When she gasped, he laughed. “Ready to see our rehearsal?” he asked, changing the direction of the conversation and hopefully redirecting the blood away from his cock. He was ninety percent concerned about Pixie and ten percent ready to take her in every way known to man, so distractions were good.
He gave her the full tour of the studio, something he’d never done with another woman. It was all the groupies ever wanted to do, but he didn’t want to leave a trace of history in the place he went to be inspired. Lingering impressions of people in his workspace would influence the music he created there.
Practice lasted a couple of hours. Remarkably, Dred had been able to focus after the bomb Pixie had dropped on him. Nikan had been playing around with the chorus of a song they were working on where all four guitars played a hugely complex yet different series of notes, and it was taking a while to get the timing right. They stopped for a break before lunch to discuss making some changes. Pixie was busy laughing as Lennon tried to teach her a basic eighth-note rock groove using the hi-hat, bass, and snare. She was useless at it, but when Lennon took over to show her again, she started to sing the opening to “Billy Jean.”
He did a double take. Her voice was . . . perfect. Like tone, pitch, depth. Everything about it absolutely perfect. He’d heard her hum, even sing quietly, but this had power.
Jordan joined in with his bass and Pixie stumbled on her words.
“No,” Lennon shouted, “keep going.”
Nikan and Dred threw their straps back over their shoulders, Nikan taking on an electric equivalent to the violin accompaniment, Dred the guitar solo.
Dred gestured her over to his microphone and she shook her head furiously. He laughed. Sometime he forgot how good it was to just play. And not their own shit, either. Or even their own genre. Songs they loved by other artists, songs they played as kids when they didn’t have their own back catalogue.
When the song finally finished, Pixie whooped and hollered as Lennon high-fived her. Dred swung his guitar off his shoulder and waited for her to come to him.
“Holding out on me, huh, Pix?” he said when she finally made her way to him and wrapped her arms around his waist.
“That was fun,” she said, her eyes all wide and bright.
“You’ve got quite the voice.” And she had. It made him get all kinds of stupid ideas. Like asking her to record something with him.
Pixie shrugged. “It’s okay.”
“It’s better than okay, Pix. It’s incredible,” Nikan said, patting her shoulder as he walked by.
Unable to resist, Dred kissed her, then gently bit her bottom lip. “You taste so good, gorgeous.” He pulled away and put his guitar back on its stand. “Come on. Let’s get something to eat.”
Their late lunch consisted of different cheeses and meats with grapes and fresh bread that he’d picked up from St. Lawrence Market.
Once the food was eaten, and the mess cleared away, they wandered upstairs so Pixie could pack. He wasn’t ready for her to leave. She’d brought a fresh energy to the house, and while he hated having to share her with the rest of the guys, having her there had brightened everyone’s spirits.
“What would it cost me to get you to stay another twenty-four hours?” he asked from his spot on the sofa. Every item of clothing he witnessed her fold and put away killed a little part of him.
“It would cost me my job,” she said and smiled in his direction.
“No it wouldn’t. You have Trent and Cujo wrapped around your little finger.”
Pixie closed the lid of her carry-on.
“I got that,” he said as he stood and walked to the bed. With one hand, he grabbed it and lowered it to the floor. He swept Pixie into his arms and placed her down on his bed. He joined her and laid down on his side facing her. With a gentle tug, he drew her into his arms, and savoured the way she rolled against him, her breasts pressed against his chest. This was where they should have slept the previous evening. Here in his room, making memories to keep him company when she was gone.
“Thank you for a great weekend,” she breathed. “It’s been wonderful.”
“Any time, Snowflake.” His hands were all over her. One stroked her back, the other ran up and down her ribs. She caught him off guard when she moved to lie on top of him, and kissed all manner of thoughts from his head. He couldn’t speak, barely wanted to breathe in case he scared her off. He wanted her. Badly. In any of the ways he’d envisioned taking her.
With a swift flip, he lay over her and heard her gasp. “Remember the rules, Pix. I swear it’ll be okay. Let’s play a little.”
