What in the actual fuck just came out of my mouth?
I think my comment shocked him just as much as it did me because his eyes widened and he blinked a few times, his jaw loosening just a touch.
Shrugging, he tossed his hand in the air and leaned the seat back. “Well, if that’s what you want to do, then by all means…”
He raised his ass from the seat as I yanked his jeans down. His ridiculously large dick slapped back against his stomach, and I noticed a small glint in the dim light pouring in from outside. Lodged through the tip of his dick was a shiny silver barbell, and another was horizontal underneath his head. Holy fuck!
I didn’t even realize I was verbalizing my shock. “Shit!” I swallowed, trying to gather myself. “You’re pierced!”
Jag tilted his head to the side. “I’m a fucking rock star. What’d you expect?” His hand rubbed up my arm, to my neck, and down to the base of my head.
What am I doing?
“Change your mind?” he asked, his voice gruff and strained.
Without hesitation, I grabbed him, the heat of his flesh searing through me. He was hard and hot and fucking…shit.
I pressed my lips against his head, the metal bar cool against my mouth as I kissed him. That sensation coaxed a soft groan from him.
Tracing my tongue up the length of him, his dick twitched in my hands. I circled around the barbell before slamming my mouth down around his head. My grip on him tightened and I forced my way down him, my tongue wrapping around him and pressing over the veins. As soon as my hand twisted up the base of his shaft, he squirmed in his seat, and I’m not going to lie, I liked that, I delighted in it.
I slowly pulled up on him. I left the tip of his head in my mouth and flicked my tongue over the indention the piercing cut through, then swallowed him back again.
Quick.
Hot.
Hard.
His fingers spread out in my hair before fisting a good portion of the strands and pulling me down on him. “Shit. That feels,” a soft growl scraped up his throat, “unbelievable. Fucking amazing.” A sated moan followed his statement, and his hold on my hair loosened.
Within moments, I had him groaning, his hips moving in rhythm with my mouth and one hand grabbing my thigh and squeezing.
“Fuck,” he hissed as he came.
No sooner had I swallowed the bitter taste of him down than he clamored across the console and pushed my skirt up around my hips and ripped—literally ripped—my underwear from me.
Tossing the torn cotton into his floorboard, he buried his face between my thighs. His tongue slithered over me, stopping on my clit and sucking it in before biting down on it. The sharp stitch of pain mixed with electric pleasure and my eyes slammed closed.
His mouth felt every part of me, devouring me with greedy movements.
Jag stopped, breathing over me as he mumbled, “Damn, you taste good. I could eat your pussy for hours,” before slamming his lips back over me and forcing his tongue inside me.
My thighs involuntarily tensed, and both his hands quickly spread them back.
“Don’t fuck with me while I’m enjoying you. Leave your legs right there.”
He was demanding and between my legs, and that entire dominant, I-own-you-right-now attitude killed me.
Words can sometimes have more power than touch, and damn if he wasn’t a master at both.
A few more hard presses over me and his finger sinking deep inside me, and I lost it. My muscles tightened, my breathing grew labored, and every fiber of me released.
I was breathless, hot and sweaty, almost paralyzed from the orgasm he’d just given me, and shocked that I had just given into him like that.
He made me crazy.
After I took a few minutes to collect myself, I reached down and grabbed my now-useless underwear from the floor of his car.
“Uh-uh,” he said, snatching the material free from my hand. “Those belong to me now. You know, ‘you break it you keep it’?”
“Sure,” I muttered, attempting to hide the slight embarrassment creeping through me.
He walked me to my door in silence, placing his arm around the small of my back. “Thanks for keeping me company today. I like being around you, even if you think my music sucks.”
I stopped in front of my door and took him in. He was ridiculously attractive, and removed from all the glitz and glam of the stage, it was almost impossible not to like him.
“Thanks for taking me out.”
“Oh, shit. Wait right here,” he said, and ran off to his car. A few seconds later I heard his boots clomping up the stairs and bags rustling against the stair rail.
