VIP (Rock & Release, Act I)

by Edgewood, Riley

  It’s my tongue wrapping around him, swathing circles up to his tip, where I taste the salty wetness waiting there.

  And this time it's him slamming a hand out, connecting with the sink's counter to steady himself. I wonder if he's enjoying the sting in his palm the way I did.

  And when I drag my nails up the backs of his legs and use a hand to cup him—teasing and lightly pulling against his sensitive skin, while my tongue and the moisture of my mouth create a vacuum around the length of him—the sound he makes is so close to a whimper, I almost laugh. But my mouth is too full. And my system's too intensely set to go, go, go, to let anything so lighthearted escape.

  "I'm going to lose it," he warns soon after, his words a rough hiss of something caught between pleasure and pain, "if you don't stop."

  And so I work harder, to make sure he does.

  His fingers wrench in my hair and his hips rock forward and I pull him deeper into my mouth. And when he does let go, I've never been so satisfied bringing someone this sort of pleasure.

  Somehow, we make it to my bed. But he's spent, and I'm a little raw, and for a moment we lie on our backs, breathing heavily and twining our fingers together. The moment stretches out, and I think I might be content to spend the rest of the night like this.

  But eventually he rolls to his side and strums the fingers of his other hand over my stomach, starting low enough to make me twitch, and working slowly higher. Swish, swish, pat-pat-pat; swish, swish, pat-pat-pat. He drums a beat into my skin until I feel it all the way in my bones. His hand inches higher still, until the nail of his thumb is sweeping against the underside of my breasts, and before he even reaches them, my nipples are harder than ever. His head dips down and he takes each one lazily in his mouth, working his tongue back and forth and back and forth until my system's set to go, go, go all over again and my back is arching and when he slides his body over mine, it rubs against my tender skin with the most delicious friction.

  His mouth never leaves me, traveling up my neck and along my jaw until I turn my face to meet his lips with my own. He lets my tongue take control of his mouth now, and I do it greedily.

  The weight of him above me, the heat from his skin rubbing mine, the feel of him hardening against me again… It's almost too much to bear, this wanting. This needing. My skin zings with electricity, my senses completely on edge in the sharpest, most exquisite way.

  He kisses me lightly, unhurriedly, like the lower parts of his body aren't completely stiff and surely, like mine, aching.

  I pull the skin between his shoulder blades, begging him with pinches to take it up a notch, to take me.

  There's a rumble in his chest and he reaches for where he's tossed a condom on my pillow. His breathing's as heavy as mine as he slides it on. I grab his ass and pull him toward me. He shifts his hips just slightly so that he slides between my legs but doesn't enter. He touches me. Teases me. All over again, but I know this time he won't stop and I bite my lip to keep from begging him to hurry.

  But he's so hard. So ready. I shiver, my stomach dropping into my spine with need, and I can’t keep the words from slipping out. "Have me, Gage. Please."

  So he does.

  He nudges into me.

  Slowly at first. And deep. So, so deep.

  My head falls back, resting between his forearms, and a gasp breezes through my lips. This. This is what I've waited for.

  His mouth finds my neck again. Kissing, tasting, devouring.

  He’s easing into me and out, still slowly, slowly, slowly each time, deliberately so that I feel every single unhurried bit of friction.

  But soon I'm rocking my hips against him, wanting more, and his tempo changes, too.

  Faster, more frantic, our bodies crash together.

  Hurried. Like we can't get enough of each other.

  Harder.

  A frenzy surges between us. A war between our bodies, thrust, after thrust, after thrust, where there is no losing side.

  I reach out blindly, finding the edge of my nightstand, wrapping my fingers around the corner, the wood digging into my palm. I hold on as he drives into me. I twist my feet around his back and let him fill me fill me fill me completely.

  Again.

  And again.

  And again.

  My hips rise to meet him each time and intensity's building to a peak in the places where our bodies touch. And, maybe, in the space between our hearts.

  A fluttering unfurls in my belly and drops lower, swirling into tingles, pounding into throbs. Faster. More intense.

