Whisper to Me (Between Breaths 3)

He pinched my nipple through the fabric of my tank top and I nearly came undone right then and there. I arched my back and swayed sideways, and he adjusted his legs around my thighs to keep me upright. I could feel the swollen length of him digging into my back.

He let go of my arms and in a gruff voice said, “Brace your hands on the bar and keep them there.”

The authority in his voice was making my stomach do somersaults and the area between my legs throb with desire. He’d always been so mesmerizing. Mysterious even.

And in the hospital, I’d witnessed his tender and compassionate side. But I’d always wondered what he did with all those girls, even tried to ask him, but he’d never shared.

I’d fantasized about this very thing. Despite being only a year older, he had definitely been the more experienced of the two of us. But not anymore. I felt confident, completely alive in my own skin, like I could match him turn for turn.

I liked to be in charge, too. “Are you going to fuck me, Kai?”

He drew out a low and long groan that seemed to last an entire minute. Finally he said, “Shit, Rachel. Hearing that from you . . .”

I didn’t want him to finish that sentence. I was afraid it would end with a phrase like “kid sister” or some other term that would ruin this for us. Ruin this image I was evoking for him now. I wasn’t the same girl I had been with Miles. I was someone who could take control and make a man feel good, too—if only he’d let me.

His other hand came around to tug on my other nipple while he sucked on the back of my neck. I moaned and pushed my ass toward him, asking for more.

“Not tonight,” he said, breathless. And I sagged against him in frustration. “But I’ll take care of you.”

My chest flipped at his words. I prayed he’d keep indulging me.

“Tell me what you want,” he growled in my ear.

Now gasping in anticipation, I begged, “Touch me. Please.”

His fingers slid down my arms to my thighs, and I opened my legs with eagerness. His teeth tugged on my earlobe as his hands inched upward.

Finally one long finger skimmed over my denim-covered center, and my chest heaved. I closed my eyes in gratification, my head falling back against his shoulder.

“You like that?” he mumbled.

“Yes.”

Two of his fingers teased along the edge of my shorts. It was a torturous kind of pleasure. Maybe he was deciding whether or not to take this to a whole other level. I held my breath and dreamed he’d keep touching me, ignoring the voice in the back of my head urging me to stop this madness.

His fingers skirted between the denim of my shorts and the silk of my underwear to the area right above my center. “Damn, you’re soaked.”

His hot breath was on my ear, while his other hand continued to cup my breast.

I squirmed on the stool, attempting to get his fingers to travel downward. I was beyond listening to any voice of reason. I only wanted release and I only wanted it from him. I couldn’t remember another time in my life that I’d been this turned on.

Finally the tips of his fingers traveled a couple centimeters south to my epicenter. When he touched my rigid nub through the fabric of my panties, it felt like a million pinpricks were arresting my body. He blew a harsh breath against my hair as I squeeze my eyes tight, hoping he’d keep his fingers there and give me more. So much more.

“You’re so fucking hot,” he said. “And I’m going to make you come on my fingers.”

His words alone sent my senses into a complete tailspin. I felt the anticipation building low in my belly as all of my nerve endings seemed to pulse simultaneously, making my breasts feel heavy and my nipples ultrasensitive.

When his fingers began moving against me, the whole world seemed to halt to a standstill, as if the singular sensation was focused between my legs. He alternated between swirling fast and then painstakingly slow, and then everything began tingling—my spine, my toes, even the roots of my hair.

His hand closed in on my swollen center, pinching and tugging, and I let out a breathy gasp. The slick material of my underwear created a friction that almost sent me skyward. He rubbed his finger up and down my slit and then returned to rubbing my tender nub, all the while breathing against my neck and whispering his intentions in my ear.

“Picture me kneeling between your legs,” he said in a quiet rumble. “You’re spread wide open for me. And my tongue is doing dirty things to you.”

I was whimpering and moving my hips in an upward rhythm against his hand.

