She's not wearing any fucking panties.
“God, Knox, are you trying to kill me here?” I ask as I take her pants off completely, sliding off her heels to remove the bunched leather, and then slipping them back on. Who doesn't love to give head to a woman in red fucking heels? I drape the leather pants around my neck like a scarf and get on my knees, dropping to the ground and not caring that I'll probably have to throw my jeans away after this.
Hey, if it isn't grungy, nasty, fucked-up shit then it ain't hard rock, baby.
I cup Naomi's ass in my hands and bury my face between her thighs, using my tongue and lip rings to my advantage. I trace circles around her clit with the metal, tease her opening with it, make her squirm and whimper and bite her lip. The sounds she makes are nothing short of spectacular, the cries of a goddess in heat, desperate and dangerous but wanting.
“Fucking hell, Turner,” she whispers, putting her legs over my shoulders, digging her heels into my back and letting me eat her out like a queen in the dirty bathroom of a no-name dive bar. Fingertips bury themselves in my hair, massaging my scalp as my tongue darts in and out of her pussy, tasting her sweetness mixed with the sweat from the show.
I'm not shy, kissing and licking her all over, getting deep. Guys that are afraid to get dirty will never be able to please a woman with their mouths. You just have to fucking commit.
I take her all the way over the edge with just my tongue and teeth and lips, making her come hard against my face. And then while she's still shaking and panting and quivering, I stand up and bury my cock deep inside of her.
When we kiss, I know she tastes herself on my mouth and it turns me on like nothing else. My fingers dig into her hips while hers claw at my shirt, fist in the fabric at my back. I ride my favorite guitarist into oblivion with long, powerful strokes, sucking on her neck, her ears, her lips. I don't let myself come until she's had another. And another. That's the one bonus of being such a goddamn man slut: I got a lot of practice in over the years.
I lick my lip and chuckle, low and deep as Naomi melts in my arms, her eyes half-lidded as she watches me finish with a few more deep thrusts, the head of my cock hitting the end of her, claiming her balls deep and loving the warm meld of our bodies.
No wonder I wasn't able to resist her way back when. Something about this woman just fucking calls to me.
“Do you want another beer?” I ask as she pants and sweats in my arms, still managing to look fierce and badass even without her pants on. “Or are you ready for your surprise?”
“I'm ready,” she whispers with a slight smile, “but if it's going to impress me, it better be at least half as good as this.”
“Happenin' Ink, huh?” Naomi asks as she pauses outside the front of the tattoo parlor, that just-fucked look making her seem a hundred times sexier than she has any right to be. If she keeps this up, I might have to go to a doctor and see if there's, like, anti-Viagra to keep my dick from being hard all the time. What's the rule? If it's hard for four or more hours straight, you gotta see a doctor? “What are we doing here?” she continues, but there's this excited bite to her voice that I like.
“After you,” I say as I ring the bell and the shop owner unlocks the door for us. I had to make this appointment special. I hold the door open and gesture Naomi in, the room lit with white Christmas lights on the brick walls, a vase of red roses on the counter with a card next to a bottle of champagne.
“What is all this?”
“I was trying to be traditionally romantic and unconventional at the same time, you know? I paid Ms., uh, what's-her-name over there to set this up special for you.” I grin as the shop owner introduces herself.
“Marcie Stohl,” she says, her arms covered in tattoos, a huge black ring between her nostrils and a good half dozen rings in one red brow. Her hair's twisted up in a messy knot on the top of her head, and she pauses to adjust it as she smiles at Naomi. “And I am seriously fucking honored to have the two of you here. Have a seat, pour a glass of champagne, and I'll be right back with the design.”
Marcie walks away as I grab the bottle off the counter and pop it open, pouring two fizzy glasses and handing one over to my woman.
“What designs, Turner?” she asks, taking it from me with a slight redness on her cheeks that makes me chuckle.
“Are you blushing, Naomi Knox?” I ask with raised brows and a massive shit-eating grin.