  He's saying my name. Cassidy. Cassidy. Cassidy.

  Unable to stop the rushing sensations zinging through my belly, my body seizes, contracting around him. He groans, shoving in even farther. Even harder.

  Again, I'm thinking. So soon, he brings me to the edge a second time?

  And then I tip over it so fast, so far I don't even remember there ever was an edge, and I'm lost, completely lost, in a rush of heated pleasure as it coils down, down, down my body all the way to the tips of my toes.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  "Give me water or give me death," I manage to croak at some point, still out of breath, still quivering. Still wanting.

  But also needing water. Badly.

  "Ah, yes, Amelia Earhart," he says, sounding scratchy and almost as desperate for a drink as I am.

  I crack up and start to reach for the bottle on my nightstand, but he waves my hand away and rolls off the bed. "I think we deserve one that's actually cold."

  It's gotten much darker since we got home, but the room is still lit enough for me to admire his retreating figure. "Nice ass."

  He laughs and comes back a moment later with a tall glass of water. There's a joke there somewhere, but I'm too worn out to make it. He hands it to me, and I sit up to take it, asking, "Where's yours?"

  "We're sharing."

  "We'll see about that." I chug. And chug. And stop myself when it's over half gone. "Fine. Here."

  He takes it, guzzles the rest, and goes for more. While he's gone, I do what I can to braid the knot formerly known as my hair, ripping my fingers through it frantically, before he's back.

  I wave away the water this time, and glance at the glowing clock on the dresser across the room. It's not even midnight yet.

  Hmm. The night's still young. Lots of time left to…do things.

  He's looking at me when I turn my attention to him again, like he knows what I'm thinking. Good. I cock an eyebrow. "What's next on this nightlong plan of yours?"

  "Funny you should ask. I was just about to show you."

  Later, much later, when the tremors have subsided and our bodies have cooled and we're good for nothing else, he weaves his fingers through mine and we lie silent, watching the moonlight as it dances through the guest room windows, whirling into pixie dust patterns in the air.

  Even later still, when Gage is breathing quietly, sleeping, next to me, I realize I've known him less than two days. And I've slept with him. Literally and figuratively. I wonder if I should feel strange about it—but I don't. All I feel is a drowning desire to have him inside of me again.

  I let him sleep, though. He earned it. So did I. I nuzzle my face against his chest, taking in the crisp clean scent of him that I've somehow already grown so used to, and eventually my own eyes close, too.

  I wake up the next morning on my side, as close to the edge of the bed as I can be without falling off. I unfurl into a long, languid stretch, and roll over to find Gage still asleep, unmoved from the spot I left him in. He's snoring—so softly it's almost a purr—and his face is completely relaxed, expressionless. It makes him look innocent, but I know he's far from it. He proved that last night. Over and over.

  Yum. My toes curl with the memories, my feet twisting a knot in the sheets.

  Check yourself, Cassidy. You haven't even had coffee yet.

  I wonder how he got the little scar on his cheek. It's barely noticeable, something that makes his already beautiful face mor
e unique. Because it is beautiful, his face. A straight and narrow nose. The perfect little drop in the middle of his upper lip, just the start of his sensual mouth—made even sexier with my firsthand knowledge of what he can do with it. Long lashes rest against his cheeks.

  "It isn't polite to stare." Those long lashes flutter and the lids of his eyes open halfway.

  "It's hard not to," I say. "You're very pretty." Because I feel like doing it, I reach out to trace the sharp angle of his jaw with my finger.

  He runs his hand up my arm, wrapping it around my elbow and yanking me toward him. "Pretty enough to ignore my morning breath?"

  He breathes out toward my face. I turn my head to the side so I won't smell it, but… It's not necessary. "Your breath smells like mint."

  "I know." He tugs my chin back toward him, his voice half groggy, half husky. "I got up half an hour ago and used your mouthwash—so I could do this."

  He kisses me. Soft and lazy. Sweet and unhurried.

  And my goddamn stomach grumbles.

  He smiles against my mouth. "You are a hungry girl in the mornings."

  I am. I really am. For more than just food. "Can we pretend that didn't happen?"

