“Don’t worry, Cassandra,” Helen soothes. “My attorneys will take care of the problem.”
“No need, ma’am,” Groveston interrupts. “I think Rand and I have gotten a solution.” He looks at me with meaning. “If it works, I’ll let you know.”
“What is it?” Georgie beats me to the question.
“Nothing to worry about, child,” Helen says. “Mr. Groveston was just leaving. We can’t have another minute of your wedding ruined. Mr. Mason, take my granddaughter to the ballroom for her first dance as your wife.”
I kiss Georgie, then look at Josh once Dad and the attorney walk out. “Would you escort her there? I have a surprise for her.”
“I need to check on Bryn,” she says, the baby always uppermost in her mind.
“It’s your wedding day, Georgie,” Parnell says gruffly. “Your daughter is fine. We won’t allow anything to happen to her. When you’re needed, Zelda will call for you.”
Her eyes widen. “I don’t have my cell phone.”
“Let’s hope you’re not that gauche,” Cassandra sneers.
“Enough, Cass,” Parnell asserts, his balls making an appearance when I growl.
“Jaeger,” I call.
“Yeah?”
“Find Kiln. Have him bring Georgie’s phone to the ballroom.”
Jaeger stomps away, playing nice for a change.
“Come on,” Josh insists, tugging Georgie toward the door.
“Everything’s set up?” I ask Maitland the moment they’re gone.
He nods. “Instruments are just waiting for us to play them.”
“I can’t wait to see Georgie’s face,” Quint says.
“Mr. Mason,” Helen cuts in, with grating superiority.
“What’s Groveston going to do?”
“Keep you out of jail.” She waves away any more questions I may ask. “Georgie will be eighteen in a matter of weeks, young man. I can’t continue to pull tricks out of my hat.”
“Don’t you mean out of your cauldron?”
“You’re quite the court jester, sir.” She draws herself up. The guys snicker, but I don’t. I’m fucking serious. If they knew her like I did, they wouldn’t be laughing. “As I was saying, I advise you not to flaunt your marriage to her until then.”
“Deny her a little more?”
She narrows her eyes. “You’re not dumb, boy. You don’t have to deny her, in the least. Just don’t publicize the two of you together for a few weeks.”
Expecting me to obey because everyone does, she glides away.
“Figure it out later,” Adam tells me. “Let’s do Georgie’s song and see what she thinks.”
I smile, feeling more peace than I have in a very long time. “Yes, it’s time for us to celebrate.” My wife. My daughter. My marriage. And getting the fuck out of my father’s house.
When Josh and I enter the ballroom, I crash to a halt. A lot of people are in attendance, most of whom I don’t know. The strangers are pushed to the back of my mind as I stare in awe at the flowers. Pink and white roses are everywhere, filling the room with their sweet scent and beautiful blooms. A banner hangs from the center of the room with the words, Dreams do come true. Sloane remembered the dream I told him about, the one where Bryn had just been born and pink and white roses filled my hospital room.
“This way, Mrs. Mason,” an usher says, breaking into all the thoughts overwhelming me.
“Don’t start crying, Georgie,” Josh whispers, keeping in step with me as I can’t walk an inch without being congratulated.
At the table closest to the area with the band’s equipment, the white gloved usher makes a grand gesture to indicate my white chair, the only seat decorated with roses. Josh helps me into my seat as I gaze around. There’s not a lot of room for dancing, but full bars are set up on each side of the room. For those not interested in that, formally attired attendants are serving chocolate-covered strawberries and glasses of champagne.
Rand, Abby, Mom, Dad, and Grandma join us. A few minutes later, Kiln comes in and sets my phone on the table.
“Bryn?”
“Sleeping,” he answers grumpily.
I search around for Sloane. Seeing no sign of him, I look at the instruments. Maitland’s black drums have the letters PR written in white curlicue and intertwined with a red phoenix.
“Are they performing?” I ask no one in particular.
Offering me a shit-eating grin, Josh winks at me and I swat at his arm. “What’s going on, Joshua McCall?” I demand as Sloane and the guys approach the stage after walking in the room from a side door.
