Page 33 of Broken Chords
Damian’s working on the same things, actually, but we still spend as much time together as we can. We meet for dinner, then go to separate practice rooms for at least an hour, sometimes two. He also practices between classes earlier in the day now so we can hang out together in the evenings. After tonight, will our evening routine change? Probably yes, to some extent. We sometimes end up at my house or his, which includes kissing and touching, but nothing as much as we’ve done tonight. After an intense make out session, he usually wants to stay in public the next night.
Now, though?
That seems like it’ll be unnecessary. There won’t be any more reason to avoid “going too far” once we’ve crossed this bridge. That thought has me giddy with anticipation.
Male voices outside draw my attention, but I can’t really tell what they’re saying. The conversation is short, though, ending with a knowing laugh from Damian’s roommate. Then the door opens and Damian’s back, a red candle in a jar in one hand, a small book of matches in the other.
“Sorry. It took me a few minutes to find the matches. Then Zeke wanted to know why I was stealing the candle from the bathroom.”
“What’d he say?”
Damian moves to the desk, busying himself with striking a match to light the candle. It takes a few tries, but I can see the pink tipping his ears. “He, uh, wished me luck. And gave a crude suggestion.”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing at his embarrassment. It’s cute.
But then his lips purse to blow out the match, and he waves it in the air a few times, waiting for the smoke to dissipate before setting it on the desk. The scent of sulfur is strong in the air, but is quickly displaced by the cinnamon-scented candle.
When Damian turns, his eyes rake over me where I stand next to the dresser. “What are you doing over there? Get on the bed, Charlie.”
This is a whole new side of Damian. Commanding. Decisive. Hot.
Who knew the sweet, quiet guy had a hidden alpha side?
I hesitate for the briefest second, in which Damian simply raises an eyebrow at me, waiting patiently, and I cross the few steps to the bed, climbing on and turning to sit with my hands propped behind me, my legs dangling over the side, curious what’s going to happen next.
Damian crosses to the light switch, his movements sleek and fluid, and flicks it off, plunging the room into near darkness, only the glow of the candle illuminating the room. Even in the low light, the predatory cast to his gaze is clear and makes me suck in a breath as he stalks across the room, his eyes never leaving mine.
When he reaches me, he bends and captures my lips with his. His hands fall to the hem of my shirt, wasting no time lifting it up, breaking the kiss to bring it over my head. He makes quick work of my bra as well. With my hands on either side of his face, I bring his mouth back to mine, wanting nothing more than that sweet connection again. Placing his hands on my shoulders, he guides me to lie flat on the bed. When his fingers slide into my waistband, I lift my hips so he can peel my leggings off.
He stands over me, his eyes scanning over every inch of my body, and the sharp intake of breath is audible even over the hammering of my heart.
“You’re breathtaking,” he whispers. His fingers trail up my thigh, sliding farther between my legs the higher he gets, until his whole hand cups my mound, his long, thin fingers completely covering me. “And so smooth.”
“I like it that way.” His statement sounded almost like a question, and I feel the need to answer. “It feels cleaner. And it makes this”—I place extra emphasis on the word—“much better for me.”
He hums, a low sound of agreement. “Makes sense.”
The whole time we’re talking about my personal grooming habits, his fingers continue moving. Small, barely perceptible strokes at first. Massaging me. Growing firmer, until his middle finger parts my lips, covering me from clit to opening. The tip of his finger presses inside, and I lift my hips to meet it, letting out a hum of pleasure.
“I liked it when you touched me earlier,” he says, his eyes focused on what his hand is doing to me as he settles onto his knees next to the bed. “Do you like it when I touch you?”
I press myself into his hand again. “Very much.”
His eyes flick up to mine, and a small smile tips his lips. “Good. Because I like touching you very much too.” His left hand slides over my belly, up to my breast, caressing, kneading, pinching my nipple until it grows hard between his thumb and finger. The way we’re positioned reminds me of a pianist playing his instrument. Only now, I’m the instrument. He’s a cellist, and he’s clearly very good with his hands.
A gasp escapes me as the angle of his hand changes, his middle finger plunging all the way inside. Soon, another finger joins it, the small stretch making me crave more. The heel of his palm grinds into my clit as his fingers stroke and tap inside me.
And then wet heat envelopes my nipple. His lips at once soft and firm, and I arch my back at the touch of his tongue. Wishing, hoping, he’ll move south with that touch.
Releasing my nipple with a pop, he brushes tiny kisses across my torso, and I lift my hips again in silent plea. But he doesn’t continue that direction, instead making his way to my other breast. I let out a sigh, a mixture of pleasure and disappointment. His mouth feels good on my nipples, and oh, his thumb feels wonderful drawing circles around my clit, but I’d like it better if the two were reversed.
But his mouth never goes below my belly button. He switches between breasts as his fingers pick up the pace, ramping my arousal higher. Is he going to get me close with his fingers and then fuck me to orgasm? But he still hasn’t undressed, and the box of condoms is unopened on the dresser.
The pressure of his thumb gets more insistent, the circles tightening, becoming more of a strum across my swollen clit, his fingers pressing into my G-spot.
He’s not just very good with his hands. He’s excellent. A master. I’m writhing beneath him, arching my back then pressing my hips into his hand, needing more.
He answers my wordless cries by moving so he has more leverage, his fingers never stopping, his thumb working even harder, his left hand taking over from his mouth again, tweaking and plucking my nipples, rolling them back and forth, and finally giving one a good, hard squeeze, sending me cresting the wave of pleasure and falling into my orgasm, my muscles shuddering and clenching out of my control.
His lips caress mine as his tongue slips into my mouth, his hand gentling as the aftershocks continue to jolt through me, not stopping until I’m completely finished.