“I definitely can’t wear your shade, or your size…” He handed me the bags and swiped a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “I like the pink stripe of hair. It fits you. Hot. Sassy. Girly in a really bad-ass way.” He gave me a soft kiss. “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
“Yeah, I’d like that.”
He smiled and turned, leaving me in absolute disbelief at what had just happened.
An hour later I sat there, staring at the sleek black Chanel bags, still in a daze. He’d forced me into shopping, ordering the shopper to give me practically a new wardrobe, and he wouldn’t take no for an answer. The lady had loaded me down with things I felt I had no business touching, much less owning.
Fuck flowers, that wasn’t good enough with Jag. He had to make an impression.
As they like to say in romance novels, I had come undone, but in a way that pretty much was unraveling each last piece of my being.
For a second I wondered if the guilt of him spending money on me had lowered my inhibitions a notch, and if that was why I insisted on sucking him off. Shit, that pretty much makes me a prostitute.
Two days ago I hated him, I would have paid my rent money to deck him one good time square in the nose; and now I had the taste of him all in my mouth, and the image of that shiny silver barbell pierced through the tip of his beautiful, enormous dick had been permanently etched into my memory.
I had been scarred, but unlike all those other nasty scars I had, this one was one I liked, treasured, wanted more of.
But…
I shouldn’t have felt that way because I knew better than to like him. The thing that had a hold on him was what had given me all those nasty scars I hated. Things I hated and things I wanted…Jag was both. And that put me in a dilemma.
I wanted to hate him, I really wanted to despise him, but he made it difficult. It had been so much easier when he wasn't real, when he was just this industry-produced image who I'd thought couldn't have feelings or one stitch of intelligence inside him. Somebody I had never had an encounter with, someone that seemed fictional…but he was now very real to me, very, very real.
Honestly, he wasn't much at all like that guy I'd thought he was.
Alone, he really wasn't as arrogant, or cocky. He was actually kind of nice. He opened doors for me, he made me laugh, and he had this magical ability to make me forget that my life, up to that point, hadn't exactly been bearable. But above everything, what got to me were his eyes. They had depth to them. There were specks of hurt and pain, betrayal, and a sense of conquering hope inside them. And there was something about them that made me just…feel.
Grabbing one of the bags, I pulled out the box of Coco Mademoiselle, carefully unwrapping the cellophane from its corners and prying the lid from the box. I popped the sleek white top from the bottle and spritzed my wrists.
The beautiful scent quickly filled the room. It was sensual and feminine, almost something I would have envisioned Marilyn Monroe wearing. It was everything I felt like I wasn't. And he was everything I didn't need, but how could I tell my heart that when deep down inside it swore that he was?
I sat in the floor, the perfume bottle clutched in my hands, and fought with myself. Right when I'd convinced myself I just wouldn't answer his call the next day and that I would return the ridiculous amount of overpriced items he'd bought
me, someone knocked on my door.
Fuck. Please don't be him. Please. Just don't be him.
I looked through the peephole and saw Layla standing with her arms crossed in front of her chest. I opened the door as she was about to pound her fist over it again.
She tilted her head to the side and narrowed her eyes on me. "What. In. The. Hell?" she growled, and pushed her way past me.
"What?" I slammed the door and slid the chain back through the lock.
"Jacquelyn said she saw you down on Rodeo Drive today."
Shit.
Layla's lips curled up into a knowing grin. "You know she works at Hugo Boss, remember?"
"Yeah, I remember." Now.
"Hmm." She fell down onto my couch and crossed her leg, drumming her fingers over her bare knee. "And she said you had on a pink maxi dress." Layla grabbed the bottom of my skirt and shook it. "This is definitely a pink maxi dress." She paused, one eye slightly twitching as her breathing grew heavier. "You know what else she said about you?"
I shrugged, knowing damn well the words that were about to explode from her mouth.
