Rising Star (A Shooting Stars Novel Book 1) Page 5

  “You have a roommate?”

  “Two,” Dylan confessed. Two people who would be surprised to hear he’d brought a woman home. “I doubt either will be home for a while,” he added, sending the message that they would not be disturbed.

  “Right.” She nodded. “Of course.” Rubbing her hands on her thighs, she looked around. “Which room is yours?”

  With a tip of his chin, he indicated the door straight ahead. “In there.”

  Charley sighed, as if some final decision had been made. “Shall we?” she asked.

  “After you.”

  “You don’t need to go in and . . . tidy up or anything?”

  What the heck? Not all men were slobs. “I haven’t polished the light fixture lately, but otherwise it’s good.”

  That garnered a smile as she inched toward the door. “If you say so.”

  Dylan pushed the door open for Charley to enter, and he followed her in. Except she stopped on the threshold, resulting in her back pressing against his front.

  “Tell me you have a cleaning lady,” she muttered. “Because if you keep this room immaculate all by yourself, I may have to propose right now.”

  The idea didn’t frighten him nearly as much as it should have.

  “All me,” he confirmed. “Have a seat.”

  After closing the door, he crossed to the guitars in the corner and grabbed the Gibson as Charley settled on the edge of the bed. His palms grew slick as he dropped into the chair. Common sense told him to calm the hell down. This wasn’t a fancy showcase for a roomful of record execs. Something he’d experienced three times since moving to Nashville, and he’d survived every time.

  But his heart continued to race. No one had heard one of his songs in three years. Not Casey. Not his manager, Mitch. Not even the head of his new record label, Clay Benedict. Three and a half years ago, when he’d signed his first deal, Dylan had insisted on recording only his own songs. After four months in the studio, and countless arguments with both the producer and the head of the label, he’d turned in his debut album. Within weeks, the collection had been deemed unfit for release, and he’d been unceremoniously dropped by both the label and his then manager.

  Dylan had been devastated.

  For a year, he never so much as jotted down a lyric, and then Casey had started seeing Pamela. The two had been so damned in love that watching them sent melodies floating through his brain. Lyrics came next, invading like ants on a picnic.

  The result had been a tattered collection of random snippets and partial compositions scrawled in a cheap notebook, none of which would ever see the light of day.

  Until now.

  Charley crossed her legs and leaned back on her hands. “Here we go, then. Sing me a song.”

  Ignoring the inviting scene before him—for now—Dylan rattled through the choices in his head. Nothing felt good enough to share. Strumming the strings on his guitar, he bought himself time by tuning the instrument. “Are you sure you want to hear this?” he asked. “I never claimed any of my songs were good.”

  “A deal’s a deal, buddy boy. No backing out now. Besides,” she added, “I’m not here to judge. I couldn’t write a song to save my dog, so there will be no stones cast from my direction.”

  “You have a dog?” he asked, embracing the diversion.

  “Pooter lives back in Kentucky with Grandpa. And before you ask, he got the name for the exact reason you’d assume.”

  “Sounds fragrant.” Dylan laughed. “What kind of a dog is he?”

  Crossing her arms, Charley leaned forward. “A mutt. And you’re stalling.” Of all the women he could have picked up tonight, he had to find a ballbuster. “Play me your latest,” she encouraged. “What’s the last song you wrote?”

  Just as Casey and Pamela had inspired his first forays back into writing, their breakup had inspired his latest effort.

  Time to man up and get this over with.

  “For the last couple weeks I’ve worked on something called ‘Come Back, Girl.’ It isn’t finished yet, but I can play you what I have.” Dylan strummed the opening chords, filling the room with a midtempo melody.

  A man can’t be tied down,

  Wants no part of that ball and chain,

  Gotta keep his options open,

  Gotta keep himself in the game.

  Brown eyes narrowed as she listened.

  Then one day a pretty woman

  Comes along and tries to stay,

  But a man has to tell her,

  Darling, things don’t work that way.

