Now, all he could ponder was what it would be like to have one or both of his idols destroy him.
Issues. His issues. Issues that had helped his bad-boy rep take hold. Issues that helped cement his rock-star status in the early days of his career.
His issues.
Fuck.
Room 442. Beverly Wilshire hotel. Jessica Rabbit.
Fuck it.
He spun on his heel and made his way from the party.
People tried to stop him more than once. The various members of Broken, his band—a motley crew of Aussies who really did earn their reputations as bad boys—called out to him as he passed them.
He didn’t slow.
Five years he’d been at the top of the rock scene. Five years of having the world at his feet for doing something he loved to do.
Five incredible, amazing, awesome years.
And for four of those five years, he’d longed for Chloe Blackthorne from afar.
Well, tonight afar could go fuck itself.
Tonight, he was destroying afar. It might mean the destruction of his career as well, but hey, five years as a mega rock star was a good run. He couldn’t complain about that.
And if the God of Bad Boy Rock Stars was kind, Nick and Josh would never, ever learn of what was about to happen in Room 442 at the Beverly Wilshire.
Jed doubted, however, that the God of Bad Boy Rock Stars was ever kind.
If He was, Jed highly suspected he himself probably fell way down the list of those the deity favoured. Right at the fucking top, however…what were the odds Nick Blackthorne sat at the top? Or his son Josh?
“Be nice to me, dude,” he murmured to the heavens as he exited the party and flagged down a taxi. “Be nice.”
Chapter 2
Chloe licked strawberry juice from her bottom lip as she gently bounced her right leg on her left knee.
Trawling through the insane number of channels on the hotel room’s television with the remote control and a disconnected interest, she drew an image of Jed Brody into her mind.
Of every man she’d ever shown any interest in, Jed was the only one her father had declared off-limits.
She loved her father to bits. More than she could explain or comprehend. He was perfect in every way. Even his over-protectiveness was perfect. It had kept her grounded in a world of possible excesses and indulgences. She’d grown up not the spoilt-brat daughter of a mega celebrity, but the well-adjusted daughter of a man who didn’t care how much money was in his bank account. When he said no to a request for a horse, or a new phone, or a sixteenth birthday party in Paris, he meant no.
She loved him for that. She would be grateful forever for that.
But when it came to her love life, Nick freaking Blackthorne had no right sticking his nose in.
Neither did her brother.
Sure, when she was a teenager, they’d had a say. And to be honest, that was a good thing. As a teenager, she’d had a thing for jocks with no brains and big muscles.
As a late teenager, jocks with no brains and big muscles had become bad boys with big muscles and even bigger motorbikes.
Her early twenties—when she was still a student at the Sydney Music Conservatory and her skill on the cello was garnering attention with startling strength and reach—her taste in men had mellowed somewhat. Muscles were still important, but she found she actually enjoyed having a conversation after all the activities that required muscles, or at least one particular muscle.
Musical nerds became her thing. It was during that time the nickname The Untouchable started to appear in articles and reports written about her.
Most people nowadays thought it came from her phenomenal skill playing the cello. Chloe knew it’d come from her ex-boyfriend—a double bass player—during her first year at the conservatory. He’d called her The Untouchable because, during a performance at the State Theatre when he’d tried to feel her up on stage between pieces, she’d shut him down with a withering look and a dismissive sniff and called an end to their relationship.
From that point onward, he’d attached #TheUntouchable to every Twitter and Instagram post he made that included her. It didn’t take long for the name to stick.
The irony of the intended slur was that, to the media, the fans (it still blew her mind she had fans) and her fellow musicians, Chloe Blackthorne came to be viewed as a talented, demure, sacrosanct virtuoso.
She’d been happy to let the reputation propagate. Men and dating ate into her practice time anyway.
And then, at a gala event celebrating her father, she’d locked eyes with Jed Brody.
Something had happened to her that night. Something…carnal. Something profound.
In the four years since then, her career had become ridiculous. She was a millionaire numerous times over, thanks to her love of the cello. She’d traveled the world just as many times, performing in sold-out concert after sold-out concert, and she’d released three albums that had all gone to Number One on iTunes before they were even available to download. Like her father and her brother, she’d become a cultural phenomenon.
And the whole time, she’d fantasized about Jed.
Every guy she took to her bed—always hers, never theirs, and never more than once—she imagined was the bad boy rock star.
Jed Brody, whom her father had asked that she stay away from. Asked, not told. Nick was not a prick, after all. Just overprotective.
Jed Brody, who favoured faded denim jeans and Game of Thrones T-shirts on stage, who had allegedly slept his way through a list of famous women longer than Chloe’s leg (an impressive thirty-one inches) and who was the epitome of sexual sin.