"She said that you, my sister, were with Jag-mother-fucking-Steele. Jag Steele! Are you kidding me right now? How in the hell did that happen, and why in the fuck didn't you call me? You know I love him. That is betrayal.” Layla shook her head, a sincere look of hurt falling over her face. “Betrayal on a level I can't even begin to explain to you. And don’t you try to deny it, because she snapped a picture on her phone and texted it to me!"
Her foot was shaking as she stared at me. I had no idea what to say. Everything had happened so fast, I hadn't had time to think about what I would do if someone actually recognized me with him, much less that it would be my sister, who was teetering on the verge of a psychotic obsession with the man.
"I ran into him the other night at Dick's."
Her nose scrunched up. "Dick's? What the hell was he doing there? What were you doing there…Oh, Roxy, stop doing that to yourself. It only makes it worse. It won’t make you feel any better about Sean." She shook her head, and I guess that's when she caught the sight of the bags piled up by my far wall. "Chanel? Oh. My. God. He bought you things? From Chanel?" Hopping up, she darted over to the bags, digging through them and gasping. "Please tell me you screwed him?"
"What? No!" I feigned disgust at the idea of it, even though I would have, had he only let me.
Layla released a disappointed sigh. "I can’t believe this. I can't even live vicariously through you." She folded the shirt she had bunched up in her hands and tossed it back into the bag. “This is real? You went out with my favorite celebrity. Although I want to kill you, I guess I can’t.” A devious smirk washed across her face and she wiggled her eyebrows at me. “Want to know why?”
My mind was still processing the fact that I had already gotten myself into a pile of shit. I was not suited, prepared, or mentally stable enough to be hurdled into the lifestyle that accompanied Jag, but I already felt hooked, trapped by my attraction to him, by my fascination and morbid curiosity of who he really was deep down.
“God only knows with you, Layla.”
She giggled and pulled her feet up on the couch as a proud grin formed on her face. “I fucked his brother!”
“What? You…Stone?” I felt my brow furrow. “You fucked Stone Steele?”
Totally confused on how, not really why, but how and when that had happened, I held my head and massaged my temples. “What?” I said again.
She nodded slowly and reassuringly, a glaze coating her eyes as she reminisced about it.
“When?”
“Last night. At a party I went to with Mallory.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Layla.”
“God, he is so hot. Best sex ever. Hands down. Unbelievable.” She popped the gum she had in her mouth, still smiling, and her eyes lighting up even more when she gloated, “And he has a huge cock. I bet that shit runs in the family, you should definitely check on that stat, Rox.” Another giddy, girlish giggle floated from her throat.
Although I was tempted to announce that I had already discovered just how well-endowed Jag was, I kept my mouth shut. “Yeah, okay. I’ll be sure to do that at some point.”
“What are the chances that both of us hooked up with Pandemic Sorrow? That is pretty amazing!”
I snarled my lip. “Uh, statistically speaking, it’s not that impressive. There’s been plenty of girls over the years that can claim that. And I’m not exactly ‘hooking up’ with him.”
Layla continued to rummage through my bags, pulling out things and gushing over them. The moment she found the receipt, her mouth dropped. “Holy fucking shit! Roxy, six-thousand dollars?” she screeched. Her bulging eyes darted up to mine. “Six-thousand-motherfucking-dollars?” Cupping her mouth with her hand, she muttered out a garbled, “He…likes you.”
Her hand fell from her face and her brow wrinkled. “He likes you!”
I shook my head, trying to downplay her revelation; but really, I was just trying to convince myself she was being ridiculous, because why would someone like him like someone like me. I was just entertaining to him, something a little different.
Someone like him? Since when did Jag Steele become a “someone like him”? Oh, this is bad.
“No, Layla. He just has a shit ton of money. That six-thousand dollars is probably not any different than you buying a homeless guy some cheap sandwich.”
“Whatever. I’m so jealous of you right now.”
She continued to ramble on about Jag and Stone, about how ironic this all was, about fate and how none of this would have happened had I not been such a bitch to him at the meet and greet all those weeks ago.