“I’m licking and sucking and you taste so fucking good.”

“Oh shit,” I breathed out.

“Would you like that, Rachel?” he murmured.

“Yes. Oh God, yes,” I bit out between clenched teeth.

“Say my name.” His voice was gravelly and authoritative.

I’d do anything he asked at that point.

But I could barely concentrate on saying that one syllable. “K . . . Kai.”

My hips swayed and my ass ground against him.

“Say it again,” he growled as he tugged at my swollen nub.

Warmth spread through my limbs like hot lava and then finally erupted. “Kai, oh fuck, Kai.” Flames licked menacingly at my center, and I arched my spine as I came hard against his fingers.

He stilled the palm of his hand against me as unintelligible words fell from my lips. My legs shook and then gave out as they sank in defeat to the sides of the barstool.

His forearm braced me across my stomach and his other hand brushed my hair away from my neck in a soothing motion. For several long moments I caught my breath and floated back down to the land of the living. His lips swept along the top of my hair before he gave my head one firm and final peck.

“You ever need to work stuff out, you come find me—understand?” I’d become the irritating younger sister again. My gaze flashed up toward him as shock crashed down on me about what we’d done. What I’d done.

He shook his head as if to warn me against speaking, and then his arm tunneled beneath my legs. His other arm supported my back as he scooped me into his arms. My eyes opened wide in alarm as he stalked toward my bedroom. My fingers reached up to run along the scruff at his jaw, and he jerked his face away.

He sat down hard on the edge of my bed and then laid me down on my sheets.

I studied his face, terrified that I’d ruined everything. An enormous amount of guilt and fear and pain swept over me.

His fingers reached out and stroked my hair away from my face in a gentle gesture that confused me even more. Was he angry, or did he accept what we’d done?

There’d been a tenderness in his eyes right before they turned distant. Frustrated. Perturbed, almost.

“Kai, I—”

“Fuck, Rach,” he growled, cutting me off. “Just . . . sleep it off.”

Then he was gone.

I lay there staring at the ceiling, my heart bouncing around in my chest until my vision blurred and I fell into a fitful sleep.

Chapter Six

Kai

I was too damn worked up about what had just gone down between Rachel and me. There was no way in hell I could fall asleep right now.

All I could think about was the way she’d felt in my arms—soft and vulnerable. The way her lips and tongue had moved against mine. How she’d sounded when she said my name and then came against my fingers.

I lifted my dumbbells from the corner of the room and started with bicep curls. Before the night was over, I’d probably get through my entire workout routine. It was a healthy habit I had picked up in Amsterdam during a particularly stressful afternoon at the studio. And somehow I figured it balanced out my unhealthy vices.

Johan had a weight machine and barbells laying around in the back room, and he’d taught me some simple exercises. I’d go back there and work out my frustrations on practically a daily basis. At night, I’d head to my favorite “coffee shop,” also known as a hash bar, and work out my troubled head in a different way—only to wake up the next morning and do it all over again.

After my twelfth rep, I focused on my quivering muscles instead of my desire to head straight back into Rachel’s room and lay down beside her. I wanted to pull her body taut with mine and smell her again. Taste the skin on her neck and whisper in her ear.

But that would have only confused the situation further. I needed to steel my emotions away. What happened tonight was just a fling to her. It was the same thing she’d been doing the last few years at college. I was just another guy she’d hooked up with. Used to make herself sane.

It had taken every sober brain cell I had to stop me from sinking myself deep inside of her. Because if I had, I’d be an even bigger wreck than I was right now. For her, this was about forgetting Miles, not about sharing something with me.

My phone buzzed with a text message from Dakota.

Dakota: How is she? Did she beat your butt for jumping in the car?

Shit, I’d forgotten that at any moment Dakota could’ve walked through that door and caught us in a compromising position.

Me: She’s going to be fine. Already asleep. Took a couple of shots to get her there.

