“You telling me you’re horny, Maggs?” he asked slowly, his smoky voice dropping dangerous-low. His tongue snaked out to lick his lip.
I swallowed.
“Telling me you’re horny’s a bad, bad move, Maggie May,” he pressed, his mouth so close to mine I could feel his breath on my face. I could almost taste him. “If you want me out of this shower…”
“Get over yourself,” I managed. But my voice was all breathy and pathetic.
“Why don’t you just let me take care of that for you…” he said, casually, like he was offering to scratch an itch. “You know I can take care of it…” His thumbs stroked the indents between my hip bones and my groin, slowly.
And I knew I was getting wet down below, in a way that had nothing to do with the shower. My whole body was thudding, aching, hungry for him.
So fucking ready.
So fucking tired of waiting.
So fucking scared of giving in.
“But I really… I don’t…” Shit. I was breathing faster, heavier, as the words failed me. And words rarely failed me.
His gaze dropped to my chest, which was heaving.
“Sure, you do,” he murmured.
And I did. I so fucking did.
He knew it, and the shitty truth was, I’d wanted him to know it.
Every single thing I’d said to him tonight—actually, for the duration of this entire event—had told him Nuh-uh… Yet the hunger behind every word, every stolen glance, had told him Yes.
Actually, it had told him Please.
Fucking please.
Give it to me.
I want it.
Hard. Fast. Just give it…
And he knew he could give it, that I’d take it, that I wouldn’t actually stop him if he tried. But he hadn’t tried; at least, not hard and fast.
Instead, he was taking his time, drawing this out; savoring it.
My discomfort. My resistance. My inner struggle…
Touch me.
Don’t touch me.
Please fucking touch me.
“You looked pretty tonight, Maggie,” he whispered. Then he smiled a little, the corner of his mouth curling up in that impish, boyish way it did when he was being cute. Not coy cute and not fake cute, not kiss-her-ass-because-I-want-to-do-her cute. Just cute.
And it made me go all stupid and squishy inside.
“Don’t,” I said. “Don’t do that.”
Lethal. Zane being sweet to me; it was as dangerous as his hard dick waving at me in a hot shower.
Actually, it was worse.
“Do what?”
“Don’t be nice,” I said.
“Okay. Have it your way.” He moved in, shoving up against me. “I’ve got more practice being an asshole anyway.”
He grabbed my hands and pushed them up above my head, pinning me against the wall. I felt every inch of his long, hard cock pressed against my stomach… so slippery and wet. I felt him throb against me as his desire surged, as he leaned into me with his weight. His balls, full and heavy and firm, pressed against my clit. His nipple piercing dug into my chest.
And it was kind of a relief.
I exhaled, like I’d been holding my breath all fucking night.
Then he said, “But you did look pretty,” his blue eyes on mine. “In that little black dress, with your hair all twirled up…”
“Just shut up, Zane.”
“Kept imagining what you were wearing underneath it,” he went on, his hands digging into my wrists as he moved his hips, grinding his slippery dick against me. “And how you’d look with it all bunched up around your waist… while I bent you over and fucked you ’til you screamed.” Then he tipped his face down as if to kiss me.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he took his sweet fucking time.
“Fucking love it when you scream…” he murmured.
Then he fit his mouth to mine.
And it fit so fucking good, like he was born to kiss me. Like I was born to be kissed by him.
He did it slowly, too, just to rub it in. To give me all the chance in the world to pull away, to shove him off, to say no, to slap his face.
I did none of those things.
I opened to the slide of his wet lips, all slippery and warm, and I moaned desperately as he slid his tongue inside my mouth, hot and aggressive but slow… lapping against mine in a torturous dance that made my entire body curl up into him.
Then he slid his mouth away just as slowly, making me groan.
“More?” he asked with a half-smile. But this time it was a happy smile, not a cocky smile, his blue eyes dancing.
Joy, not victory.
Worse.
“Yes, more,” I said, half-desperate, half-angry as I struggled to lean into him. But he held me pinned to the wall as he kissed me again; as I kissed him back.
And I closed my eyes, so I didn’t have to see that terrible joy on his face.
He shifted my wrists into just one hand and, keeping them pinned, ran his other hand down, between my legs. I gasped as he touched me, my body responding in that way only he could make it respond, stroking all my sweet spots with just the right pressure… teasing at first, letting me warm up to his touch, and gradually delving deeper… making me want just that little bit more.
“More…” I whispered when he kissed his way down my neck, his finger slipping inside me. I bit his shoulder and groaned as a second finger joined the first.
“Fuck… We need a condom,” he muttered. “I need to be inside you…”
I sighed, shuddering as his fingers moved inside me. “I have some.”
“You have some?”
I opened my eyes to find him looking at me. A grin played at his lips, but I could tell he was trying to keep a damper on it. And it made me hella surly; the grin and the damper.
“Yeah,” I said, twisting away from his hand. “So?”
He released my wrists and I crossed my arms over my chest, but he slid his hand back between my legs, unfazed. “Maggie May,” he said, stroking me slowly, “were you planning on getting laid at Jesse and Katie’s wedding?”