  But he's already rolling away. "Let's get you some breakfast."

  Damn.

  "You're very pretty, too, you know," he says, pausing to kiss me again at the door. "Actually, beautiful suits you better. Even with your hair sticking up everywhere like that."

  "You ass." I scowl, smoothing my hair down the best I can. Inside I'm melty like butter, though. From his words and his kiss.

  Vera and Jared are sitting at the dining table. Déjà vu swings out in full force. It's like yesterday revisited. Except this time I'm not hungover. This isn't a stranger's house. (Kind of.) And I'm ready to face the day head-on. Even if it means sitting across from Jared, who's wearing a smirk and a white ribbed sleeveless undershirt, with his overly bulging and veiny muscles. Gross.

  After a round of hellos and good mornings, Vera pushes a box of Frosted Flakes in our direction. There are already two bowls out for us with a pitcher of milk and a bottle of orange juice. Vera clearly takes breakfast seriously. I do, too. We're going to live together just fine.

  "Thanks. I still need to get to the grocery store." I drop into a chair and pour myself a bowl, passing everything to Gage afterward.

  "I told you—what's mine is yours." Vera refills her glass with juice. "Help yourself to whatever."

  "Well. Same," I say, digging into my bowl. "You know. Whenever I actually have anything to offer."

  Jared's smirk widens. "Sounded like you had plenty to offer last night."

  Ugh.

  He puts a fist out for Gage to bump (double ugh), but Gage only shakes his head. "You're a dick."

  "I'm a dick who gave Cassidy a job," Jared says, giving me a pointed look. "So how about we all stop being so freaking uptight."

  "Sexual harassment much?" I ask, only halfway kidding. I'd press further, but the pained expression on Vera's face stalls me. She thinks there's more to Jared than what's on the surface. I think she's wrong—but she's given me a place to live and, for her, I will give him the benefit of the doubt. For now. I sigh. "What time does my shift start tonight?"

  "Three."

  "Three? That's so early," I say, amending with, "not that I mind. I didn't think VIP opened that far before the show."

  "Thank God you don't mind." Jared's wearing half a smile though, so I'm pretty sure he's joking with me rather than really being irritated.

  "Castle Zero always comes to the patio for a few hours before the show. They bring groupies, too," Vera says. "They're super friendly—one of my favorite bands to wait on." She pauses, reconsidering. "Well, most of them are cool, anyway. One exception."

  "Castle Zero…" I rack my brain.

  "Punk rock," Gage says. "Huge following. We're going to be slammed tonight."

  And he's right. We are.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Even before the VIP patio opens to the VIP members, I'm dead on my feet. Castle Zero band members are awesome. They've been sitting at the bar switching between beers and waters and keeping me—and Gage, who's also scheduled to bartend until the pavilion opens—entertained. But they're high maintenance, too—with nonstop drink orders for their basically zillion groupies and family members.

  But exhausted as I am? Damn if I don't have most of the main cocktail recipes down. Margaritas? Could make one with my eyes closed. Daiquiris, mojitos, and, yes, even the watermelon-tinis that kicked off this new job; I could make them in my sleep. And I can pour a beer from tap without even looking and it won't foam over. Something I struggled with big time yesterday.

  I wish Clark was here—he'd be so impressed. I can't wait to show off when he starts his shift later, and say as much to Gage.

  "He won't be here the next two nights," he tells me. "He had a thing with Dave Montana last summer." He discreetly points to one of Castle Zero's members. "The drummer." (Who, by the very interesting way, is currently holding hands with his extremely-shiny-and-ginormous-diamond-ring-wearing wife.) "It didn't end well… Dude—stop staring and close your mouth!"

  Oops. Dave Montana must be the one exception Vera was talking about. I clamp my lips shut and throw myself back into the hustle bustle. Whenever we cross paths, Gage slides his hand across my back. I know he must have a life outside of Vera's house—but I really, really hope he'll stay with me again tonight. If not for me, then for my ladybits. Because holy mother of all longing do they want him back.