She’d yearned for him, fantasized about him, dreamed about him, and, according to her mother, talked about him in her sleep. That one was a tad embarrassing. Thank God it had been her mum and not her dad who’d overheard whatever she’d been mumbling. Her mother wouldn’t tell her exactly what she’d said while asleep, but whatever it was, Lauren’s cheeks had filled with pink heat at the recollection.
How debauched must it have been to embarrass a woman who had been in the decadent rock world with Nick for almost her entire life?
Four years and finally, finally, Chloe had pinned Jed down.
At Josh’s party, no less.
The second their eyes had met, Chloe knew everything she’d read about Jed was a lie.
He wasn’t anywhere near as immoral as the world, as her father and brother, thought he was. Which made her want him even more.
She wanted to filthy him up.
A lot.
If only the bastard would hurry up and get here.
Plucking another strawberry from the plate beside her on the table, she bit into it, bouncing her right leg some more as she stared at the suite’s door.
If Josh had stopped Jed from following her, she was going to show her big brother exactly how painful a nipple-cripple could—
The suite’s phone rang.
Chloe launched herself from the chair, ran to it, snatched up the receiver, and pressed it to her ear. “Yep?”
“There is a gentleman here to see you, Ms. Rabbit. He says you invited him.”
Chloe wriggled about, her grin stretching wide. “What’s his name?”
The receptionist cleared his throat. “He says his name is Jedidiah Fucking Rabbit.”
Chloe closed her eyes and danced on the spot. Booyah.
“Please let Mr. Fucking Rabbit up,” she said, failing to make her voice sound as prim and proper as possible.
He was here. Jed Brody was here.
Now.
And there were no disapproving glowers from her father, no threatening glares from her brother. No bodyguards like the ones paid for by Nick or Josh to intervene at public events. No concert manager wanting her attention…
It was just her and Jed, and a luxurious hotel room with a massive four-poster bed.
“Booyah,” she murmured.
Knowing he was going to arrive at any momen
t, she ran to the suite’s bathroom and got herself ready. A spritz of No. 5 on her neck, tops of her shoulders, below her belly button. A quick swoosh of mouthwash. A quicker slick of gloss on her lips.
She risked the few seconds it took to freshen up her mascara. Thickened it until her eyes were framed by sooty blackness, making her grey pupils almost luminescent.
She was mussing up her hair when the knock came at the door.
Chloe stood motionless, studying herself in the mirror.
Hair, face, smell. All perfect.
Body…
She half-turned, checking out her reflection.
Her arse looked fucking awesome in her low-rise, cherry-red hot pants. The little tattoo of a treble clef that turned into a red heart at the base of her spine looked sexy. There wasn’t a sign of a zit on her back, left bare by the loose black halter top she wore.
Facing the mirror again, she pulled in a slow breath, ran her hands down her body, and smiled. “It’s time.”
Jed knocked on the door just as she reached it.
She curled her fingers around the doorknob, and then stopped, drew a slow, deep breath, held it as she counted to ten, and then exhaled just as slowly.
“Now it’s time,” she whispered, before opening the door.
Oh boy.
Jed stood on the other side of the threshold, looking like every sexual fantasy she’d ever had.
His hair was a shaggy mess of dirty blond that fell around his dark blue eyes and wide shoulders. His jaw was dark with stubble Chloe couldn’t wait to experience scraping against her inner thighs. He wore his customary black, his jeans faded and well-worn, snug in all the appropriate places to make a girl’s imagination hunger for when said jeans were off him. He also wore a retro Blackthorne T-shirt.
She lifted an eyebrow at it. “Love the shirt.”
He grinned. “It’s a classic.”
“Classic pain in my arse,” she answered. “Think we need to take it off ASAP.”
He burst out laughing. “Because you can’t wait to get to the action? Or because you don’t want any thoughts of your father entering your head while we’re doing—”
She snagged the front of his T-shirt in a tight grip and yanked him into her suite. “Both,” she answered, a second before capturing his lips with hers.
She didn’t let him linger on the kiss. Just as she felt his passion really flare up, she released his lips and his shirt and almost skipped backward.
“You haven’t told me how hot I look,” she reproached with a playful grin as she continued to walk backwards away from him.
With a slow smile, Jed closed the door behind him, leant against it, and folded his arms across his broad chest, crossing one ankle over the other. “You look okay.”
She came to a halt and gasped in mock indignation. “Okay? That’s the best you can do?”
He lifted one shoulder in a shrug.
Chloe’s tummy gave a little flutter, not just because it was the sexiest shrug she’d ever seen, but because he was doing exactly what she’d hoped he would—having fun with her.
She was going to bonk him like crazy as soon as possible, but that didn’t mean she didn’t want to have some fun with him first. Foreplay was all the more enjoyable when it included playful flirting.