“Saved by my brother-in-law.” Josh’s light-hearted teasing has been absent from my life for a very long time. He’d been lost in business. I’d been lost in drugs.
Adam has removed his tuxedo jacket, tie, and shirt. He’s kept the pants on, but he’s bare-chested, just as he usually is onstage. Sloane has a familiar mesh shirt on, the one he was wearing the night we met. His tattoos run down his arms and when he turns, I see his back piece. The phoenix rising from the flames.
He faces away from me for just a moment. When he looks at me and winks, I know he wanted me to see my favorite tattoo.
I blow a kiss to him, and he crooks a finger to me, summoning me onstage. I stand, and hoots, hollers, and whistles rise up. Heat bathes my face, all the attention so embarrassing.
“Hush, heathens,” Sloane orders. “You’re embarrassing my wife.”
“Who are they?” I whisper when I reach him.
“Road crew and their families. Some of my old friends. Relatives of Maitland, Adam, and Quint. Acquaintances of Josh and Parnell.”
As two ushers carry my chair up, Sloane affixes earpieces to me, similar to the ones he and the other guys have in their ears. He steals a kiss, then guides me into my seat, bending down and slanting his mouth over mine all too briefly.
He straightens and I’m handed a glass of champagne. Our flutes are different from everyone else’s, more delicate.
“We’re foregoing the usual toasts by the best man and maid-of-honor,” Sloane announces and raises his glass. It looks suspiciously amber, not at all the golden color of my champagne. “Join me in saluting Georgie, the most gorgeous girl in the world, mother of my daughter. My wife.”
“Hear, hear,” everyone chants and clink glasses.
Sloane and I do the same. He gulps from his glass. I sip from mine. “I want to toast you.”
Grinning, he leans in to kiss me again. His tongue fills my mouth and I taste the scotch.
“Save the toast to me for later.” He saunters to where his guitar is racked. Once he has it in his hands, he takes his position in front of the mic. “I’ve been working on a song, Georgie,” he tells me. “One I wrote especially for you.”
Maitland crashes his sticks on his drums and Sloane immediately follows, picking the strings in the hard riffs that are his signature.
“The fire inside of me. The love that I feel,” he starts as Quint and Adam add in keyboards and bass, “is what dried up my heartache and tears.”
Lights are flashing around us, but nothing is more enrapturing than the blueness of Sloane’s eyes as we meet each other’s gazes and hold them.
“Your love made me heal. Your love made me feel. Your beauty consumed me. Your touch was my torch. That turned into an inferno. Inferno. Inferno. Inferno.”
Sloane has given me one surprise after the other today. They’ve finally caught up with me and taken a toll that releases through the tears rolling down my cheeks.
“I’ll gladly cast. My soul into the flames. As long as you join me. And bathe me in your sweet love.”
He smiles and everything inside of me melts. I sniffle and wipe away my happy tears. Happy. I’m…happy.
“Your love made me heal. Your love made me feel. Your beauty consumed me. Your touch was my torch. That turned into an inferno. Inferno. Inferno. Inferno.
“You’ll always burn inside of me. Your amethyst eyes are the mirror to all t
hat we share. You’re the only girl who’ll ever own me. Your love made me heal. Your love made me feel. Your beauty consumed me. Your touch was my torch. That turned into an inferno. Inferno. Inferno. Inferno.”
Once the chorus is finished, the guys rock out, but I only hear and see Sloane, the way his fingers are moving. He’s no longer looking at me, lost in his music. Eyes closed. Head thrown back. Muscles rippling. They play the instrumental section for two minutes, before Sloane’s rasp graces us with more lyrics. “You’re the moth to my flame. The raven haired beauty who made me heal. Your love is an Inferno. My inferno. Inferno.”
They slide into the ending and applause rings out around us, but my senses are completely engaged in Sloane as he removes his guitar and heads for me.
“Now, we dance, sweetheart.”
Adam croons the song and the band’s beat is slow and sexy.
Leading me to the dance area, he takes me in his arms and I bury my nose against the dampness of his chest, inhaling his musk and cologne. His erection presses into my belly and I stand on tiptoes, teasing him with a small gyration.
