One Wicked Lick from the Drummer (The One Book 3)

by Ainslie Paton

  “You have any crushes on drummers?” he said.

  She smiled into the hollow of his throat, floating on the fresh beachy scent of him. “I’m not answering that on the grounds it might incriminate me.”

  The slight whirring that was the movement of the shelf walls stopped and the light went out, tipping them into blackness.

  Grip’s arms tightened around her. “That’s not supposed to happen.”

  There was a crackle of intercom. “Hello occupants, this is the linen press operator. We’ve had a slight equipment malfunction. Nothing to be concerned about. You are perfectly safe, and in no danger, though it’s a little squeezy. If you’d like to exit the room, press the let me out button and the main door will open. If you’d like to continue your experience, there will be a slight holdup while we adjust some equipment settings. We apologize for the inconvenience.” There was a blast of static, an evil laugh and the voice said, “Or do we?” and the intercom cut off.

  If Mena was in any way feeling suffocated, she’d have climbed over Grip to get to the door, but the air flow was good and there was nowhere else in the world she wanted to be, needed to be, but in Grip’s strong arms with the rationalization to enjoy it.

  “The torch is somewhere under all the towels. We could go,” he said, voice low, making her nerve endings jangle. “Promise I didn’t engineer this.”

  In this bubble of wickedness, she believed him. “If you want to.” If he moved his hands from her body, the disappointment might leave a gaping hole in her emotional competence.

  His knee bumped hers as he realigned their bodies closer. “We’re just economizing on space. I don’t feel the need to be anywhere else right now.”

  “Me either.” She brushed her knuckles across his cheekbone. He had to be able to hear the drum solo her heart was playing. “Happy to see this through.”

  He captured her hand and held it to his chest, right over the drum solo his heart was playing. “What are we going to do while they fix things?”

  They were locked away from the world in a very small dark space, suspended from real life and all its consequences. “I might’ve had a crush on a drummer once.”

  “Knew it,” he said, the laugh in his voice so warm it sent flames licking over her skin.

  “It was a long time ago.”

  Grip brought his hand to the back of her neck, palm and fingers warm, holding her gently. “I want to kiss you, Mena, but I don’t want to fuck things up for you.”

  If he didn’t recognize that he had the power here, that the risk was hers, she’d never have put herself in this position. She’d learned that from her groupie days. “I want to kiss you, Grip, but I don’t want to fuck things up either.”

  “Shit, do you want out?”

  No. She wanted to remember what it was like to be kissed by someone who once thrilled her, who still did, to be reckless and desired. She lifted her chin, their noses bumped.

  “Fuck, Mena,” he said, and she kissed him. A soft press of her lips to his followed by a shocked exhale from both of them, and then he said in a near growl that covered her in goosebumps, “Ah, come on, honey. You said you wanted to see this through. You want to be bad, you gotta try a little harder than that.”

  “You think taunting me is going to get you kissed harder?”

  He grunted and shifted his hips so she could feel how engorged his cock was. “Fucking hope so.”

  It was as if all of her fantasies downloaded into her brain stem in one rush. System overload. She fastened her lips on his and he groaned, slamming his hands on her butt and opening his mouth to her, tongue right there to taste hers, lips firm and insistent and not letting her up for breath, as if he was worried she’d back out.

  There was no going back, only more and more; a wildness for Grip that made her shake, a response from him that made all of that urgency necessary.

  Grip ravished her mouth, soft slow kisses, mixed with hard biting ones where their teeth clashed, as if he had trouble working out a rhythm. She was no help with that. No kiss was enough satisfaction. She gasped when he left her mouth and kissed across her jaw to her neck and licked over her ear.

  “You are driving me mad, Mena. You’re so fucking brainy and gorgeous.”

  She would’ve climbed his body, wrapped her leg around his hip, but her dress wouldn’t allow it. She got the words, “I want,” out and Grip instinctively knew what she needed. He found a rhythm, and he melted her with hands that tamed the fire in her body and lips that were tender devastation.

  When the lights came on, he tucked her face into his neck to shelter her from the glare. His breathing as unsteady as hers was. She clung to him, not willing to give him up, even though the fantasy was over and the only things waiting for her outside of this space and time was remorse.

  “You are pretty fucking spectacular,” he said, in a voice gone thready with lust, another loop-the-loop in the thrill ride.

  She wasn’t ready to go back to Mena’s controlled and calculated life. She lifted her face to kiss Grip, gratified he followed her lead, though he held her less tightly as they stood at the edge of a new uncertain reality.

  The light was harsh on her eyes, but it was inevitable, forcing her to clear her head. “If I was seventeen again, I’d be crushing you so hard.” She saw the moment the regret of that registered in his eyes.

  He kissed her forehead. “If you say this is not a good investment, I’m going to follow your lead.” He was giving her a way out. “You call all the shots, Mena.”

  There was only one shot she could call and hold her life, her career together. “We need to finish this.”

  He didn’t misunderstand her this time either. He gestured at the half-door that had opened up. “Investment witches first.”

