“Why is Bob Dylan your go to?”
His brow furrows as if he finds the question offensive. “It’s not.”
“You haven’t held a guitar in years. At least not with the intention of playing it. And the first thing your fingers think to strum out is the chorus ofThe Times They Are A Changin.”
He opens his mouth to say something then closes it. Then opens it again.
“My father loves exactly two things in this world. Success that leads to money and Bob Dylan. It’s the only thing he’s ever listened to, at least from what I can remember. And I grew up on it. He used to sit on the porch playing along with it on his old Martin and I’d sit there with a bottle of root beer watching him.Watching his hands. One day he noticed and told me to give it a try. After a summer of nights doing that after dinner, I was able to play just about every Dylan song out there. I know how to play more now obviously. But that artist, that song, is where it started.”
“Can you play the harmonica too?” I ask and he cracks a smile.
“Sadly no. And I still suck at some chord changes.”
“Show me,” I say.
“I’m going to butcher it,” he warns.
“Give it a try,” I mimic the words, and he gives me a look before picking up the guitar again. Most of it flows but his fingers do stumble a bit.
“Move your ring finger down, and pop your wrist,” I tell him, getting up on my knees to show him. I’m right in front of him, looking down at him and he is staring at the guitar in frustration.
“Pop my wrist out?” he asks, and I maneuver his hands on the neck. “I don’t think my fingers bend that way.”
“Nobody’s do. It’s why guitar players are so odd.”
We both laugh and he tries again with slightly more success. Then he looks up at me. I am still on my knees and the air between us smells like cinnamon and cedar and piano keys and cables, and that musky scent that comes from the inside of guitar cases.
He sets the guitar aside and our smiles fade. But the intensity between us does not.
I bring my hand slowly up to his face, running my fingertips through his hair, dragging them down the back of his head until I feel the hairs on the nape of his neck prickle at the touch. A low groan escapes his throat as I lower my head until my lips reach his.
Slowly, his lips part and mine follow, gently at first and then more eagerly. His warm tongue traces along my bottom lipbefore making its way into my mouth. I lean into him, and his hands rest on my hips, finding their way up and underneath the fabric of my Smiths t-shirt. I am wearing ripped black jeans and honestly, I wish I was wearing a dress. Something with easier access. But the obstacle of thick, tight denim doesn’t stop him from raking his hand down my front, pressing his thumb firmly into my clit.
My jeans are also obviously not waterproof, which becomes apparent very quickly.
“Fuck…” he lets out. “You’re soaked.”
“You’re teasing me,” I breathe into his mouth, nipping and tugging at his lip, wanting to pull him apart piece by piece so I can devour him whole.
“That’s not teasing,” he says, his eyes the color of the sky when the sun is gone. “This is teasing.”
Callum pulls me into his lap, and I am straddling him. My jeans and his slacks are no match for the hard, girth of his cock that is pressed against the length of me like a rock. I rock on my knees, rolling and my hips to create friction.
“You know,” he says, his fingers sliding into the waistband of my pants, toying with the button. “We could lose these…”
“I can’t take my pants off! We’re in a recording studio!”
“Aprivaterecording studio. Alone.”
“There’s cameras in here!”
Callum’s mouth slides into a smirk on one side and he gets up, walking over to the control panel. “Cameras with an off switch,” he says. Then he locks the door before walking back over to me. As he lowers to his knees, he frees himself from his pants. His dick, hard and ready, already dripping in anticipation is inches from my face.
A bead of clear, hot precum slides down the length of his cock and I follow it with my eyes. When more begins to swell at the tip, I sit up, refusing to watch the sweet, salty nectar go to waste.
I take his girth in my hand, pumping it twice to produce a fresh, hot stream and cover the head with my mouth.
“Fuck!” Callum cries out, falling back onto his knees. I get on all fours and crouch like a cat in front of him, my ass in the air and his dick halfway down my throat. Up and down, I suck and lick, taking him in further and further, gagging a little but not letting up.
