Teacher's Pet (27 page)

I have a sudden wild desire to push my hands under his clothes and trace along his ink. Dig into him with my nails. To tattoo him with my touch.

Embarrassed by the thoughts, even though he doesn’t know them, I force myself back to the game. “What would you be, if you could do anything?”

“I’d be a doctor. Someone who makes a difference.”

I wish I could tell him he already makes a difference. He’s made a difference to me, anyway.

But that sounds trite and overly mushy. So I stay silent and just nod.

The south gallery path is bordered with planters a couple feet high separating the cement from small hills covered with shrubs and trees, making it feel more private than the busier spot by the plaza entrance.

Then I realize that I know nothing about his current career choice.

“What do you do now?” I ask.

“Nothing that makes a difference.” He’s dismissive, but I’m too curious. I’m about to push him when he points at the red and gold statue. “This is why I don’t understand art. Subjectivity doesn’t even come into it. It’s just weird.”

We walk past a few big, smooth lumps painted with different patterns. “I can’t disagree, but I think modern art’s supposed to be a metaphor.”

“For what?”

“For whatever you want it to be? I’ve always thought of it as Rorschach’s, in a way. Only the artist knows what they’re really meant to be about, but unless they tell us, we see what we want to see. They’re a reflection of ourselves. A way of connecting our subconscious and conscious minds.”

“Like horoscopes.”

Surprised, I turn to him. “You don’t believe in those either?”

He shakes his head. “They’re too broad. Anyone could connect with the vague generalizations.”

“That’s true. I hate astrology; I don’t like the idea of things being pre-ordained.”

“You don’t believe in fate?”

I shrug, hanging back until the couple with the stroller passes us. “The idea that no matter what we do, how hard we work, that everything will end up a certain way we have no control over? I hate that idea. It takes the point out of everything.”

“You don’t think God answers prayers?”

I chew my straw, mulling it over. “It seems like a contradiction. If things are as God wants them to be, then prayer seems silly. If God knows your heart, he should know when something’s too much for you to bear and step in when you need it, no asking required. But I’d like that over the whole ‘everything’s already set in stone’ thing.”

“I like to think of it more like a journey with only the destination mapped out, not the route you take. We’re going to get from A to B to C, but are we going to fly? Walk? Crawl over broken glass making every bad choice along the way? I like having the freedom to get where I need to be on my own terms.”

“That’s an interesting take on things. I like it.”

“Thanks.”

I continue mulling over what he’s said. “Maybe there’s something to be said for the destinations being more set than the details. Sometimes it certainly feels like my choices are being made for me, pulling me along like it or not. Unexpected roadblocks.”

“Maybe they’re not roadblocks, they’re detours.” He gently spins me around.

I swallow. “Like you and me?”

A flock of tourists press close, noisily intruding on the moment.

With a surprising strength, Dylan hauls me up the side of one of the planters and pulls me behind a tree away from the walkway. “What are you doing?” I pick a twig out of my hair, surprised more than off-put..

“I just don’t want to share you.”

My heart thuds at his words, and I’m suddenly awkward and shy. “That’s silly. No one’s trying to steal me away. And if they do, maybe it was meant to be.” My joking fades at the look in his eyes.

“They’d better not. I can’t stop thinking about last night, Rachel.” His voice sends heat slamming through my bones, melting me from the inside out. “I pulled you off the path to do this.”

He presses me against the trunk of the tree and crushes his lips to mine with an urgency that makes me want to laugh in relief—because he feels it too, the insane electricity that’s been charging the air between us all day. Our tongues tangle, fingers thread together, squeezing tight, mirroring my nipples’ reaction to his chest pressed against mine.

Breathless, I break the kiss because if I don’t I might pass out here in the shade. Immediately, I miss the warmth of his mouth against mine.

Dylan pulls me into a hug, surprisingly sweet after what just happened. “Come on. Let’s keep walking and see more of the weird art.”

“I have a better idea.”

It’s a half an hour walk, but I feel like I float the entire way there, strolling along in companionable silence with Dylan, laughing and pointing out things that are meaningless after the fact but seem funny at the time. None of it sticks with me, except for the company and the curve of his smile, the lines of his jaw.

The elevator is fast enough to make us both laugh with the rush it gives, sending our internal organs swooping toward the floor, but it only lasts for a minute. Over ninety floors up, shadows leave slashes of darkness that swallow strips of the light floor. A thin haze separates the light blue sky from the city below, but the sun blazes brilliantly through the oddly shaped windows that go from floor to ceiling and then some.