I bristled, trying not to let what he was doing down below affect me, but shit. I was not that good an actress. “No. Not planning. Just… being prepared.”
“Prepared.” He seemed to roll the word around in his mouth, as he rolled his fingertips over my clit. “Because… you knew… once you saw me walk up the aisle in my suit, you’d just have to have me?”
I pushed his hand away and looked away, over his shoulder, when I said, “Because I know I can’t trust you.”
And that was true.
Simply put, I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to trust a man who was so like my dad. That absent, self-involved and reckless man who had, unfortunately, shaped me, who’d cast a shadow of neglect over my whole life, yet had never actually been real to me. Had never really been there when I needed him.
Zane, on the other hand, had always been there for me.
And yet he was so, so like my dad.
Rock star.
Egomaniac.
Womanizer.
My dad was even badass and blond. At least, he was when he was young.
As soon as I became conscious of the resemblance—at our wedding—it had snaked its way into my bones and taken root, ensnarling me with irritating tendrils of resentment. It was a terrible itch I couldn’t scratch, couldn’t rid myself of, because—unlike my dad—Zane was always here. In my face. In my life. In everything I did. My employer. My friend.
My worst fear.
No, I most definitely could not trust a cocky manwhore who treated bedding women like a convenient pastime. Get up in the morning, scratch your ass, have a coffee, go screw someone.
My dad had lived that way, had never put me before the needs of his own libido and his own inflated self-worth, and I did not want another man like that in my heart.
Ever.
But I did, unfortunately, want the rest. The rest of Zane
.
A man who was caring, passionate and there for me. A man who would probably kill for me.
Sexy. Talented. And yes, a little dangerous.
Just the coolest guy I’d ever met.
That Zane, I knew I wanted.
But you couldn’t take one without the rest.
He touched my chin lightly, turning my face back to his. His blue eyes held mine, and there was a challenge in them. “You mean, you can’t trust yourself with me.”
That was true, too.
And I felt myself shutting down because of it.
“They’re in my purse,” I told him. “In the zipper on the side. You can go get them and I’ll be right there.”
“Or I could bring them back in here…”
“Out there,” I said. “I wanna dry my hair or I’ll get cold.”
“I’ll keep you warm,” he said, sliding his hands down around my ass and squeezing, his fingers biting in deep, sending shivers of lust through every part of me. Then he kissed me again, hot and deep.
I kissed him back, my movements feeling forced, even to me. I could feel myself reeling back in, tucking my emotions back behind my neat and tidy wall—the one Zane had always accused me of putting up between us.
He pulled away, his hooded eyes on mine. Surely, he could feel that wall going up.
He always did.
From his point of view, my wall was probably the root of all our problems.
“I’ll meet you out there,” he said, giving my ass a final, lingering squeeze. He held my gaze until I nodded.
Then he left, and I took a deep breath.
I turned and pressed my forehead to the tile wall.
I just needed to get some air that wasn’t his, some space that he wasn’t all pressed up in. A moment to let my body cool down. So I could think straight…
And figure out how to get out of this.
Chapter 3
Zane
There were exactly six of them, in a strip. Ribbed, and the size was XL. Which gave me a wicked surge of satisfaction.
Because clearly, the condoms she’d brought were for me.
Unless Maggie was hoping to have some other dude with an XL dick drill her this weekend…
But fuck that.
If she was, I’d just have to fuck that idea right out of her.
When she came out of the bathroom a few minutes later, I was lying on the bed with the fire burning and the lights out. She stood there in the doorway, looking at me. Her dark hair was half-dried, the ends still damp, and it was smoothed down neatly around her face.
Her body from neck to knee was covered in a hideous army-green thermal that fit her like a tent.
I laughed.
Maggie scowled.
“Wearing another man’s shirt again, Maggs?”
She crossed her arms at her waist and I could almost make out her curves. “Jealous?”
“Kinda takes me back. You know, to our wedding night, when you almost fucked Coop before you married me…”
“It’s Dylan’s,” she gritted out. “Because some men are thoughtful enough to lend me an extra shirt when I’m helping the staff set up, in the cold. You know, while other men sleep in half the day.”
Well, that would explain the fit. Dylan was six-and-a-half feet, a maniac drummer built of solid muscle, and Maggie was about five-foot-nothing and weighed as much as a small bird soaking wet. “That was thoughtful. If he was trying to keep you from getting laid.”
“I’m not getting laid.”
“Let me guess,” I said, sliding my arm behind my head like a pillow. “You’ve changed your mind.”
“It’s a woman’s prerogative.”
“Well, it’s a man’s prerogative to try again.”
She didn’t budge from the doorway. “You know, your cabin is way nicer than mine. I know, because I did the rooming assignments. Which is also why it’s way the hell on the other side of the resort.”
“Geography can’t keep us apart, babe.”
“Actually, it can. Your dick isn’t that long.”
I laughed again. “You should’ve just put us in the same room and saved yourself the trouble.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you know I’m just gonna end up in here.”
“And how do you figure that?”
“Because we’re married.”
She rolled her eyes. “It’s the middle of the night. I wanna go to sleep, Zane.”