  One well-worn boot hit the floor as if Charley might storm out of the room. Dylan kept playing, certain the chorus would save his night.

  And that man will keep his freedom,

  She’ll leave, taking his world.

  He’ll think he’s better off without her,

  He’ll say good riddance, girl.

  But the truth will come too late,

  When he’s lonely on the floor.

  If only he had said the words,

  I’m sorry, come back, girl.

  Rose-colored lips widened into a sappy grin. “That is awesome. Stupid enough to be manly, but with a romantic twist.” Leaning forward, she added, “Your voice is incredible, Dylan. You should be performing somewhere.”

  “Maybe I’ll do that,” he said, failing to point out that he’d been performing for nearly half his life. Charley had stuck around this long not because of what he was, but who he was. An experience novel enough to make Dylan reluctant to see it end. “You think it’s worth playing on the radio?”

  “Heck yeah.”

  “Then I guess it’s worth my time to finish it.”

  As he put the guitar back on the stand, Charley sighed. “I envy anyone who can play like that. When I was little, I tried piano lessons, but after only a month, my teacher, Mrs. Borowitz, told my mother that I had no musical talent and she was wasting her money.”

  “That’s a crappy thing to say about a kid. How old were you?”

  “Eight,” she replied. “And I was heartbroken. Mama could sing like an angel, and I wanted to be like her. We all knew well before I hit eight that my singing voice was closer to a dying rooster than an angel, but I still had dreams of playing an instrument as Mama sang. Yeah. Old Lady Borowitz put an end to that real quick.”

  Dylan picked the guitar back up. “Oh, hell no.” Snatching a capo off his dresser, he settled on the bed next to Charley.

  “What are you doing?” she asked as he scooted close enough to put half the guitar in her lap.

  Sliding the capo onto the second fret, he said, “We’re going to prove Old Lady Borowitz wrong.”

  Charley had not been prepared for what came next. The bed sagged beneath Dylan’s weight as he slipped a leg around her and tucked her butt up close to his groin. At least he wasn’t suffering the same condition he had outside the restaurant.

  “Dylan, I can assure you this is a waste of time.”

  “Nonsense. You need the right teacher is all.” He draped himself around her and leaned to their left. “I’ll do the strumming, and you’re going to handle the fret work. We’ll start with something easy.”

  The guitar pressed against her breasts, still warm from his body heat, which was currently searing her back. “But I’ve never played a guitar before.”

  He was undeterred. “Then tonight’s the night. Wrap your left hand around the neck like this,” he said, showing her what he wanted. “We’re going to start with a G chord, so put your middle finger up here on the top string.”

  She followed his direction and pressed on the string. “How hard do I have to push on it?”

  “Hold it against the neck as well as you can.” As she pressed the string, Dylan leaned the other way and, with a pick she hadn’t noticed before, started at the top and plucked four different strings. Charley recognize the sound immediately.

  “Hey, that’s—”

  “Not yet it isn’t. Stay with me.” He shifted again. “M
iddle finger same string but up a fret.” Dylan nudged her finger into place. “Now put your ring finger down here on the G, and use your index finger to hold down these two.”

  So much for easy. “My fingers don’t work that way.”

  “Come on now. You don’t want Mrs. Boringwitzer to be right, do you?”

  “Borowitz,” Charley corrected. “And she’s been right for seventeen years. I don’t think one guitar lesson is going to change that.”

  Dylan dropped his hands to her hips. “Did you not just play the opening of a song that you recognized right away?”

  She couldn’t help but laugh. “You played it, not me.”

  “I plucked a few strings, but you did the work. Now come on. Middle finger at the top, ring finger on G, and to make it easier, drop your index finger across all of them.”

  Charley bit her lip with concentration and did as instructed, ignoring how the strings bit into the pads on her fingers. Four more plucks and the familiar tune vibrated to life. “That’s so cool,” she said, amazed to be playing an actual song. “Let’s see if I can do them together now.” Leaning forward to see her fingers, she moved back to the first position.

  “That’s right,” Dylan said before doing his part. “Now shift.”