There’s no one else inside except for the operator. I hold my hands out dramatically. “Welcome to Tilt. Heard of it?”

Dylan smirks and removes his sunglasses. “It sounds like a bad club name. Drink enough tequila and the floor—”

“—tilts. Clever.”

“I like how we have the place to ourselves.”

The heat in his teal gaze gives me way too many ideas, so I take a few steps toward the window, reading from my phone as he follows. “Safely holding up to eight visitors at a time, Tilt offers unique views from one thousand feet up. It will change the way you see Chicago—forever.”

“I haven’t seen enough of Chicago to form an opinion, but whatever, I’m game. What…oh.” He steps forward through one empty line-up, framed by red velvet ropes.

It’s an additional charge to tilt, but I happily hand my money over, eager to challenge myself with something new.

Dylan touches my forearm, sending tingles up my shoulder. “Hang on a sec.” He heads to the operator and talks to him for a second. Turning back to the south facing window, I keep my gaze level, not wanting to look down until we’ve tilted and I can take in the full experience all at once. This was my idea, and I don’t want to be a wimp, but holy shit, we’re a thousand feet up and about to tip thirty degrees over the street.

The steel handles on either side of the window are warm from the sun and I grip them tightly.

“You ready?”

I startle at the sound of Dylan’s voice behind me, and crane my neck around to look at him when he places his hands just above mine and brackets my feet with his, pressing himself to my back. “I think you’re supposed to stand at your own window.”

He nuzzles my neck. “I’m fine here.”

“What are you doing?” My voice comes out annoyingly breathless.

“Breaking the rules.”

His lips on my skin force my eyes shut as I turn inward with pleasure, awareness shrinking to every point of contact between us, wishing we were somewhere alone and naked, all too aware of the fact that last time we were in front of a window, he was inside me.

Dylan rests his chin on my shoulder, face gently touching mine. “Rachel. Open your eyes.”

I didn’t even feel the floor move. Dylan’s already tilted my world and I’m not sure I want it to go back to seeing it how it was.

But I open my eyes. Everything is tiny below us; the city seems to curve at the edge like we’re staring down at a snow globe with no water, no snowflakes. A world is rushing by beneath our feet, completely unaware of us. My hands tighten on the handles, from excitement, not fear. Maybe it’s because of the way I want the scruffy badass pressed up against me, but right now, in this moment, nothing is scary except the thought of quietly going back to my quiet apartment alone.

“It’s amazing up here.”

The last thing on my mind is the view. “Yeah.” I nestle closer to him, grinding my ass against him, unable to stop even when he hisses air through his teeth and his cock grows hard between us. What’s he doing to me? How is he killing all sense of propriety and self-control?

“Come with me.” He seizes my hand and tugs me through the exit just as a crowd of people walk onto the deck to see Tilt. The operator’s busy taking cash from the new group to see us go through the door.

No alarm sounds, but it’s an emergency exit leading to a stairwell. “We shouldn’t—”

He shuts me up with his lips on my mouth and his hand under my skirt, between my legs, stroking me through my already wet panties. Then he’s thrusting a finger inside.

He swallows my gasp, and pulls back with a nip to my lower lip. “I need to taste you.”

Reason permeates the haze, a tiny pinprick of light through heavy velvet curtains of need. “We shouldn’t.”

His knees nudge my feet apart and he pushes me back so I’m leaning against the wall. “You’re right. We really shouldn’t.” Hot breath hits my inner thigh as he throws one of my legs over his shoulder and tugs my panties to the side. “You’re killing me with this little sweater and sensible shoes and soaking wet pussy. Such a contradiction.” With an agonizingly light touch, he strokes my cleft. “But you taste so fucking good, Rachel.” He swirls his tongue around my clit. “Tell me to stop, and I’ll stop.”

A thin moan sneaks past my lips. God, anyone could walk up these stairs; the operator has to have noticed we disappeared. How long until he comes in and busts us? We need to stop, I need to tell him to stop.

My hips rebel and urge Dylan to go faster, my hands wind into his hair and despite every ounce of common sense screaming at me to stop and cover up, I fuck his face, grinding hard against the lapping of his tongue, that sexy, smirking mouth sucking me closer and closer to the edge of a place I’ve never been, writhing with adrenaline and knowing it’s wrong but helpless to stop.

