14. Chapter 10 #2
I can sense Dutch’s tall frame behind me, closer than I expect.
His proximity gives me instant goosebumps, something I could easily blame on my lack of comfortable clothing.
There’s a low hum of approval from him that I can’t quite make sense of before he strolls around me and joins his brother at the table.
I wait for the sound of the door clicking closed; only Lou slips through at the last second. “Problem?”
“Yeah, there’s a problem,” Cohen says. “You. And her.” He points at me even though I’m still pinned like a statue between the table and Lou.
“But mostly, you. Get the fuck out of here, Lou. We have shit to sort out. As a band.”
Lou huffs, but when he’s greeted by not just a hardened stare from Cohen but from Dutch too, he relents and heads back through to the studio.
He only takes the smallest of seconds to cut me a special look of my very own before slamming the door behind him and leaving The Preaching Pistols alone together for the first time since we were in our twenties.
Cohen’s pacing stops, and he flops down into the chair beside Dax.
There’s only one chair remaining on Cohen’s other side.
I round the table and move to join my bandmates.
But any hopes of a civilized discussion are dashed when, at the last second, Cohen kicks the chair out from under me. Sending me crashing to the floor.
It’s like a flash-bang pops behind my eyes.
I get up, straighten my skirt. Refusing to let him rattle me, I do my best to stand tall, or as tall as I can—kinda grateful the guys are seated since it evens out our heights a bit—and peer down at the man even if he’s acting a lot more like a teenage bully right now than any kind of man.
“Do you want me to go, too, then, Cohen? Am I not allowed to be here because your highness says so?” The sarcasm is laid on like butter in my questions.
I always did have an easier time letting my brattiness out to play with these guys, and my next questions really let it fly, “Am I allowed to sit down? Do I need to ask for your special permission? Or are the chairs only for Dutch and Dax here since they’re your special little bitch boys now? ”
That does it.
“I don’t give a fuck where you sit,” Cohen snarls, “Go sit in Dutch’s lap for all I care.”
And maybe because of my own pissy attitude or because Dutch is the only person who’s been even remotely polite to me today, I do exactly that.
Strutting over to Dutch, I let my ass sway as I walk so my skirt flutters and swishes enough to give Cohen the barest glimpse of my ass and the exposed skin of my legs.
He can say what he wants, but the Cohen I remember always loved to see my matching thigh tattoos in motion.
He always claimed the twin cobras that coil around my thighs were his ultimate temptation.
I may not be the pretty young ingenue I was, but my ass is still a thing of beauty, so right now I hope that temptation is killing him.
Dutch catches on quick. As I twist my way around the table, he pushes his chair out just enough that I can easily hop onto his lap, or really just straddle one thigh.
He doesn’t say anything, but eyes me with a twinkle of mischief.
I said nicest, not that he was actually nice or friendly.
But since he doesn’t kick me off immediately, and since Cohen looks ready to freak the hell out, I consider it a win.
He can’t seem to help himself. Or stop staring. I smile back innocently, even batting my eyelashes like I am some naive fawn. A groan nearly slips out, but then he stops himself by slamming his fists into the wooden table we’re all sat around.
“Enough bullshit!”
The rest of us snap into focus. Or so I thought, yet the next words out of his mouth have nothing to do with music.
“The only reason I’m even willing to sit in the same room as you”—he side-eyes me again—“is because Lou Braun is being suspicious as hell about this contract. I’ve got my lawyers looking into it, but they said it could be a while before they come back with anything.”
“It’s probably nothing,” I say. After all, I can’t risk Lou’s ire by not even trying. All the statement does is earn me another look of disgust from my ex-boyfriend.
“Who cares,” mumbles Dallas, letting his head slump forward so his blond shaggy hair hangs across his face, “Can’t we just play some fucking music?”
I’m about to agree with Dax, but the other Kelly brother seems to have a different plan.
A pair of rough, calloused hands settle on my hips as Cohen continues to rage about my presence here.
Hands that can only belong to Dutch. He squeezes, and I notice the texture in his skin that used to come from playing the drums. Now, I can only guess that they come from whatever work he’s spent the last few years doing.
I don’t know enough about him anymore to even hazard a guess what that might be.