“This is … you set this all up for … what kind of tattoos are we getting?” she asks, sipping her drink and studying the mostly dark shop, the artwork on the walls, the card tucked into the roses. I watch as she pulls it out and reads the words scribbled across the surface. I asked Marcie to jot down a note for me.
Last Chance: You Sure You Want to Marry Me, Knox?
She looks up at me with this tender, vulnerable expression that I have literally never seen before on that hardcore rocker face of hers.
“I want to get our rings tattooed on,” I tell her, lifting up my left hand and wiggling my fingers. “Matching ones for you and me, babe. That's how committed I am to you. I want the whole world to know that I married you. I don't want something that can be taken off; I want one that lasts forever. I figured we already have each other's names tattooed on our bodies, so what's a ring, right?”
“You want to get tattooed rings?” Naomi asks, voice soft as she sips her champagne and glances out the window at the street for a moment.
“I tried to think of a ring that'd suit you, but … fuck, there was nothing. You're too … too much of everything for just a piece of jewelry. We needed something custom, something different, something that was us. Getting drunk and getting ink, that's how we got started. That's how I want us to finish our courtship. Six years in the making, we fucking deserve to get this shit right.”
Naomi closes her eyes for a moment, tossing her champagne back and then … she walks over and hugs me, tight and close. For a split second there I almost think she might cry but then, you know, this is Naomi Isabelle Knox we're talking about.
“You act like such a shallow tool sometimes,” she says with a small laugh as she leans back and looks at me, cupping the side of my face. “But you're not even close.” We both pause as we catch sight of one of Brayden's men outside the window, but he stays where he is and we relax when he moves out of sight. “I really appreciate this, Turner, all of it.”
“So you're down to get some ink?” I ask and Naomi smiles, flashing the musical notes on her forearm at me.
“Looks like I am,” she says as she starts to pour herself some more champagne, and I take over, making sure she's got a full glass while we wait for Marcie.
For a few dark, easy moments, it's just me and her standing in that shop, staring at each other. I like that, being alone with Naomi, having it be so fucking simple when it's just us. There's no pressure, no limits, no rules.
“Sorry that took so long,” Marcie says as she approaches the counter and lays a piece of paper on the table. “I wanted something that was neutral enough that it wouldn't clash with other jewelry you might want to wear, but also something that stood out. I used your suggestions”—she gestures up at me—“to sketch this.”
Naomi and I lean in together and examine the sleek black lines of the design.
The notes from the beginning of the song we started at Slick's, the one we both have tattooed on our bodies already, is written out in a tight circle, the notes connected with thin filigreed lines, disguising the music and turning the whole thing into a band. It's drawn in 3D, round and curving, as well as laid out flat so we can easily make it out.
“I fucking love it,” Naomi says, drawing my attention back up to her face. “It's perfect.”
A slow, easy grin slides over my mouth and before I know it, I'm kissing Naomi again. I can't seem to stop fucking kissing her.
“Great,” Marcie says, pulling the design back off the counter. “One of you can take a seat right here and we'll get to it. Shouldn't be more than a few minutes ea
ch.”
Naomi takes the chair first as Marcie cleans and disinfects her skin, lays out a stencil and transfers it to her finger, and then grabs her machine to start inking. It really doesn't take all that long and before I can finish my next glass of champagne, it's done and we're trading places.
The finger doesn't hurt near as bad as the dick, so no complaints from me.
Once Marcie's done, Naomi and I lift our left hands up and press our palms together.
“Fuck, that's amazing,” she whispers, looking at it and then me with fucking wonder in her eyes.
Wonder.
For some slut who grew up in a trailer park, lost his best friend, treated his fans like shit, ruined the girl he loved … and then got a second chance.
It's in that moment that I start to believe in fucking miracles.
Turner Dakota Campbell fucking killed it with that performance.