* * *
Let’s play a little.
The words bounced around in her head as she processed the fact she was now lying underneath a man who could take anything he wanted from her.
Instead he was looking down at her with a mixture of raw power and hope.
Pixie took his hand and guided it under her blouse. Her stepfather’s words played on repeat. They’re hardly worth looking at, Sarah. I should find a girl with a real woman’s figure. She closed her eyes and prayed her slender frame was enough for Dred.
“Two questions, Snowflake,” Dred said gruffly. “Do you remember rule three?”
She wasn’t fragile. She could handle this. Pixie nodded.
“Rule number two?” He knelt astraddle over her thighs and licked his lips as he studied her.
Oh God. “Stripping and licking . . .”
Dred laughed softly. “Yeah, there’s that. But it’s you saying stop, right?” His fingers slid under the first button, opening it wide.
“I will. I promise.”
He leaned forward and kissed her again, sucking her tongue into his mouth. More buttons were opened, but she was too under Dred’s spell to care. When he finally lifted away from her, he pushed the blouse open wide. “Fuck, it’s even better than imagined.”
“You imagined this?” she whispered.
“Would I freak you out if I told you I jerked off while thinking about you like this?” He slid both hands up her rib cage and pushed them under the band of her bra. He gripped her breasts firmly, then lowered his mouth to suck on her nipple through the lace of her underwear. Pixie arched off the bed as sensation flooded through her.
Dred’s hands snuck around her back and popped the clasp open. He surprised her by not removing her clothes fully, just sliding the cups out of the way.
Gently, his mouth returned to her nipples. The sensation of his tongue swirling her breasts were enough to drown the words echoing from the past. Pixie relaxed into the moment. She could trust the man who held her firmly in his hands. Literally.
Pixie removed the elastic he’d used to tie his hair back and released all the dark waves. She gathered it in her hands and pulled gently. Dred looked up at her as his tongue licked her nipple like a lollipop.
“Like that is it?” he grinned as she tugged his hair again.
“Maybe.”
Dred kissed her chest, her lips, her neck. His hands roved her body, sometimes reverently, sometimes roughly. She loved it all. And inspired by the uninhibited way he explored her, she reached for the hem of his T-shirt, and inched it up over his back. Dred knelt up and grabbed it, pulling it off over his head in one swift movement. His hands came back to her waist.
Holy baby Jesus. He was so very perfect. Every part of him rippled with muscles. His chest was broad, his abs. . . . Seriously. The ink, the hair, the talent. Yes, she’d seen him at the hotel, but up this close and personal her body suddenly felt severely inadequate. Lacking in every possible way compared to what he was offering her.
She pulled the edges of her blouse closed, and Dred responded quickly. He lifted off her and flopped down on the bed next to her. She could see his erection straining against his jeans. With an arm over his eyes, his breathed deeply.
“Can I ask you a question, Snowflake?” His voice was low, but not angry. And not angry was good. He reached for her hand.
“Sure,” she sai
d and fastened two of the buttons on her blouse.
“What scared you enough to stop? What did I do?”
What did he do? It so wasn’t about him. It was her. Not being enough. “You got naked,” she replied.
Dred rolled onto his side and cupped her face with one hand. “You kind of got that started. I followed the lead. I don’t care that we stopped, but I am thinking if we understand why, next time we can . . . you know . . . do something differently.”
“Can you please stop being so fucking perfect for a second?”
Dred laughed. “I’m clearly not perfect, Pix.”
“Well, from where I was lying, it sure looks like it.”
“Wait. Was it . . . I got naked and you got . . . what . . . shy?”
“You’re a pretty . . . intimidating guy. To look at, I mean. And I’m . . .”
“What? Perfect.”
“No,” she barked. “I’m small, and boney, and short, and—”
“Perfect.” He cut her off, switching their positions so that he lay on his back and she sat astraddle him.
Her core lined up with him perfectly, and the need to orgasm was building. She often got to this point, then backed away, embarrassed and ashamed. But with him looking at her like she was the only woman on the planet, that didn’t happen.
