein, I’d be a florist and own my own shop.”

“Is that a metaphor? Stopping to smell the roses?” He seems to study me. “I could see you surrounded by flowers, arranging bouquets.”

“Can you?” I love the way he looks at me, the way he takes everything in behind his shades. I feel it even though I can’t see it. “It would be so relaxing. How could you ever get tired of being surrounded by flowers all day? And they make people happy.”

“You wouldn’t want to be someone famous or a doctor?”

“Nope. I care about the music, not the glory. As for the medical profession, I can’t stand needles. See this?” I tilt my head so he can see the tiny scar on my earlobe. “Seventh grade. Brooke Cunningham’s birthday party sleepover. The other girls thought it would be cool to pierce our own ears, and I went along with it. Peer pressure. I fainted after they did one ear and it ended up getting infected.”

He laughs. “Obviously I’m fine with needles.”

“Did the tattoos hurt? Machismo aside?”

He rubs his chest through his sweater, almost subconsciously. “Honestly, not really. It hurts more where the skin is thin, but it kind of just feels like scratching.”