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Chapter 7
TAYLOR
A couple of nights later,I wake in the middle of the night to an empty bed. It’s still dark outside, so the bedroom is cast in shadows. We’re in Asa’s hotel room. A giddy feeling fills my stomach when I think about spending the last couple of days with the man I’ve obsessed over for the last ten twelve years. I still can’t believe it, but I’m eating up every second because I know it’ll come to an end. I live in Florida. He lives in California. Almost three thousand miles will soon separate us. That thought is depressing, and makes me desperate to know where he is right now.
Feeling a breeze come from the balcony door, I glance over and notice it cracked open. After throwing back the covers, I spot one of Asa’s shirts on a chair and slip it on. I pad across the room, about to push the door open and step outside when the soft strings of a guitar stops me. I stand there and listen for a moment, trying and failing to recognize the tune. I’ve never heard it before, so it can’t be one of Grey Water’s songs. Also, the tune is different from their usual hard rock beats.
I push the door open and quietly step outside. Although I make no noise as I approach, it’s as if he’s in tune with me. He stops playing and twists his head around, his eyes meeting mine in the dark.
“Don’t stop playing,” I tell him. “Whatever it is, it’s beautiful.”
His lips tip up and he moves his guitar from his lap. He crooks his finger at me. “Come here.”
The concrete is cool against my feet, but thankfully, the temperature is still warm enough that I’m not chilled as I walk toward him.
He scoots back in his chair and spreads his legs, patting the spot he made between them. “Sit.”
I turn and take a seat, snuggling back against his chest. He lifts the guitar and lays it across both of our legs. Sliding his hand down one of my arms, he laces our fingers and brings my hand up to lay my fingers on the strings. He does the same with the other hand, wrapping my thumb around the neck of the guitar.
“Have you ever played?” His breath fans across my ear, causing a shiver to run through me.
“No. I’m very much musically stunted when it comes to any musical instrument.”
His hand squeezes mine on the neck. “This is the neck.” He presses our fingers through the strings. “These raised lines right here are called frets. They represent semitones. The round pegs up at the top are turning pegs. You twist them to raise and lower the pitch.”
I hum in the back of my throat, indicating I’m following.
He uses his other hand to flick my fingers across the strings and a deep vibration sounds. “When you pluck a string, it vibrates against the bridge, which is this piece here.” He touches the part the strings are attached to. “The sound resonates through the air of the body and comes out of the sound hole.”
“I thought you used an electric guitar.”
He rubs his chin against the side of my neck, the stubble scratching my skin deliciously. “Something else you don’t know about me. Your stalking skills are slacking.”
“You’re so funny,” I say dryly, but my lips curve up.
“For concerts and studio recordings I do use an electric guitar, but when I’m fucking around, I like a good ole acoustic.”
His fingers press down on the strings on the neck, and he begins plucking the ones over the sound hole. My fingers are still between his, so I know it must be difficult for him, but he doesn’t seem to have any trouble. He plays the same tune as when I first came out.
“What song is this? It’s not your usual tone.”
“Just something I’ve been working on.”
“It’s beautiful. Have you come up with lyrics for it yet?”
His fingers slide up and down the neck, taking my hand with his. I relax my arm to make it easier on him. It’s really cool, because it’s almost like I’m playing the guitar with him.
“Nope. This piece won’t have any lyrics. It’ll be a solo portion for another song we’re working on.”
“I can’t wait to hear the full version.”
Asa continues to play for several moments. When it comes to a particularly slow part, I feel his lips pressing against my neck again. His tongue darts out and licks a trail up to my ear. I can’t help but squirm in front of him when a needy ache forms between my legs. It just goes to show how talented he is at playing when he continues to produce music with our fingers at the same time he tortures me with his mouth. And from the hard bulge pressing into my back, he’s playing through his own arousal.
I tip my head to the side, giving him easier access to my neck. He nibbles on my ear before his lips slide down until he reaches the collar of the shirt. Using his chin, he pushes the material out of his way as much as he can and sucks on the exposed skin. I’ll have a mark tomorrow, and I’m perfectly fine with that. In fact, I plan to wear a scooped neck, off the shoulder top tomorrow so I can show it off. I always thought hickeys were tacky, but not when it comes to a mark left by Asa Sharpe. Hell, I’ll probably take a photo of it and frame it.
“Asa.” His whispered name falls from my lips and mixes with the soft strum of the guitar. I push my ass back against his cock.
He removes the guitar from our laps and sets it down on the concrete beside the chair. When I move to stand and turn to face him, he picks me up so I’m now sitting on his lap, still facing away. “Stay right where you are.”
Sliding his hands under my thighs, he lifts them and moves them to the outside of his legs. I’m spread open wide, completely exposed because I didn’t put on panties when I got out of bed. It’s a good thing the balcony wall is solid concrete, and there are no buildings across the way. I’m so turned on I’m not sure I’d give a shit if the whole world saw what we were doing.
With one arm wrapped around my waist, he tugs me against his chest as he reclines back in the chair. His lips meet my ear. “Play with yourself.”
Desperate to have my pussy touched, even if by my own hand, I do what he says without hesitation. Sliding my hand up the inside of my thigh, I don’t stop until I reach the wet folds of my pussy. He slips one of his hands under my shirt and palms my breast. My hips arch up, and I moan, unsure which feels better; him tweaking my nipple or me rubbing my clit.
“Put a finger inside your pussy, baby. Get it nice and wet,” he whispers.
I use my middle finger and slide it inside my hole. I’m slick and tight. Asa runs his hands up and down the inside of my thigh, adding to the already intense pleasure I’m feeling. Using only my middle finger, I slowly slide it in and out several times.
“Now rub your clit,” Asa says.
I drag my finger between my folds, moaning because it feels so good, and stop at the tight bundle of nerves at the top of my slit. I swirl it around and buck my hips at the same time. Goosebumps pop up on my arms when Asa’s mouth presses kisses against the side of my neck.
“Feel good?” He whispers the question against my ear.
“Yes,” I moan my response. “But it would feel better if you were doing it.”
“Hmm.”