I walk out of that shop with a sore finger and a cluster of roses tucked against my chest, ready to climb in that van and ride his ass until we get back to the bus. As soon as we do, I'm sucking him off and curling up in his arms and making sure that I act at least a little bitchy so he doesn't realize how fucking amazing he is.
“I was kind of on the fence about marrying you, but this”—I hold out my hand and study my new 'ring'—“this is great.”
“I'm glad you're happy,” he tells me, his voice uncharacteristically soft, his eyes only for me, blind to the bodyguards around us, the passersby, the dirty city streets. I like that, being the only thing he can see. “You've been so stressed-out lately. Shit, so have I. I think we both needed this.”
“We did,” I agree and for a second there, everything is perfect.
But then we near the van and I see a woman, dressed in a nude suit jacket and skirt, a pair of plain black kitten heels on her feet, leaning against the side of the vehicle.
It's Paulette fucking Washington.
As soon she sees us there, she smiles and the expression is … well, it's goddamn terrifying.
“What the hell do you want?” I snarl as I get close to her and try not to go batshit insane on the bitch. Turner set this night up for me. Do you know how many nights I've had that were just for me in my life? Not a lot.
“You evaded my camera crew, Ms. Knox,” she says, still smiling. She never stops. Never. “Mr. Campbell. You are aware that you're under contract?”
“Yeah. In more ways that one,” I snap. While we were all sitting around the mansion waiting for this tour to start, Paulette was taking America's shares of Spin Fast Music Group and combining them with her husband's to get a controlling percentage of the board's vote. They gobbled up the record labels that both Amatory Riot and Indecency were signed to.
You know what that means?
It means both bands now belong to Spin Fast.
Yep.
To a company being fought over by the Washingtons (previously the Hardings) and the Hammergrens.
How fucked is that?
Paulette reaches out and cups one of my roses, tainting them, infuriating me. If it wasn't for Turner's hand on my arm, I'd have killed her that night, right on a New York City street.
“Did you enjoy the boutique? Only the best of the best are privileged enough to shop for gowns there. I figured someone as low-class as yourself would appreciate it. And besides, rags-to-riches makes great TV. The viewers will enjoy seeing white trash peasants marry in chic designer clothes, don't you think?”
“I think that you're the worst kind of human being there is,” I say, seething inside, my breath coming in quick, panting gasps. “The kind that's forgotten what it's like to be human.”
Paulette looks up at me, her brown eyes dark with a deep sickening rage. For what I did to her sister, I will suffer a thousand times over. That's what that looks says.
Turner shifts beside me and makes this deep growling sound low in this throat.
“Naomi Knox, you are going to die on this tour. I think we both know that.”
“I sort of got the gist,” I say as I clutch my roses tight and try to stay calm.
“But,” Paulette says, reaching out to touch my fiancé's face. I slap her hand away and the roses end up slipping to the ground, the vase shattering at my feet, soaking my red heels with water. I feel an unbelievable sort of sadness at their loss. That must've just been foreshadowing right there, don't you think? “He doesn't have to die. Your other friends can live if you play this out with dignity. You do as I say, perform your part admirably, and die knowing that you saved them all.”
Paulette pauses and I notice Brayden Ryker behind and to her right, staring back at me. He doesn't say a damn thing.
“Because believe me, when I make threats,” she continues with a smirk and a swagger, “I carry them out.” She taps the side of her face with a single manicured finger. “Whatever you do next, whatever moves you make, think about that.”
I spend the rest of the night and all our travel time from New York City to Charlotte, North Carolina doing just that.
The fresh tattoo on my ring finger is killing me. It's a small piece, but it's got a lot of little details and my middle keeps rubbing against it and making it sore. I think I'm going to spend the rest of the recovery period walking around and flipping people off to keep the skin between my fingers from sticking together. Seems as good an idea as any.
I sweep my fingers over the flat slickness of my ponytail and then take the latex hood in my hands and stare at it. God. What am I doing? I think I've lost the few marbles I had left rattling around in this thick skull of mine.