  Nicole takes Gage's place behind the bar when the band and their entourage are gone and the VIPers start coming in. Gage warms up for a few minutes on the stage, and then starts his set of covers. That whiskey-honeyed voice. I could close my eyes and let it wash over me for hours. I wonder if he'd ever want to set out on his own… And then I kind of slightly at the back of my mind remember he might have said something about that the first night we met. Stupid alcohol haze.

  "Fucking awesome, right?" Nicole nudges me, handing me two freshly poured beers for waiting customers.

  "Yes." My voice is all breathy and I don't even care. It dawns on me that Nicole might know something about his life. "Why doesn't he do this professionally? Touring and stuff?"

  "He used to," she says. "But now he stays close to home. You know how his—" She stops herself, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her facial expression is conflicted, like she's not sure she should go on.

  "You don't have to tell me," I reassure her, wondering how his what? "It's none of my business."

  Relief relaxes her features. "I'm sure he'd tell you if you asked."

  He might have already, I want to say. I don't want to ask him again; I don't want him to think I didn't pay attention. But I also don't want to gossip about him—and neither, clearly, does Nicole. She gives an easy shrug and turns to take another order.

  My cell phone buzzes, vibrating in my back pocket. I drop the beers off for their intended customers and check it. My mom. The space under my ribs constricts and panic sends tingles through my fingers. I can't answer. Not right now. I don't want to hear whatever she'll say. But I text her to tell her I'm safe and not to worry. I'll give her that much. I don't hate her—or my dad. I just don't want to wade in the heavy air surrounding them anymore.

  Thankfully, I don't have time to dwell on it. Nicole's secret kisser shows up, all curly-haired and chiseled-cheeked, in a pressed and preppy button-down shirt and slacks. He and Nicole barely acknowledge each other—it's me he waves to first. "Cassidy, good to see you."

  "Uh." Did I meet him the other night? "Hey there. What can I get for you?"

  "Zach," he says, his mouth splitting into a grin. "You don't remember me, do you?"

  Oh my God. Zach. Nicole's secret fling is Zach. Booking manager and, technically, one of my bosses.

  "Zach. Of course I remember you!" I hit him with my most disarming smile.

  "Really?" He doesn't believe me.

  "Ye
p!" My cheeks start to hurt.

  "Then what—or should I say whom?—did we spend a good twenty minutes talking about the other night?"

  "Uh." I really need to remove that filler from my vocabulary—but all I have right now is a placeholder because I cannot remember any sort of conversation with him. Except… The memory's fuzzy at first—and when it becomes clearer I really, really wish it hadn't.

  Me. Standing by the second bar. Sloppy drunk. Leaning against Zach for support, my hand on his chest. It's softer than it looks. "I saw you and Nicole." My words all completely slurred. "All tongues flying and hair pulling. It was hot."

  And that's it. That's all my mind grants me.

  Fuuuuck.

  My eyes dart to Nicole and back to him. "I didn't mean to call you out about Nicole. I'm so —"

  "No—no, no." He shakes his head, frantically, cutting me off. "Franklin Charles. We talked about Franklin Charles."

  Oh. God, I'm a moron. Now I'm embarrassed and he's embarrassed and all I had to say—even if I have no memory of it, Jared already told me—was that we'd spoken about Franklin Charles. I just had to open my stupid mouth about Nicole. Again.

  I squeeze my hands together under the bar in an effort to stem some of the pathetic embarrassment.

  "Right, right," I say, my throat tight. Something about Zach makes me want to impress him. Not in the same way I want to impress Gage, but in the way anyone would want a boss to think highly of them. I make an assumption regarding the conversation I can't remember and say, "I still think you should try to book him here."

  "I am thinking about it," he says. "Now back to work—I just stopped over to tell you I'm glad you took the job."

  I am, too. Even more now than before. It's my second night here and I already feel like part of the crew. Something is slowly opening inside of me. This sense of—I don't know—peace, maybe? There's no doubt in my mind I've made the right decision on what to do with my summer. I need this break. No pressure from professors, no peers in constant competition. No parents. No drowning in air thick with unresolved grief.