  She wanted to kiss him again for that. He was going to make this as easy as possible. As if it never happened. The thought made a shot of nausea flash through her as she ducked through the small doorway, which opened into another dimly lit bedroom. It was what had to happen, but it felt like the loss of something precious and rare.

  Grip followed, and when she froze as a person sat up in the bed, saying, “Helen, is that you?” he grabbed her hand and led them around the bed and out another door into the original corridor near where they’d started from.

  Another door he opened showed a kitchen, full of steam and the smell of bacon. Another to a laundry room. He’d taken control now and he was rushing them through to the end.

  He squeezed her hand. “We missed all the clues.”

  Oh, if only he knew where to look, he’d see them all over her.

  There were six more doors and no way to know what was behind each of them and the handles were locked.

  “There are no spiders, wait here,” he said, and went back the way they’d come.

  He wasn’t gone long, and nothing jumped out at her except her conscience, shouting, “What are you doing? Do you want to get found out?”

  The resounding answer was yes.

  And that was scariest moment yet.

  TEN

  Grip had to walk away from Mena. Had to take a minute to get himself together. His whole body felt tense, like he was standing on shifting rock, tilting one way towards more kisses and more than kisses and the other towards, fuck, fucked it up, fuck up.

  Somehow all the clues went missing and he’d lost his certainty about finding his way. He felt a weird connection with Mena. Her shy and sunshine, her serious and sensuous beats. Had done since she’d tripped into the boardroom at S&Y and they’d crawled under the table together. He wanted her something savage. And she’d taken the lead and gone toe-to-toe with him, nothing held back. But now that they were out of each other’s arms, he didn’t know what that meant.

  And it had dude, you’ll screw this up stamped all over it.

  There was another hidden key in the room they’d come out of. He could at least get them out of here without too much further messing about. He backtracked, found the key and had the r
ight door opened in under two minutes.

  They only knew it was the right door because Mena’s coat was hanging in the open wardrobe and her bags were on the radically unmade bed. The rest was clashing, peeling wallpaper, a broken lamp, a smashed mirror, an overturned chair, scattered crockery, as if this was a real hotel room they’d shared and trashed.

  Fuck, if only.

  He looked at his watch because he wasn’t certain he could take the tension in Mena’s face any longer. Everything had been hot and happening in the linen press. No one was doing anything they didn’t want. He’d been sure of it then but now his whole head could be crawling with spiders and he wouldn’t know it.

  “Fifty minutes. Not terrible,” he said to fill the silence. He had no idea how long they’d been in the linen press; however long it was, they were the most heartfelt fun, fucking fabulous moments of his life.

  And that’s all they were going to be because Mena had shut it down. We need to finish it.

  He understood, but he couldn’t make himself like it. She’d come on stronger than he’d ever imagined, and it shook him in all the best ways.

  She picked up an envelope with their names on it from the bed and read the letter inside. “Thank you for your stay at Gate Five. Come back and see us again or try one of our even more interesting experiences. Coming soon, all Seven Gates of Hell.” She threw her hands up. “It was hell.”

  Perspective was a total headfuck. Looks like he had it upside down thinking it was a little slice of paradise. Well shit, mistakes were made. Wasn’t his first rodeo.

  The only door out of here was through the wardrobe. It led directly to the street where his car was parked. There’d be cabs around for Mena.

  “This way,” he said, sliding the door open.

  “Grip, wait. I—”

  He turned back. “This is the last stop. We made it through.”

  “It doesn’t have to be.”

  All right, he’d had enough of teetering, time to put his foot down on any solid surface.

  She was going to tell him the investment sucked, to bring his accountant next time or that he needed to take a more fucking adult approach to his money, invest in serious things that had the word tech in them. He could feel the low-grade boil of annoyance in his gut. He went a long way to avoid drama in his private life because he got enough of it with the band. He’d just kissed drama all over Mena and he knew better. He had no fucking cool when it came to her and he didn’t understand it.

  “What do you mean, Mena?”

  “We need to talk about what happened.”

  “I get it. Not professional. It was a mistake.”

  She put her hand on his forearm. He shifted to break the contact.

  “I don’t want to pretend that didn’t happen,” she said. “I don’t want you thinking you coerced me, or I didn’t know what I was doing. I don’t want to turn what we just did into a lie, something to be ashamed of.”

  Back-down words if ever he’d heard them. He had plenty of things to be embarrassed about but making out with a hot, willing woman wasn’t one of them.

  “I loved touching you, kissing you. It wasn’t a mistake. I wanted it to happen. I’m attracted to you and I don’t want to fight it anymore,” she said.

  Bing! Unexpected item in the bagging area.

  “What?” He shook his head. Brains had to be leaking out his ears because he thought she said more kisses please, but her body language was called to the principal’s office, months and months of detention. “What are you saying?”

  “I want you.”

  Jesus Christ. That was clear as a kick in the nuts.

  They had cameras in the rooms and corridors to check that no one was freaking out. Their make-out session in the linen press would’ve been recorded but it would’ve been impossible to identify them in the dark. But if he kissed her now, here, if he took her on the bed, they’d be making a sex tape for the ages.

