Page 50 of Broken Chords
Chapter Twenty-Two
Glissando:a continuous sliding from one pitch to another.
Charlie
Damian’s long legs eat up the sidewalk on the way to the car, and I take quick steps, a cross between a trot and a jog in my heels. He has our jackets bundled over his arm, the cold air of a mid-October evening fresh and welcome on my overheated skin. But it does nothing to cool the fire that Damian’s touch ignites.
When we get back to his car, instead of opening my door like I expect, he backs me against it, his arms caging me in, the cold steel of the car at my back seeping through the thin fabric of my shirt a stark contrast to the heat Damian’s throwing off at my front. One hand snakes down and slips under my skirt, palming my ass, pressing my pelvis to his, where I can feel him hard and ready through the frothy layers of my skirt.
He makes a low sound of approval as his fingers trace along the edge of my yoga shorts just below my buttocks. “So you did wear shorts under your skirt.”
“You told me to.”
His eyes flash and his chin dips. “Do you do everything you’re told?”
I lift my chin to meet his heated gaze. “Depends on who’s telling.”
His hand grips my ass again. “What do you have on under your shorts?”
“Nothing.”
He grinds into me again. “Christ, Charlie. You’re going to kill me.”
At my grin, he lets out a low, growly sound. “In the car. Take the shorts off.”
My eyes widen. “Seriously?”
He nods once and reaches for the door handle behind me, pulling me away from the car to open my door and tilting his head toward my seat. “Keep your skirt down. But shorts off.”
I suck in a breath and climb in, lift my hips, and reach under my skirt, doing my best not to show anything as I peel my tight shorts down my thighs after he closes my door. Darkness and the car provide a good cover, the orange glow of the street lamps not shining enough light to see what I’m doing through the windows, even if anyone were to walk past our parking spot.
A blast of cold air as Damian opens the door to climb in has me pushing my skirt down, more aware than ever of the press of the upholstery against my bare legs. And the wetness gathering between my thighs.
Damian starts the car and glances at me, his eyes landing on the fabric balled in my right hand, and a feral grin takes over his face as he smoothly pulls out of the parking space and drives away from downtown. He waits until we’ve navigated the turns and stoplights of downtown and hit the main road to his house before his hand finds my knee. His long fingers slide to the inside of my thigh, circling slowly upward, his palm pressing enough to let me know he wants me to open my legs, which have been tightly pressed together since I took my shorts off.
When I open a few inches, he hooks his fingers under my leg, lifting it up and over, so I’m spread open, my knee pressing into the console between us. His hand disappears under my skirt, and I close my eyes, pressing my head back against the headrest as his fingers tease the crease where my leg joins my body. I suck in a breath when he brushes across me, open and waiting.
“Jesus, Charlie. You’re soaked already, and I’ve barely touched you.”
I open my eyes and look at him, glancing down at the obvious bulge in his pants. “I’m not the only one turned on by dancing.” Deciding two can play this game, I reach over and palm him over the fabric of his pants.
A muscle ticks in his jaw, and his Adam’s apple bobs visibly as he swallows. “You really are going to kill me if you’re not careful.”
Without removing my hand, I lean closer to him, which has the effect of pushing his fingers directly onto my clit, one fingertip delving just inside my opening. I squeeze him more out of reaction than conscious thought. “You’ve never gotten road head?” I ask, the words coming out almost broken rather than sultry and seductive like I wanted.
His nostrils flare, and his hand jerks against my core. “Jesus, Charlie.” His voice is a tortured whisper. “No.” He swallows again. “You ever done that for anyone?”
“No. But I wouldn’t mind making you the first.”
He makes a choked sound, and I whimper as his hand leaves the sweep of my skirt, his fingers circling my wrist and pulling my hand away. “We’re almost to my house.” He takes a deep breath like he’s trying to regain control. “I need you to keep your hands—and mouth,” a glance at me to punctuate that statement, “to yourself until we get to my room.”
When I try to reach for him, just to see what he’ll do, his hand tightens around my wrist again. “Charlie,” he grinds out.
“Damian.” I imitate his tone of warning, and he glances at me, a smile pulling at his lips. I grin back. “You started it.”
He shakes his head, placing my hand in my lap and returning his own hand to the steering wheel, which he grips tight enough that the skin over his knuckles pales.
His house is dark when we park in front of it, no other cars around. This must be why he chose to come home instead of going to my place. My bed is bigger, and I have an en suite bathroom, so we usually end up there. But if he wants guaranteed time alone and he knows his roommates are somewhere else, we come here.