For the entire dance, we stare into each other’s eyes, as if we are the air we each need to breathe. I can’t believe I’m finally his wife.
My happiness hasn’t dissipated. It’s there and it’s real.
“Are you disappointed that I planned your entire wedding?” he asks toward the end of the song.
I’ve only heard it once, but I already am familiar with where the instrumental part comes in and where it closes. “I would’ve been lost,” I admit. “It isn’t like Mom or Grandma would’ve helped me.” I lay my fingers against his inked arms. “Are you going back to jail?” I whisper, the rush of the moment receding and reality intruding.
“No,” he says with a certainty that I can’t help but trust. “If there are any other problems, I’ll tell you.”
“Any word about whoever got into my room?”
“No, sweetheart,” he says with a smidgeon of impatience. “Don’t be afraid. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
I believe him. Laying my hand against his jaw, I caress it, just as the guys end the song and the sound of my phone peals through the room. Immediately, I think of Bryn. It can only be Zelda calling about the baby.
Sloane assumes the same thing. “Stay here while I tell Zelda we’ll be up in a minute.”
“I want to tell Josh ‘bye’,” I say, running to my phone before it stops. Picking it up and looking at the screen, I groan.
Not Zelda. Crowell.
Although I’d intended to identify the caller to Sloane, he doesn’t give me the chance. He looks over my shoulder.
“Motherfucker,” he snarls, snatching the phone from me and redialing. He flicks on the speakerphone.
“You fucking married him, George?” Crowell whines in greeting. “It’s all over the fucking news.”
Fury blackens Sloane’s eyes and his face reddens. I cringe.
“George!”
“Not George, fucker,” Sloane snarls, so livid it sounds as if a demon has invaded him. “I told you to stay the fuck away from Georgie. Didn’t I?”
Sloane’s hands are shaking. This is bad.
“I know you’re there, Georgie,” Crowell says, his fear wafting through the airwaves. “Tell him to back off. I just wanted to check on you and tell you congratulations.”
Josh glares at the phone, but even he won’t speak to set Sloane off.
“My wife is right next to me,” Sloane confirms. “That’s good. She can hear exactly what the fuck I’ll do to you when I get my hands on you this time. Crack a few additional fucking ribs. Break your fucking knee caps. Pulverize every fucking bone in your fingers to dust with a hammer. Find an icepick and make a ring of holes over your black fucking heart. Let’s see. What else?”
“Fuck, are you serious?” I gasp. “What else is left?”
Apparently nothing, because the line goes dead.
Grabbing my hand, Sloane clenches his jaw. “Right, Georgie.” He yanks me away and through the crowd toward the front door, screaming, “Bring me my fucking car.”
As we stand outside waiting for Sloane’s car, I flex my hand in his. He stiffens but doesn’t release me.
“Sloane?”
A noisy breath escapes him. “What?”
“I can’t leave Bryn.”
He’s silent for a moment, before huffing out a breath and drawing me into his arms. Swallowing and breathing in his scent, I bury my nose against his chest and hook my fingers through the mesh on his shirt. His heart is pounding and tension still stiffens his body.
“Call Abby.” He digs into his pocket, grabs his cell phone, and hands it to me. “Tell her to meet us at her condo with Zelda.”
“You know what I did to Crowell, don’t you?” he asks, gazing off into the distance.
“Yes.”
“That motherfucker told you.”
He doesn’t pose it as a question, but a conclusion based on his hatred of Crowell.
I bite my lip and look at my toes, peeking out from beneath the hem of my dress.
”That means you’ve talked to him since I beat his fucking ass.”
I nod, the word ‘yes,’ escaping in a bare whisper.
“When did you talk to him?”
“The day after Detective Jackson visited me and…and I lost the call. I had the television on and that was when I saw you being led away. I haven’t spoken to him since that day.”
“You called him?”
“No. He called me.”
“After I warned him not to ever contact you again, he…what did he want?”
“To apologize,” I mumble.
“That’s not all he fucking wanted. Not based on your reaction.”