Feels. So. Good.

He curls two fingers against my inner walls, pulsing against that spot
right there
.

I’m an engine on overdrive, metal scraping metal, burning hot, hotter, until everything tightens then flies apart with sparks singeing my mind. I come with his hand over my mouth, covering the sounds I’m unable to smother, breathing hard through my nose.

I nod and he takes his hand away from my mouth.

And then slides the fingers from his other hand out—and sucks the wetness I left on them. “Mmm.”

“Come home with me,” I demand in a voice that sounds nothing like my own.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

O
nce I’ve given
the cab driver my address, my lips don’t leave Dylan. His neck, his jaw, his earlobe.

His mouth. Oh God, his mouth.

From the gentlest teasing of tongues to harsh scrapes of teeth, he claims me with his kisses, erasing the memory of everything I thought a kiss could be, obliterating every other kiss I’ve ever had. My body’s an instrument he’s playing a symphony of pleasure on. I’m too full of sensations swirling through my body, carrying me away.

The cab driver clears his throat, and I jump, realizing we’ve been parked for more than a couple seconds, but too flooded with hormones to muster requisite feelings of shame. Dylan flings some bills at the driver and pulls me from the car and up the steps to my apartment, his hands never stopping their roving across my body the whole time.

It takes me three tries to get the key in the lock because his lips on the back of my neck short circuit my central nervous system and make it nearly impossible to do anything but stand there with my eyes closed.

We make it to the first floor landing before we’re all over each other again. My hands search for the skin of his chest; his hands squeeze my ass and pull me closer, trapping my arms between us, but I don’t need arms to kiss him or grind against his cock.

Dylan hauls my skirt up—is he going to fuck me right here?—and he lifts me, encouraging me to wrap my thighs around his hips. My ass hangs out of my skirt, but he’s carrying me up the stairs and all I care about is that we’re almost to my apartment. Where there’s a bed.

He reaches around my hip and rubs my clit while I unlock the door, this time with laser precision because my body’s now calling the shots—and it wants him
now
. We burst into my apartment and slam the door behind us, tearing at each other’s shirts with frantic movements and almost angry expressions on the way to my bedroom. I take his glasses off and set them on my counter because I want to see his eyes.

They’re wide open and locked on mine.

I hate that he’s not already inside me.

Mouths fused together, we stumble around the boxes in my room, unable to part until we’re next to the bed and pants and skirt come off all that’s left are his boxers and my panties. He pushes me away by the hips and I land on the bed and tip my hips up to help him get me naked. I rub his engorged cock through his boxers before tearing them past his hips, the soft sound of them hitting my floor the best thing I’ve ever heard.

Everything’s hazy, every cell of my body demanding I spread wide for him, but he’s been so very good to me today, and I’m an orgasm ahead, so I bend and suck him into my mouth. He grinds out a low moan which hits me straight between the legs, reverberating in pulses reaching deep inside me.

This. This feels powerful, and sexy, and I suck at him greedily, wanting more of this feeling, wanting him to be just as turned on as I am.

He grabs the back of my head, and I take him deeper in my mouth, looking up at the ecstasy on his face as he fucks my mouth for three hard thrusts before pulling out and reaching for his pants, pulling a condom out of his wallet and putting it on.

“I need to be inside you.”

I lie back on the bed. Afternoon sunlight streams through the window, highlighting the definition of his physique and the dark ink decorating it, and I take a second to just look, soaking him in. Never wanting to forget this man and the adventurous person I was when I was with him.

And then I flip over, get up on my hands and knees, shamelessly spread my legs, and look over my shoulder, smiling at the surprise that streaks across his features.

He strokes a hand down my back and over my ass, just barely skimming his thumb along the crack of my ass, which tenses my spine a bit in surprise and a little fear—I don’t want him in
there
—but he settles behind me and thrusts inside my pussy, and concern falls away.

Dylan could do anything to me and it would feel good.

I came hard at Tilt, but it was nothing compared to the completion I feel with his cock driving inside me now in deep, thick, thrusts. His hands dig into my hips, holding me steady as he pushes inside hard enough to nudge me farther across the bed. The friction heats my knees, but I don’t want him to ever stop.

After a few minutes, he pulls out. “Turn over.”