  The change took longer than she liked, but she did it, and Dylan plucked out the tune. “Oh my gosh, this is so cool. What’s the next part?”

  “You want B and D. Index here and middle finger here.” His callused digits positioned hers in place. “Now we need your little finger down here on the skinny E. Can you hold that?”

  No way was she letting him down now. “I can do it,” Charley said with a nod. The skinny string hurt worse than the rest, but she didn’t complain. Six little plucks later and she’d managed nearly the entire classic intro. “All together. All together,” she insisted, bouncing on the mattress.

  Laughter rolled through his chest, shaking them both. “Love the enthusiasm. Back to your G-chord then. There you go. You ready?” She nodded like a bull rider braced to leave the chute, and the tune rang out again. She made the first transition quicker, and Dylan said, “That a girl,” as she slid into the third with staunch determination. One bar remained, and she’d have the entire intro learned. At least on the fret side.

  “Your middle finger has a big job in this last part,” he warned, locking her index and ring finger into place. “When I say now, you tap that bottom string, okay?” She tested the action, and he said, “Like that. Keep it off the string until I say so.” Dylan took his place on her right again, dropping his chin onto her shoulder. “Here we go.” After plucking four strings, he gave the signal, and as he strummed for a fifth time, she pressed down on the skinny string.

  “That sounded off,” she said, not as happy with that pass.

  “But you were close. Think you can put all four together?”

  Charley stretched her arms and cracked her knuckles. “Let’s do this.”

  “Okay, maestro. When you’re ready.”

  She locked her fingers into position and nodded again. Dylan pressed the pick to the strings, and together they played the intro to “Friends in Low Places” by Garth Brooks. As the last note rang out, Charley turned to the man pressed close against her. “I played a song. I made music.”

  His hands dropped back to her hips. “Yes, you did. You’re an excellent student.”

  Getting lost in his eyes, she murmured, “And you’re a really good teacher.”

  Lifting the guitar off her lap, Dylan lowered it to the floor beside the bed before tucking a loose lock behind her ear.

  “What do you want to do now?” he whispered, trailing his thumb across her lips. “Do you want to go home?”

  Going home was the last thing she wanted to do. “I’d rather stay,” she replied, turning until her legs were draped across his thigh. “Do you mind entertaining me a little longer?”

  Trailing a hand down her neck, his eyes dropped to her mouth. “I wouldn’t mind that at all.”

  Dylan wasn’t too far gone to recognize the irony. For years, he’d been playing for girls to get them into bed. Who knew that teaching them to play for themselves was the better way to go? Letting his hand continue past her knee, he removed Charley’s boots, followed by her simple white socks. Red-tipped toes curled as he dragged callused fingertips over strong calves to the inside of her thigh.

  “You’re like a fantasy come to life,” he breathed. “You sure you want to do this?” He liked this woman and wanted more than a one-night stand. At the same time, Dylan wasn’t stupid enough to turn down a willing woman.

  “What was it I said earlier?” she asked, nipping at his earlobe. “No backing out now.”

  As she kissed her way across his jaw, Dylan let his fingers dance a little higher to press against the warm denim. “Just making sure,” he said, before meeting her lips for a searing kiss that sent power surging through his body. Slender arms wrapped around his neck as Charley kissed him back, and they toppled backward onto the bed. He shifted his weight, letting her land softly on the mattress beside him, and slid his leg between hers.

  Reaching for the buttons on his shirt, Charley worked them open, yanking the cotton out of his jeans to finish them off. Lips still locked on his, she flattened a hand against his bare chest, searing him like a brand.

  “I know it’s a cliché,” she mumbled, “but I don’t usually do this sort of thing.”

  Though he doubted she’d believe him, he replied, “Neither do I.”

  Desperate to touch her, he tugged the gray tank off her shoulder and spread kisses across her collarbone. A thin white strap glowed against warm, tan skin, and Dylan followed the string of satin down to the smooth mound threatening to spill into his hand. Charley arched in response, curling her fingers into the hair on his chest.