  “We can’t.”

  She nodded, eyes skating away, her cheeks pinking. “I’m sorry. You. It was, I.” She gave up and reached for her bag.

  “I mean here. We can’t here. Cameras, and all the lights are on. I need you to tell me exactly what you want and what it means. This can’t be something you regret later. It can’t wreck your career or screw up our business with each other.”

  Her face was still carved from concern. “There are consequences but right now I don’t want to deal with them. I want to forget the rules. I want this thing between us.”

  Holy shit. “I want to find out what happens when we’re both naked.”

  “I want that too.”

  “I’m gonna need all your fancy words.”

  “I want to get on my knees and take you in my mouth and watch you throw you head back in ecstasy as I deep throat you. I want to make you come so hard you can’t speak for an hour. I want to ride your cock till my cum drips on you and you make me see stars as I orgasm.”

  His mouth dropped open, but no sound came out. Fucking joy to the world.

  “And if that’s not explicit enough for you, I have more.”

  “Say any more right now and I’ll stop caring about cameras. We do this together, no regrets. Need you to say it, Mena.”

  “I have a crush on you, and I trust you. I’ve been fantasizing about you since we met. There is no way I’ll regret what we do together.”

  He laughed. Fucking A. “Are you real, Mena Grady, or are you some dream girl I’ve conjured because I’ve been fucking lonely since we made it big?”

  “You don’t need to be lonely tonight.”

  Cameras be fucked, he kissed her in the shambles of a bedroom and then pulled her through the wardrobe and out onto the street. She insulted his car, his old car, from before, which there was nothing wrong with, but sure, yeah, he didn’t need to be driving about in a ten-year-old Honda except he could park it anywhere without worrying about it.

  “I’m going to recommend you buy a new car.”

  He crowded her into the passenger door. Linen press close, hands molding her hips. “I’m going to recommend the only advice you give me for the rest of the night is how you like to be touched.”

  “A little bit hard, a little bit soft, a little bit wet.”

  “Jesus Christ. You’re perfect.”

  She tilted her pelvis so it slammed against his. “A little bit wild.”

  He could fucking come in his pants because his cool financial advisor was a prick tease of the best kind and the shock of that was a rush of heat and blood through his body.

  “My place,” she said, as he fumbled to open the door with the key, the remote long since having quit the band.

  She did not help by kissing his neck, laughing when he dropped the keys, hands roving over his chest and arse as he scooped to pick them up.

  He couldn’t name a single street they drove down. He went whatever direction she prompted and when he parked outside her terrace, they spent a long time kissing with a kind of desperation that belonged to being fifteen and worried this wasn’t allowed and they were about to get caught by an outraged parent.

  He messed up her hair. She got her hands up under his shirt. The steering wheel got in the way and so did the console between the seats. Twice they blasted the horn. He whacked his elbow on the window hard enough to break contact with her lips and groan. It was uncomfortable and so much fucking fun, and they were both laughing when they fell into the street, making it as far as her front door before they were all over each other again.

  A parcel left on her doorstep made him sober up enough to remember he hadn’t expected this. “I don’t have a condom.” As if one was going to do. He’d need a jumbo pack before he was done here.

  She put her back to the door as though to bar him. “What kind of a rock star are you?”

  “One who is hard-core into you and regretting being such a boy scout.”

  She laughed. “I thought the whole boy scout schtick was always be prepared.”

  “For tying
knots and surviving in the bush and shit.” Not for being tied up in them by a woman he wanted so badly he’d give up royalty percentage points.

  She picked up the parcel and opened the door. “I’ve got you.”

  Green light. Presto. They made it just inside her place before they were at each other. He undid her zip. She went for his belt. Then they quit pawing at each other and worked on themselves. He got rid of his boots and socks and shirt. Her dress pooled on the floor.

  He gawped at her like he’d never seen a woman in heels and sexy lingerie, but he’d never seen a woman look like a 1940s pinup in the flesh before. She had curves to ache for. She wore a creamy satin corset, nipping her waist, lifting her breasts, under it silk and lace briefs and stockings with suspenders. There was more of her covered up than uncovered, and his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth, because she hadn’t done it for him. She dressed like that for herself. She was her own showstopping drum solo.

  “I need a minute,” she said, advancing on him. He didn’t have anything sensible to say to that and she captured his hands when he tried to touch her, spin her, see all of her. What was a minute when he’d have the whole night?

  “The bedroom is upstairs. Make yourself comfortable.”

  By which he fricking hoped she meant naked because in her bedroom, he pulled the covers back off the bed to reveal soft sheets and silk pillowslips and ditched the rest of his clothes. The whole terrace house might be made of silk for all the notice he’d taken of it. He was stupidly eager, the hands shaking, it’d-been-too-long kind. That corset might have laces or hooks. He had to be careful not to tear her stockings on his callouses as he rolled them down her legs.

  He was sitting on the end of her bed, trying to slow his heart rate, thinking about taking his time unwrapping her, making her twitch and sigh and groan before they got to the main event, when she reappeared absolutely fucking gloriously naked.