Embarrassment heats my face and Sloane growls.
“He wanted to fuck you, didn’t he?”
“No! I mean, not really. No. He wanted to tell me he wished I was pregnant for him.”
“Did he?” he asks mildly, as if someone has flipped a switch that turns off his anger, though I’m not fooled. He’s seething.
Light breaches the black of his hair, highlighting the deep brown masked beneath. His full lips always makes kissing enjoyable. Sloane knows how to work them on more than just my mouth. Pussy eating is one of his specialties and he drove me wild with his tongue swipes and clit sucking. Thinking of having him inside of me again heats me up. I can’t wait until I’m healed.
“Can we forget about Crowell?”
“Only if I erase that motherfucker from the face of the earth.”
A shiny black car glides to a stop before us and Sloane grits his teeth, not ready to release his anger. Hand at the small of my back, he opens the door and ushers me into the car. It smells of leather and polish, the feel of the soft seats and shiny interior momentarily sidetracking me. I don’t know much about cars if they don’t belong to Sloane.
He slides into the driver’s seat, all raw masculinity, and hot man candy.
“This is your Aston?” I ask faintly.
He swerves away, and I catch my breath at the sexy smile he offers me as his long fingers grip the steering wheel.
“Is it?” he teases, all of his violent tendencies completely gone.
Nervous, I take in its features, then I notice the wings on the steering wheel and I nod, venturing further. “Your Vanquish, Volante style, Carbon Edition.”
He concentrates on the road, not responding.
Butterflies take root inside me and I squirm in my seat. “Isn’t it?”
“It is,” he replies. “Maitland drove my car here while I was locked up.”
Sloane loves cars and has several kickass automobiles. An Enzo, the GT3-R, a Land Rover, and a Maybach.
As he speeds away, I let my hair down to blow in the hot wind. My long, lacy sleeves are starting to stick to me with the sweat I’m generating in this summer heat.
Once upon a time, I believed I knew everything about Sloane Mason. I was his number one
fan and he was my idol. Then, I met him and discovered differently. Still, I worshiped at his feet. He saved me when no one else would. I saw forever for us. I believed in him.
Now, he’s my husband. My romantic-at-heart, rock god.
Maybe, my trust in him wasn’t misplaced after all.
Chapter Eighteen
I push Crowell to the back of my mind. He’ll be dealt with, but tonight is for my wife. She stands before me, completely nude, her hair a gleaming mass of ebony, falling down her shoulders and back. Her breasts are bigger, her nipples swollen. She still has signs of a recent pregnancy in her stomach, and I know that’s why she’s shy.
“Sloane?” Uncertainty fills her soft voice. She squirms, while anticipation sparks my blood.
We’re at Abby’s condo. Bryn is with Zelda in the other bedroom, after preparing this one—Abby’s—for Georgie and me. Although I know I still can’t stick my dick in her, I needed to see her beautiful body, so I told her we’d shower together.
Seeing Georgie without clothes and all mine makes my breath come out in short pants and my dick’s so hard it’s hurting. Her lashes flicker down then up again.
Hugging her, I hold her close, just because I can. Because she’s my wife.
I remove my shirt and lay it on the counter that’s filled with my aunt’s makeup and hair products. “Look at me.”
Georgie meets my gaze, then drops it to my trousers as I unbuckle my belt. Though I want to see those gorgeous irises, I’m satisfied that she’s focused on my dick as I free it.
Without my direction, she helps me out of my pants and drops to her knees, taking me into her mouth. I gasp. She isn’t shy about sucking me with hard, fast draws. I feed her my cock and she’s gluttonous as she gobbles as much as possible. Easing her head back and locking my hands at the base of her neck, I stand almost directly above her. I hammer her sweet mouth, catching and holding her gaze, my balls riding her chin.
She moans, and my cum bathes her tongue and throat. She doesn’t stop sucking my cock. The sensation in my dick tip force me to pull away. I’ll buckle to my knees if she continues.
When she’s on her feet, I slant my mouth over hers, kissing her hard and deep. She tastes like cum and champagne.
Phoenix Rising Rock Band: The Series Page 57