  Their mouths met once more, urgent and hungry. She pushed the shirt off his shoulders, and Dylan rose up enough to free his arms and toss the thing to the floor. Charley wasted no time exploring every inch of his torso before sinking her teeth into his left nipple. The growl ripped through his chest as her nails cut across his rib cage.

  “You’re trying to kill me,” he said, burying a hand in her hair.

  Trailing her tongue across his pecs, she mumbled, “We can stop if you want.”

  Oh, hell no. “Not a chance.”

  She gave his other nipple the same little bite, and Dylan’s brain shut down. Determined to return the favor, he forced the strap off her shoulder and freed her breast from the lace-tipped cup. Wrapping his mouth around the pink peak, he sucked hard, eliciting a gasp of raw pleasure that shot straight to his dick. “Off,” he muttered, tugging at the hem of her shirt.

  Charley leaned up enough for him to drag the thing over her head, and Dylan noticed the bra clasped in the front. A quick flick of his fingers and two beautiful breasts spilled out before him, begging for attention. “Perfect,” he uttered before kissing the crevice between them.

  “Oh yeah,” she moaned, fingers digging into his scalp. “More of that.”

  Nothing got him hotter than a woman who knew what she wanted. “I aim to please,” he assured, suckling her breast until she cried his name. Glancing up, he caught her heavy brown gaze. “My name sounds good on your lips, baby. Let’s see if we can’t do that again.”

  Tracing his tongue around her nipple, Dylan trailed a hand down her stomach and freed the button on her shorts. The moment his hand slid inside the denim, her hips lifted in invitation. As his mouth continued to tease, his fingers delved lower, behind a thin strip of satin to find her hot and wet. Time to drive her over the edge.

  Finding her clit, he rolled it hard at the same moment he closed his teeth around her nipple.

  “Holy shit,” Charley cried, bucking against his touch. “Don’t stop. Whatever you do, don’t stop.”

  “Honey,” he drawled, nibbling her lower lip, “we’re just getting warmed up.”

  Chapter 6

  Dylan rocked her clit agai
n, and Charley stopped breathing. Bright lights flashed behind her eyes while her body lingered somewhere between heaven and hell.

  “So slick,” he mumbled against her ear. “So wet.”

  His talented fingers slid down her folds, and every nerve in Charley’s body centered around his touch. Pressure pulsed in her core while anticipation sent her heart racing. He teased at the opening, building the tension, and she gritted her teeth to keep from begging for more.

  Taking her mouth once more, Dylan’s tongue danced with hers, mimicking what was to come. Her body writhed, riding his hand until she was certain she couldn’t take much more. Muscles tight, she clamped her arms around his neck, whimpering with need.

  Finally, when Charley feared he might never take the last step, Dylan drove two fingers in deep. The orgasm slammed through her like a lightning strike, and his name ripped from her lips to echo off the dark blue walls around them. Desperate for an anchor in the storm, she clung to his shoulders, helpless to control the tremors snaking through her extremities.

  “I’ve got you, baby,” Dylan whispered. “Relax into it.”

  The climax crested, and with a final shiver, Charley fell back to earth, panting heavily against his neck, certain her limbs lay scattered about the room. Part soothing, part arousing, Dylan caressed her bottom still covered in denim, and the realization dawned. She wasn’t even naked yet, and he’d given her the strongest orgasm she’d ever had.

  Future birthdays had a lot to live up to if they ever wanted to top this one.

  “That was amazing,” she said, rubbing her leg along his throbbing erection still trapped behind his Wranglers.

  “Like I said earlier. Only the best for the birthday girl.” With a finger beneath her chin, he tipped her face up until their eyes met. “You’re pretty amazing yourself, Miss Layton.”

  “Thank you very much, Mr. . . .” The words fell away. Tucking her head again, she mumbled, “I can’t believe I don’t know your last name. What kind of a girl am I?”

  The kind who enjoyed casual sex with a virtual stranger, if the last few minutes were any indication. Maybe one-night stands weren’t such a bad thing.