I do, but with a frown, afraid I’ve messed up by initiating the position. “You don’t like it that way?”

“I do, but I want to see your tits shake.” He wastes no time plunging back inside and going slower but harder.

Sure enough, my breasts bounce every time in a way I find embarrassing, but with the way he’s biting his lip and staring like he wants to devour me, I decide it’s also kind of hot.

He lifts my knees, spreading them out like a butterfly’s wings, grinding against my clit when he’s fully sheathed inside me, drawing more pleasure from my body. His hands knead my breasts, tracing thumbs across the tight buds of my nipples, lightly squeezing them.

But I want even more. With as brave as he makes me feel, it’s not as hard as I think it is to ask for what I want exactly. “Dylan?”

“Yeah?”

Do it. Tell him what you want
. “I want you to bite me.”

He laces his fingers through mine, throws our hands above my head on the mattress, and sharply nips my lip, sending a spasm through my innermost muscles, gripping his cock.

“Mmm, you really like that, don’t you, baby?”

“Yeah,” I answer in between kisses.

“Tilt your hips up.” He puts a hand under my ass to help, tilting my hips at a more severe angle so his cock rubs against my g-spot before sucking my tongue into his mouth hard enough to hurt a little, in the perfect way I didn’t know I liked until he came home with me last night.

His hips do a little shimmy that steals my breath, and he does it again, kissing me rough and fast like he can’t get enough of my body’s reaction to the things he’s doing.

He thrusts deep and moves his knees, scooping me up until he’s kneeling on the bed and I’m on top. In this position, I’m taller than he is.

“I bet I know something else you’ve never done,” he says, placing his lips on my neck and licking hard before sucking the skin. It pinches. It stings.

It feels fucking amazing.

I promise right then that I’ll never razz Alex about another hickey again.

Unable to stay still, I start riding his cock with complete abandon. This isn’t me anymore. Not me at all. It’s the alternate Rachel, the one Dylan brought into existence for the space of—what? A day? It feels like so much longer, the way I can so easily give myself over to her now. To him.

He bends to my chest, placing his lips just above my left breast. He sucks my flesh into his mouth. Hard. Oh, God, I might come from this. He nibbles and licks his way across the valley of my breasts to place a matching mark on the right one. Each pinch caused by the warm, wet suction of his mouth drives me higher, makes me bob up and down faster, so desperate for release it makes me dizzy.

Dylan reaches down and starts massaging quick, light circles over my clit. That’s all it takes, and I unravel completely, shuddering, moaning his name as I spasm around him, tossed by waves of pleasure like a tiny boat on a rough sea. Wrapping his arms around me, he increases the speed of his thrusts until his cock twitches inside me and he comes.

We collapse in a messy tangle of limbs and smiles, and he tucks me against his chest so I’m the little spoon.

The warmth of his body and the past couple days catch up with me, and I succumb to the heaviness of my eyelids.

“Hey.” He strokes my back and kisses my shoulder again. “Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey.”

Blinking hard, I realize the light’s changed with the setting sun. I must have fallen asleep in his arms. “I wish. I’m jealous of Old Mother Hubbard’s cupboards.” I stretch and pull the sheet tighter around me, suddenly ravenous. “Do you like pizza?”

“Two things you never have to ask a guy: Do you like pizza? And Voulez-vous cou—”

I slap his chest and smile. “What kind do you like? Pizza,” I hastily clarify as a wicked gleam enters his eyes.

“As much as I’d love to stay in bed and eat pizza with you, I’m afraid I’ve got to get going. I didn’t mean to fall asleep, but it’s later than I thought.”

I push up and nod, and for a moment we just look at one another like we’re both memorizing the lines of each other’s faces. I run my fingers through his floppy hair, and trace the words of the tattoo on his chest. I want him to stay so badly, spend the night, but that’s more than I’m comfortable asking for, and he’s definitely not fishing for an invitation.

“Do you leave soon?”

He nods. “Tomorrow afternoon.”

I have things to do to get ready for the move, annoying and important things to finalize tonight and tomorrow, but I’d put everything off to spend another night with him. “Ah.”

He sighs and swings his feet over the side of my bed, turning his back on me. I may want to spend more time together, but he isn’t suggesting it.

The sheet’s still warm with the heat of his body, and I wrap it around my body instead of getting dressed. Besides, I think my bra’s still in the living room, and I’m definitely not putting those panties back on.