The need to grind clawed desperately at her resolve. With his eyes fully on her, Dred popped the button on her jeans. The word “stop” hovered in her throat. The soft vibration of the zipper being lowered brought her closer to the relief she sought. Did she want him to stop? Oh God. He pushed her jeans lower on her hips, exposing her underwear. Why the hell had she chosen the totally unsexy multicolored striped panties?
His stare burned through her, his mouth slightly open, his chest heaving. He lowered his thumb, stoking her through her panties, catching her clit. Pixie gasped, right on the edge of exploding.
She gripped his wrist, but couldn’t say no. Didn’t want to. Didn’t want to slip away from the closest thing she’d ever had to a truly wanted sexual experience. His thumb stopped moving, he released the pressure. No. That’s not what I want. How could she tell him without appearing a tease?
“Rule two,” Dred said gruffly.
He’d stop if she wanted him to. She knew it, even though his chest was flushed, his eyes heavy lidded. She wanted this man to give her something nobody else had. “Please.”
When his thumb returned to the circles, pressing firmly, sparks ignited inside her. She needed a little more . . . oh, God. His hips moved underneath her, pressing his hard length against her. Without thought, she moved against him, finding a rhythm and place where she could let go.
“Dred . . . please . . . I . . .” The pressure increased everywhere. In her core, between her legs.
“Fuck, Snowflake. Do it.” It sounded more like a command. “I want to see you come.”
And she did.
* * *
Watching Pixie fight against herself, and then explode against him left him teetering on the edge. That low-grade vibration in his balls wasn’t going anywhere and if she continued to rub against him, he might come in his jeans. In fact, he should. Show her how fucking hot she was.
She’d collapsed on his chest, and stayed there. If it weren’t for the occasional kiss on his chest, he’d swear she was asleep.
The clock on the wall said he was all out of hours. Thankfully there hadn’t been any more snow since yesterday morning when he’d collected her so it promised to be a quick ride to the airport. He wasn’t ready to let her go. Miami seemed like a million miles away, and their time together suddenly felt as though it had been hurried and rushed. What he really wanted to do was fall asleep with her like this and stay that way for at least a couple more days.
He patted her back. “As much as I hate to say this, we need to go.”
Pixie sat up slowly and rubbed her eyes. “So soon?”
Dred sat up and wrapped his arms around her. He kissed her gently. “Unfortunately, yup. Thank you. For sharing all this with me.”
Pixie smiled shyly. “I think I should be thanking you. Are you going to be okay?”
Dread laughed. “As long as you don’t have a problem with masturbation, I’ll be fine.”
“It’s been my best friend for years,” she said teasingly. “Let me get cleaned up.”
He watched her walk into his bathroom and stood, rearranging himself into a bearable potion to drive. His phone rang. Dr. Meltz.
“Hello,” he said, picking up his car keys.
“Mr. Zander. I have your results. I know you were anxious to get them.” Anxious? Understatement of the year.
Dred sat on the edge of the bed. He could hear Pixie singing, always one of those ridiculous Broadway songs. With one smile, I’m the girl next door. Or the love that you’ve hungered for.
“And?”
“The combined paternity index was slightly under thirty seven thousand to one. In other words, the probability of you being Petal Veitch’s father is ninety nine point ninety nine percent.”
I have a child. I have a child. I have a child. Fuck.
Dred hung up the phone without saying good-bye. He stormed out of the room, and pounded up the stairs to Jordan’s room, needing to be away from Pixie and the perfect afternoon they’d had. With physical space between them, perhaps he could control the raging disappointment in himself. Without knocking, he threw the door open so hard, the handle penetrated the drywall.
Jordan jumped to his feet. “You okay?”
Dred gagged. Couldn’t answer as bile and puke and whatever else was in his stomach fought to escape. He turned and punched the wall. “No.” He punched it again. “No.” And again, and again until there was no skin left on his knuckles. Rage permeated his very being. He had no place being a father. What child would be happy to call the unwanted son of a fucking junkie their father? When the top part of the wall was nothing but studs and insulation, he began on the bottom. Kicking it and using his knees until he was covered in dust, and all out of energy. He slumped down against the decimated wall, pulled his knees up to his chest, and rested his bleeding hands over them.