Those hands catch on the soft leather as he leans in and whispers, “First of all, I am no man’s bitch boy. And second,”—he gives my neck a sniff—“I smell a liar.” I assume he means me, until he continues, “Want to help me test exactly how much Cohen doesn’t care?”
Though I don’t turn around or acknowledge Dutch’s question in any way, I nod and practically feel the wicked grin that spreads across his face.
Nothing could have prepared me for how he planned to test Cohen. At the same time, I’ve known Dutch a long time and really shouldn’t have been surprised by his audacity. At first, I’m not sure anything is happening, just the same feeling of his strong hands holding me in place against his thigh.
Across the table, Dallas is watching us both through his narrowed blue eyes, but he’s fighting with himself because he’s also trying to keep up with Cohen’s long string of gripes about Lou, me, and our record company.
While beneath the table, Dutch uses those hands and equally strong arms of his to roll my hips back and forth like I am some sort of doll for him to manipulate.
Each time I rock forward, I regret opting for a thong today rather than full-blown granny panties because the movement makes my clit knock against his muscular denim-clad quad. And it’s starting to turn me on.
Not content with that, Dutch ups the ante by sliding me back and forth too. Only an inch or two, but the friction against my barely concealed pussy is making me wet, and it’s getting hard to stay silent. My hands grip the table, white knuckling it to stay in control.
That seems to annoy Dutch as he leans into me again. “Oh, no, no, no, Rain. You don’t get to play the innocent with me. I remember exactly how much you like to be watched.”
He slows his movements, but it’s not to give me a reprieve.
It’s so he can use his left hand to torture me further.
His fingers work their way to the inside of my thighs, running along the thin scrap of fabric, only to push it to the side.
He gives the briefest groan as our skin connects.
It’s the first sign he’s even remotely affected by what we’re doing.
He teases at my seam with his index finger, and I gasp when it slips inside of me.
It’s been a long time since anyone touched me this way.
God knows, Trey hasn’t given a fuck about foreplay in a long time.
My gasp is enough that Cohen’s gaze flicks my way. I seal my lips shut and bite the inside of my cheek to keep further sound from escaping, and he rounds his attention on Dutch.
“What do you think, man?” Cohan asks.
I feel rather than hear Dutch answer. His chest behind me rumbles as he says something.
I’m too lost now in the feeling of his fingers.
In the way he’s still forcing me to ride his thigh.
Only, now I don’t think I’m being forced.
I’m ready, waiting, chasing the next press of his hands.
My thong is nearly soaked through, and I know I am leaving a wet spot on his jeans.
But still I hold out. Sure, my dark hair is falling out of its bun from earlier, and my pale skin is definitely turning flush.
My chest has a bad habit of turning bright pink whenever I am close to an orgasm, and maybe it is all happening because Dallas is now watching us intensely.
Cohen, on the other hand, is too lost in his tirade.
Until Dutch, always so fast with his hands, reaches under my skirt and pinches his fingers around my swollen clit. Hard.
I come instantly with a scream.
That is enough to finally make Cohen take notice. He looks between my body, limp in Dutch’s hold and loses his shit.
“What the fuck, Dutch?!”
His hands reach out like he is ready to pull me away from our drummer. Dutch is not bothered. He just whispers to me one more time, “Thanks for helping me prove a point, Rainy,” before shoving me unceremoniously from his lap so my post-orgasm bliss is shattered by my ass hitting the cold floor.
Twice today, these guys have dropped me on my ass.
He chuckles as he gets up. There is the tell-tale wet spot on his upper thigh.
Cohen and Dallas both stare from the mark back to Dutch’s face.
Shock seems to have made them mute. Who knew?
But again, not Dutch. He fearlessly walks towards Cohen and claps the other man on the shoulder. “How’s that not giving a shit going?”
Then, without a look back, even for his brother, he strides out of the room, a whistle on his lips as he goes.
Looks like Lou’s efforts to dress me up like Cohen’s perfect fuck doll weren’t entirely wasted.
Except they worked on the wrong Pistol. There’s no distracting Cohen after that because he storms out after Dutch a minute later.
The practice is over before it even gets started.