Dakota: I don’t doubt it. K, gonna crash here. I don’t want to hear anything about it. You’ve been gone for 3 years & I’ve taken care of myself just fine.

Me: Whatever. Shane better give you a bed to sleep in. Alone. See you in the morning.

That motherfucker better not try anything with Dakota. Of course I knew that my best friend had a crush on my sister on and off through high school, but no way did I need them to have a drunken hookup over the summer. Or even date and then break up. It would’ve been all kinds of awkward between the three of us for all of eternity.

Hell, I was being a damn hypocrite. Rachel was practically a member of the family and look what line I’d crossed tonight. I brushed my fingers through my hair and paced around the room. Dakota had never given me any kind of warning about Rachel, because, even though Rachel and I were friends, Dakota thought we were interested in different things. Different people. No way could she have ever suspected how my feelings for Rachel had grown before I left for Amsterdam, could she?

And Rachel. Never would I have expected her to be attracted to me. I knew she was only interested in sex, sure. But I also knew I had never been her type. Somehow that had changed tonight. Damn, the way she’d begged me for it. At this rate, I’d be hard for two more hours.

I set down the weights and stalked toward my upright bass, pulled it off its stand, and positioned myself behind it. I placed my fingers on the strings and began playing something I’d been working on since moving back home.

I was never one to use a bow for the upright bass or even a pick with my electric bass—I preferred hammering away at the strings with my bare hands. It felt more organic that way, as if I were one with the music. Some of the best musicians I’d ever had the privilege of hearing used only their fingers, so I figured I was in good company.

The pads of my fingers had long since developed a thick skin. If I didn’t play for a few weeks—which almost never happened—a painful process would occur all over again. Blisters would turn into scabs and then into dense and unyielding calluses. My hands would never be the same again.

I’d first heard the upright bass at an orchestra concert in middle school. It was a Christmas program I’d begged my mother to take me to, despite the cost of the tickets. My father had tried to steer me toward the football field or basketball court, but I wanted nothing to do with sports. I was playing the piano and guitar at that point, and my teachers had told my parents that I was a natural, talented beyond my years.

Since that night, the sound of the upright bass had always calmed me. It has a low rumble, concentrated and deep. I loved the way it added such a rich layer to jazz and the blues, just as an electric bass grounds all the textures together in rock music. I liked to play either instrument, depending on my mood.

I’d always enjoyed working with my hands. Even dabbled in art and photography, but music was my first love. My original band was Shane, Joe, Logan, and me in my parents’ basement rec room in the eighth grade. We mostly just messed around, but I was probably the most serious about it in the group.

By high school, while they had moved on to other things, I continued playing in several different bands, performing at parties and even at some bars. I was heavy into smoking dope and could have sworn some of my best music was written while I was flying high.

In Amsterdam, I became a damn competent studio engineer. I loved working with new talent who’d come in to record their first albums. If they were a shitty band, no amount of engineering could help, especially if they ever wanted to play live. I’d tell them that they’d have to lip synch forever, or they could practice hard for the next several weeks, then come back and try again instead. Some bands told me to fuck off. Had their eyes so set on fame that they ignored my advice and then fell flat on their faces months later.

My other favorite part of working in the studio was sitting in on bass, or any other instrument, when a band needed extra sound for their demo. I loved losing myself in the music. Creating something new with people I’d never met.

I lit up a joint with the hope that it would help me unwind and actually fall asleep tonight. I was going to work for my father in the morning, and I needed to get my head screwed on straight, so I only took a couple of hits. I didn’t want him to see that my eyes were red or glassy.

Dad had said he was done with me and the music biz, and that I owed him, needed to pay him back after I’d messed up so royally in Amsterdam. And I knew he was right.

Besides, in a lot of ways, I was still the same screw-up I was in high school. A kid who needed to put in extra hours just to earn passing grades. I still couldn’t make it on my own, not yet. Not with only my music to support me. But sooner or later, I would have to prove to him that I could. Prove it to myself, really.