Brando laughs just before I feel his hands around my waist. Suddenly he throws me down to the floor, just gentle enough, just hard enough. He holds himself over me, triceps tightening as he crawls upward, burying the masculine grate of his stubble into the nape of my neck. I push and pull against his immovable body, scrambling to pull off my clothes while he feasts on my neck. I press my face into his shoulder, his shirt hanging off it loosely, the smell of his testosterone driving me wild.
It’s scruffy, messy, something we’ve both been wanting to do for a long time, something we’ve been holding back from. Now that we’re letting it out, it’s got a mind of its own.
I manage to throw my jacket off, but it’s Brando who undresses the rest of me, so quick it’s either magic or a hell of a lot of experience. When he gets to his own, however, he slows down. He’s on his knees in front of me, his shirt hanging on one shoulder. I hold myself up slightly on my elbows in order to take in the full magnificence of his broad chest as he peels off his shirt and then unbuckles his belt slowly, enjoying the sight of my chest heaving, my breath getting heavier.
“I’ve been waiting for this since you told me to get out of your way at the open mic,” he says, as he unzips his fly, the deep hunger he looks at my body with backing up his words.
“Holy shit,” I say, as the biggest and most beautiful cock I’ve ever seen emerges from his designer denim. “That looks…illegal.”
Brando’s smile is hard and foreboding as he pulls a condom out and puts it on with one hand, his other too busy exploring my breasts to help.
“It’s okay,” he rumbles, “I know how to use it.”
“So do I,” I murmur, not breaking eye contact for a second. A bubble of anticipation and lust starts growing in the pit of my stomach, a tangled mass of heat and intensity waiting to explode as soon as he hits it.
He presses the end softly against my * lips and I drop my shoulders to the floor, arms grabbing and scratching at the rug, eyes closed. He’s slow at first, his cock teasing at my * with aching restraint, rough fingers stroking all the right spots on my body. His lips cover my nipple, tongue rolling it slowly, everything in perfect synchronicity.
But it’s just a prelude, a slow-building overture. I lose myself in a flurry of sensations, so many it’s like there are a dozen of him, kissing and touching and biting at my body with beautiful timing. His stubble against my breast, his breath on my navel, hand on my neck, teeth on my ear. I lose sense of where one sensation ends and another begins. As he spears into me, steady and perfect, I pant and moan, barely able to hear myself through the sound of my body’s ecstasy. A virtuoso performance, and in the center of it all is the drumbeat of his cock, getting harder and faster. From rhythmic ballad to driving groove to slamming beat, until it turns in a jungle rhythm, a primal thump that feels like thunder striking deep, to the depths of my soul. A jackhammer booming inside of me, sending me higher into the stratosphere with each thrust.
For a few moments I lose all sense of time and space. Forget who I am, what I’m doing. Get scared at the idea I may never come back down again, may never be able to function after experiencing this, after so much pleasure. Every heartbeat, pulse, and nerve in my body reaches its peak, humming in unison as I hover for a few beautiful seconds on the edge. I let myself feel it, let it engulf me, let him push me over the brink, harder and faster, until there’s nothing else left.
“Come for me,” he demands, tilting my chin up so we’re staring into each other’s eyes.
Suddenly I’m falling. Back down to earth, back into Brando’s apartment, back to his floor, over his cock, coming in unstoppable waves of fluid release. I grab his shoulders to steady my arching, writhing body. The feeling of his flexing, sculpted muscles under my hands only urges me further. I realize I’m screaming like I’ve never screamed before, a sound that seems to come from every pore of my body. Through misted eyes I see him, groaning with satisfaction as he reaches his own shuddering climax inside of me.
Spent and satisfied, I collapse back onto the floor, my muscles feeling like they’re melting downward. A relaxing coolness filling the empty spaces in my body. I feel tender fingers brush hair from my face, stroking it into place, and open my eyes.
“You scream beautifully,” Brando says, grinning.
I put a hand to his face and pull him toward me for a slow kiss.
“It’s always about the music, right?”
Chapter 11
Brando
Showcases are the end of the road for most indie acts. The closest they ever get to breaking big. It’s where most indie performers put everything on the line, one shot, a double or nothing bet, in front of a brick wall of impossible-to-impress label men. Nine out of ten times none of the acts get picked up. One out of every hundred – maybe thousand – acts hears from a label afterwards. Big shots go to the events more to convince themselves that they’re not missing out, or to convince themselves that they’ve still got an ear on the ground, than to actually find talent.