“Why, Jordan. Fucking why?”
He heard Jordan’s footsteps as he stepped through the carnage of drywall on the floor. The door closed, then Jordan sat down next to him.
“Did you make it up here before you lost it? Is Pixie okay?” Jordan’s voice was calm.
“Yeah. She was in the bathroom.”
“So you’re a dad, huh?”
Dred nodded. “I can’t . . . I don’t know how . . .”
“We’ll figure it out. But right now, you need to get your shit together. Make up some sort of excuse as to why you suddenly look like you took a flour bath, and get Pixie on her way home. Fake everything being okay for another couple of hours.”
Dred looked around Jordan’s pitiful attic room. A simple bed with one pillow and a comforter. One small wardrobe stood to his left, holding a minimal amount of clothing. No curtains at the windows, no rugs to soften the hard flooring. It had been a fight to get him to accept the central heat and air in the gloomy space when they’d renovated the place. A thin layer of dust floated in a sliver of sunlight.
“I’m sorry I destroyed your room.”
“Yeah, well. I think that wall needed some architectural detailing anyway.”
Dred stood and dusted off his jeans. Shit. His hands hurt like a bitch. Unsure he was going to be able to drive, he called a limo. Jordan threw a hat at him and he tucked his dust-covered hair in it. With one last look at the devastation, he jogged down to the laundry room and changed into some clean clothes.
When he arrived back in his room, Pixie was sitting on the sofa, watching the world go by outside.
“We need to go, Snowflake.”
“Hey, where’d you disappear to?” She walked right up against him, her face tilted perfectly toward him. He should kiss her. Try to get back to where they were before the call. But he couldn’t. He felt co
nfused, and seedy, and stupid.
“We need to go,” he said, coolly, hating the look of abject confusion that overtook her features. He picked up her case.
“Oh my God. What happened to your hands?” She reached for the one holding the case, but he quickly moved it away. “Was it something to do with the banging I heard up stairs?”
Lying didn’t come naturally to him. He’d been lied to most of his life so tried to avoid it. But explaining this . . . what the hell was he meant to say? “Yeah, Jordan’s doing some remodelling. Needed some help getting part of the wall down.”
Pixie picked up the hand that wasn’t holding the case and kissed his knuckles gently.
A car horn sounded outside, and he hurried them down the stairs. The driver put her case in the back and they sat in silence the entire ride. His head was filled with noise. Memories of his mom’s idea of caring for a child swarmed him. One summer when he’d been around seven, she’d taken him to a small park around the corner to play. When it went dark, he began to worry. When it got really late, and strangers started to appear, he’d hidden behind the large bushes. He’d finally run home to find the front door unlocked and his mom passed out on the sofa. The clock had told him it was one a.m.
The limo pulled up alongside the curb at her terminal, and the driver got out to open her door.
“Are you getting out?” Pixie asked. He hated the uncertainty in her voice, detested the fact that he’d put it there.
“It’s probably best I don’t.” Was he really going to let her go like this?
“Okay, well . . . I’ll see you, I guess.”
This isn’t fair to her. “Bye, Pixie.”
He watched her exit the car and head for the terminal. Look back at me. Please, Snowflake. But she didn’t. With shoulders hunched, and her step missing its usual playful pep, she walked toward the terminal. The doors slid open then shut, and Pixie disappeared.
The driver got back into the car. “Back to the same location, sir?”
Did he go back to the house where his ever-present past existed, while his future boarded the first available flight out of his life?
“Wait,” he said to the driver as he grabbed the door handle, flinging it open wide. Dodging a family with as many cases as children, he sprinted into the terminal. What airline had she been flying? American? Dred scanned the departures screen quickly and found the check-in desk numbers.
The Purest Hook (Second Circle Tattoos) Page 12