My brain couldn’t keep up with her incessant chatter because all I could think about was Jag. Moments after Layla had finally fallen silent, my phone chimed.
Leaning over to the side table, I picked it up and read the text. I had yet to save his number in my phone because I wasn’t ready to do that—saving someone’s number shows some level of commitment—but I recognized the first three numbers.
Are you a witch or something? Because I’m pretty sure you’ve possessed me. I can’t stop thinking about you, princess.
That text did nothing to help me. It makes it seem a lot less destructive when the person you’re obsessing over is obsessing over you too.
Chapter 11
I didn’t do too great of a job of ignoring his calls. And I never returned any of the things he bought me.
The very next day, there I was, with him again, even though I knew I shouldn’t be. I’d come to the conclusion that it was safe because it would go nowhere: He’d go back on tour and then forget about me. I enjoyed being around him, and more than anything, he had me intrigued. What would it hurt to hang around a bit longer?
He made me shaky inside and sweaty outside. I struggled to not trip over my words at times, but none of that was because of who he was; it was all because I liked him. The first few times I’d met him I was a cold bitch, and now, after spending days with him I had become a blubbering idiot when I was around him. I felt I was starting to resemble those dumb fans…at least that’s how I felt on the inside.
No, that couldn’t have been what I resembled because I turned into a blubbering idiot because I liked him. To me, he wasn’t a rock star. Actually, that side of him didn’t even seem real anymore. He was just a guy that I liked way too much. It felt good to like someone, and at the same time it absolutely terrified me.
Two days and two dates later, Jag called me again.
Thirty minutes later, he picked me up, and I didn’t even ask where we were going. I didn’t care. I just liked being with him. As fucked up as it may sound, I felt safe with him.
“You don’t care where we’re going?” he asked, turning off the interstate.
“Nope.”
“Hmm, that’s dangerous,” he growled. I could literally take you anywhere…wanna go to Paris?”
I glanced over at him
, and he wasn’t joking.
“Serious. I can take you. Wanna go?”
“Uh, no.”
“Oh, come on. It’s fun. Beautiful city, plus I still haven’t spent as much time in the Louvre as I want.”
The Louvre? Are you serious? Who is this guy?
I snickered and adjusted in the seat. “The Louvre? You, Mr. Rock God, like art?”
He glared at me over the rim of his shades. “Yeah. I make art for a living; of course I like art…and—are you ready for this?—I also like history. Shocking, right? I have a fucking brain, who knew?”
I felt heat paint its way across my cheeks. I shouldn’t have reacted like I was surprised. “I didn’t say you were stupid, I—”
Jag took a sharp left-hand turn, forcing me to slide across the smooth leather seat. “You didn’t have to. It’s what people think. I’m an addict, I’m famous and good-looking, which means I must be an idiot.”
He did have feelings, and his intelligence was evidently a sore topic. “Maybe next week we can go to Paris,” I said. But right now, where are we going?”
“Next week, huh? So, this isn’t just a one-night stand for you then?”
My cheeks flushed even more; by now I’m sure they were candy-apple red. I didn’t know what to say because I didn’t want to seem stupid. I didn’t want him to think I naively expected this to go anywhere. Honestly, I didn’t know what the hell to think about any of it.
Jag parked the car, got out, and opened my door.
I looked around and smiled. “The beach? Well, isn’t this a normal place to bring a girl?”
He shrugged and took my hand into his, softly stroking the inside of my palm with his thumb. “I like normal every once and a while.”
We walked out onto the sand and down to the coast. The sticky air whipped my hair around, and the sound of the waves crashing onto the shoreline made my body relax.
Jag pulled me closer to him and placed his arm around my hip. “So, what’s your favorite color?”
“Glitter.”
He laughed and shook his head. “Glitter’s not a color.”
“Sure it is. It’s not clear, it’s iridescent. It’s got all the colors.”
Roxy (Pandemic Sorrow #3) Page 8