He grabs his clothes and holds his hand out for me to take. We negotiate our way around the boxes until we get to the living room and he picks his shirt and hoodie off the floor before heading to the bathroom. I call for a cab and stand in front of the window, looking down at my neighbors below.

How many times have I stood here, sat here, playing music while the world went by without me, living lives I’ll never have? I can’t fade away as soon as I step off stage anymore. I’m more than just a vessel for music—I’m a human being. I’m Rachel. And I need to be an entirely different Rachel than the one I was before Dylan or with him. I can’t lose myself while pursuing my dreams. The single-minded focus I’ve had has gotten me far, but it’s taken some of the glow from my life, rendering me less present than I should be.

Dylan wraps his arms around me, nuzzling my cheek. “I had a great time with you.”

I tip my head back and turn toward him. “Me too.”

Weakness takes my legs when his lips touch mine again, and I turn in his arms, pressing myself against him, wanting the feeling of his body stamped against mine, tattooed in my memory forever. The sheet slips down to my waist, baring my breasts, and he palms them, thumbing my nipples into stiff peaks.

I grab the back of his neck, pulling him closer to deepen the kiss. The way he kisses spreads warmth to every part of my body. Consuming, demanding, insistent. This could be the last kiss of my life and that would be fine by me.

He breaks away and grabs the sheet before it falls away completely, covering my skin again. “Okay, you are trouble.” He shakes his head and bites his lip, pressing one last soft kiss to my mouth. “If I don’t leave right now, I’m going to be late.”

What will he be late for? I don’t ask.

He takes a step away and turns back, pulling out his phone. “You should give me your phone number or email address.”

Oh, I want to. I’d love to see Dylan again, spend more time with him, but that feels more like overindulging in something decadent and ultimately bad for my health. I forget myself when I’m with him and I have obligations. Besides, what future do we really have?

I take a breath. “Every minute I’ve spent with you has been amazing. But it’s not like we’re going to be bumping into each other a lot. I think we should move on and leave this as a vacation fling for you, and a wild goodbye to Chicago for me.”  

Dylan’s little smile is sad. “You’re probably right. We won’t even be living in the same state.” He tucks his phone away and we stand awkwardly for a moment.

I hate that I’m disappointed that he didn’t push further. But it’s the best thing. It’s the right thing.

It’s the easier thing, too, in the long run.

I want to know where he lives, but the less I know, the easier it will be to forget him—though I don’t think I’ll ever really forget him.

“I’ll walk you to the door.” A flash of out of place silver catches my attention on the way through the kitchen. “Oh, your shades.” I grab them from the counter and hold them out.

He takes them, opens the arms and slides the sunglasses onto my face, lightly tapping the tip of my nose. “Keep them. They look better on you.” With that, he turns and leaves my apartment.

I lean against the door and let the strange sorrow settle over me. This was a perfect way to end my life in Chicago—by trying on someone else’s and doing something fun and completely out of character. A wild goodbye.

Odd that this adventure has also made leaving much sadder than it was before.

A
s much as
I want to focus on the future, thoughts of Dylan capture me the whole flight to Boston a couple days later. To stave off the mid-flight chill, and hide my hickeys, I wore a scarf—the same one he’d tied my hands with. I cross my legs, too aware of the throbbing between my legs that will never be relieved.

I should have taken his number.

For what? We have no future together; it’s better I didn’t take his contact information. Look at what happened—two days in his presence and he had me
doing things
in public. The best part—or the worst, depending on how I choose to look at it—I don’t even feel bad about it.

No, I can’t have his number. I’d call him. And he’s far too tempting, the type of guy who doesn’t help with goals, the type of guy who distracts, and I’ve worked too hard to let that happen. This way, he’ll always be the perfect memory of the time I went a little wild before knuckling down. A memory that will put a sparkle in my eye when I’m eighty that makes the grandkids wonder what I’m thinking about.

I hope.

I flip through the inflight magazine, focusing on nothing, memories of him drifting in and out of my head. We’re midway through the flight before I finally sigh and decide to put Dylan behind me once and for all.

Well, maybe not once and for all.

I plug earphones into my phone and take advantage of the airline’s Wi-Fi to search for a song. Dylan never told me the title, but I know the band’s name is Fallen Angels. I want to hear it again—hear the soundtrack that is Dylan—so badly that I’ll listen to their whole album.