“So go to sleep. There’s room.” I glanced down at the bed. It was a double, not huge, but big enough… if I wasn’t sprawled across three-quarters of it. “If you can’t fit, we can snuggle.”
She sighed heavily, walked over, and stood by the bed. She hesitated there, looking at me. Totally fucking unsure.
“Zane. I really don’t think we should do this.”
“Okay.” I moved over to let her in and pulled the sheet over myself. “Hands to myself.” I was serious, too. If she really didn’t want me to touch her, I wasn’t gonna be that guy.
But she’d come around.
She stalled, fussing with the blanket on her side and fluffing up her pillow.
Then she got in the bed. She tucked herself in under the covers, lying stiff as a board on her back, and closed her eyes.
“I mean it,” she said. “I’m going to sleep.”
“Wouldn’t dream of disturbing you,” I told her. “I won’t even touch you. Promise.” Then I took hold of the covers and slowly dragged them off of her.
All of them.
She opened her eyes and looked over at me as I tossed the bedding behind me, on the floor.
I held up my hands. “Not touching you.”
“For Christ’s sake, Zane. Grow up.”
“I’m working on it.”
My hand snaked over to her and drew the tent of her shirt up her thigh. Not touching her, just the shirt. Underneath, she’d put on what she probably thought were conservative panties. Plain black ones, like little shorts.
Sexy.
I ran a fingertip along the edge of the panties, over the curve of her hip, the fabric a thin barrier between my skin and hers. “I wonder how hot I can get you without even touching you…”
“Touching my panties counts as touching me, Zane.”
“C’mon, Maggie. Where’s the fun in that?” I shifted closer to her, and my bare dick poked her in the thigh. By accident. “Does touching you with my dick count?”
She gave me a nasty look. “Zane. I told you. This isn’t a good idea, okay?”
I ran my finger back over her panties, and down between her legs, stroking her pussy through the soft fabric. She squirmed, but in a lazy, tired way, like she didn’t really have the will to fight—at least, not physically.
As usual, Maggie’s body was totally at odds with her stubborn mind.
I slid my hand up and peeled the panties down, carefully, hooking my fingers inside… slipping them slowly down over her hips… my skin never once touching hers.
“Zane…”
“Trust me, Maggie.”
She frowned. “Right.”
“Okay… so don’t trust me. But give me a chance. Two minutes.” I slid the panties down her legs and off her feet. “I don’t manage to change your mind in two minutes, without touching you, you put your panties and your tent-shirt back on, and I leave you alone.”
Then I slipped the shirt up and pulled it off, over her head, with Maggie’s semi-cooperation. She flopped naked and half-resistant beneath me, tense and soft, firelit and beautiful.
I put my hands on the bed, on either side of her waist, and leaned down, closer… shifting over her… so close she could feel my breath on her skin. I hovered over one nipple, then the other, as if I might kiss her there, but I didn’t.
She arched a little and squirmed beneath me, her breathing getting faster.
Then I moved down… until I was in position to lick her pussy. I didn’t. I breathed on her instead, slow and hot, and just let her wan
t it.
When I looked up at her face, she was biting her lip.
“This is ridiculous…” she said. Her tone was bored and tight with contempt, but her words were breathless with need.
And it was ridiculous. My speeding heart was ridiculous.
The incessant throbbing of my cock was worse.
I got up and went to the bouquet on the table by the door. I’d already read the card while she dried her hair. It was from Jesse and Katie, thanking her for helping out with the wedding. It was huge, several dozen flowers. I had no idea what they were, but I plucked out one of the big fluffy pink ones with all the fluttery, silky petals. Then I took it back to the bed.
Maggie watched me every step of the way, her eyes wide. She looked so young and sweet and perfect lying there in the firelight, I paused by the bed to look at her. All the hard, accusing lines of her face were softened, her eyes and mouth, usually tight when she looked at me, more relaxed than usual.
I knelt over her on the bed, not touching her at all, and lowered the head of the flower between her legs.
She twisted her full bottom lip in her teeth.
Just before the petals whispered over her clit, I pulled it away. She groaned a little, fisting the sheet beneath her, and my cock jerked.
I just hoped my two minutes were gonna do it.
I drifted the flower over her left breast, spinning it slowly so the petals fluttered over her tight nipple. Then I did the same to the other nipple. Maggie’s mouth fell open and her body arched into the light touch—just before I took it away.
Then I fluttered the flower down, down… toward her pussy. I paused, meeting her eyes. She was watching me, and she was losing it. I could see it… her wall was slipping, the way it always did before she gave in to me, before she threw herself right over.
I lowered the flower and fluttered the silky petals over her clit.
Maggie gasped and spread her legs. Her thigh bumped against mine.
“That didn’t fucking count,” I taunted her, spinning the flower and fluttering it down between her legs. “You touched me.”
“Zane,” she whispered, breathless, “your two minutes are up, okay?” She bucked beneath me as I lifted the flower away.
“You want me to stop?”
A Dirty Wedding Night: A Dirty Rockstar Romance (Dirty, Book 2.5) Page 6