“You can always change your mind,” Turner says, leaning back in the van's seat and studying my face with a tight, pinched expression that's completely foreign on that handsome face of his. Arrogant, cocky, horny, angry, those are Turner's go-to emotions. This fear etched into his features is freaking me out.
I slip the black latex over my head, the shiny fabric covering my entire face except for my lips, two little holes for my nostrils, and my eyes. There's a hole on the top to pull my ponytail through; the rest of my scalp and head are covered, all the way down to my neck. As soon as I get the damn thing in place, it clings to my skin and I start to feel stifled.
“Naomi, we can figure out another—”
“Turner.” I give him a look, but I don't say anything. He was there the other night; he heard and saw everything. Paulette is insane. If the Hammergrens are willing to trade the death of her husband for my freedom, then I have to take them up on the offer. I want out of this so badly. I just want to marry Turner and live happily ever after. There. I said it. And it's true. It's so, so true.
I smile at him, but he doesn't smile back.
Still, he looks hot as hell in the crisscrossed leather straps over his bare chest, the tight leather pants and boots, the thick liner. And the fact that he's clutching a whip in his right hand? Even better. I only wish we were actually coming to this place to play.
“Ready?” Sydney asks, peeping her head into the van, her pink PVC dress crinkling with the motion. Whoever figured I'd be committing murder in a BDSM club? Our outfits are ridiculous; I hardly recognize myself when I lean between the seats and stare at what's left of my face in the van's rearview mirror.
“Fuck.”
I climb out and find Dax waiting in an open leather vest and a pair of lace up leather shorts and boots. He watches me and then sighs dramatically, ruffling up his dark hair with a hand covered in ghosts and zombie tattoos.
“I can't believe you're doing this, Mi,” he says, pursing his lips as I move past him to where Brayden's men are waiting at the back door to let us in. Apparently this club—Violet Slender—is some big fucking deal around here and the line is long, the competition to get inside fierce.
But Mr. Washington is here and I, I get to skip security.
My knife is tucked into one of my boots. If I'm lucky, Albin will invite me into whatever seedy private room he's using and I'll get a chance to come up close and personal
with his throat. Of course, the note said to make it spectacular. I have no fucking clue how exactly to go about doing that, but I'm working on improv here.
I pound into the dark hazy wonder of the club like I was born to be there.
The others—even Turner—stay back. If Mr. Washington is at all careful about the types of girls he picks up, he'll be more likely to avoid someone in a group. I imagine his tastes run … dark.
You've got this, I tell myself, but inside, I'm fucking terrified. Believe it or not, I don't actually enjoy murdering people. Deep breath, Naomi. I shake my gloved hands out and try not to think about how much my tattoo hurts, weaving my way toward the bar to order a drink.
As soon as I've got some alcohol in hand, I start exploring the club.
According to the description on their website, this place used to be a church. The building's past certainly gives it some interesting details—a glass window of lambs and roses, pews painted glossy black lining a few of the walls, a raised dais with a pulpit where the live band is playing. It's some female fronted thrash-y metal band that reminds me of that night Turner and I snuck away from our guards and saw that hole-in-the-wall concert with Tipped by Tyrants.
If I ever want to have another night like that again, I'd best make this one count.
I make my way around the entire club, studying the vaulted ceilings, the strange soaring blackness of the bell tower in one corner, the various nooks and crannies where people once worshipped and now delight in sinful acts that might make me blush if I wasn't so worried about killing—or being killed—tonight.
The whole club seems to be one big room with the bar in the center, and by my third go-around, I'm starting to get frustrated. The music is loud, the crowd wild, and the air sticky and hot, stale with the stench of old cigarettes and spilled booze, the sweetness of perfume mixing with the taint of sweat. It's only when I decide to check out the bathrooms that I notice the staircase with the bouncer standing at the bottom.
Get Hitched (Hard Rock Roots Book 9) Page 12