“Try harder,” she said, resuming her backward walk, her gaze holding his.
He raked a slow look over her and straightened from the door. “You look all right.”
“Harder.”
His lips twitched as he began to walk towards her. Steady, modulated paces that matched her own. “You look good.”
“Harder.”
“I like your pants.”
Chloe’s tummy fluttered again. Not so much at his opinion of her hot pants, but at the open hunger that flared in his eyes as he took them in. “Harder,” she repeated, watching him follow her.
“I’ll like them even more when they’re on the floor.”
It wasn’t just her tummy that clenched this time. Her pussy joined in, a tight throb of anticipation that made her want to press her thighs together.
“Just my pants?”
Jed did another one of those sexy shrugs. “We’ll see.”
She arched an eyebrow. “We’ll see?”
Before he could respond, she moved her hands to the concealed zipper of her hot pants and lowered it.
His gaze dropped to the newly exposed flesh of her lower belly, and the equally exposed, waxed-smooth flesh just below that.
He sucked in a slow breath. A breath that became a ragged groan when Chloe slipped her fingers between her open fly and the curve of her sex.
His jaw bunched. His Adam’s apple jerked up and down his throat.
“The lip gloss is nice.”
Chloe slowly trailed the tip of her tongue over her top lip. “It’s mango-coconut flavor. Wanna taste?”
His chest swelled with another breath. His stare tracked the path of her tongue as she licked her bottom lip.
“And I like these pants,” she said, lengthening her backward stride as she smoothed her hands over her hips. Down the curve of her backside.
Jed watched her hands, a feral intensity igniting in his eyes.
Chloe’s pussy contracted at the heat, at the hungry desire in their depths. Her heart quickened. Her breasts grew full with impatient anticipation.
Pivoting slowly on one heel, she presented him her back, rubbing her arse cheeks with splayed fingers as she smiled at him over her shoulder. “I think they fit me well. Show off my butt. What do you think? Do you like my butt?”
His nostrils flared. His stare jerked up to hers.
She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Well?”
“Your butt’s okay.”
The casual attitude of the declaration was undone by the strained tension in his voice. Chloe chuckled, smoothing her hands high enough on her backside to then slip her fingers between her skin and the waistband of her pants.
She slid her hands lower, over the curve of her butt cheeks, the action causing her pants to inch a little farther down her hips.
Jed’s stare moved to the treble clef tat for a second before returning to her backside.
“I’ve been told it’s very bitable,” she offered, sliding her hands out of her pants and slowly turning back to face him.
“Who’s told you that?” Something dark flickered in his eyes as he met her gaze. Was it jealousy? The desire to sink his teeth into her butt? The desire to smack the shit out of whomever may have done so before him? Whatever it was, it sent a flurry of excitement into Chloe’s core.
With a slow grin, she gave him back her own shrug.
His chest rose and fell with a deep breath. He hadn’t, she just realized, ceased walking when she had. He was almost on her.
So close she could smell the subtle scent of his cologne.
Licking her lips again, she resumed walking backward toward the suite’s bedroom. “But,” she said, sliding her palms up her waist, over her ribs, and then her breasts, “I’m not convinced about the top.”
“You’re not a fan?” Jed asked. She couldn’t help but notice he was walking faster, no longer matching her pace but drawing closer to her. She also couldn’t miss the very impressive bulge in his jeans. Nor the way his breath was growing shallower.
“Not really.”
“Then do something about it.”
“Okay.”
She hooked her fingers beneath the hemline of her halter top, and—without another word—pulled it up over her head.
“Fuck,” Jed moaned, the word low and guttural and thick with need.
She smiled, bunched the shimmery material into a ball, and tossed it to him.
“How’s that?”
He caught it, but only, Chloe suspected, by sheer reflex. He was too busy devouring what she’d revealed to him with his eyes. “That’s—”
“If you say all right,” she pointed a finger at him, “I will tie you up and spank you.”
“
All right.”
She shook her head. “Oh, you are in so much—”
Jed destroyed the distance between them.
His lips took possession of hers, his hands buried into the wild mess of curls that was her hair.
She moaned her approval, the sound becoming a whimper as he pressed her to the doorjamb, the very impressive bulge in his jeans rubbing against the smooth curve of her sex with insistent pressure.
She rolled her hips and deepened the kiss, reveling in the thick steel of his erection.
He groaned into her mouth, one hand grabbing at her butt cheek to squeeze with ungentle urgency, the other smoothing up her rib cage to cup her breast.
Hot, tight need speared into her core and she arched into his touch, seeking out the button of his jeans with shaking fingers.
It popped open at her touch, no doubt helped by the force of his massive erection pushing against it.
Moaning in happiness and pure lust, she slipped her hand into his open jeans and wrapped her fingers around his length. His flesh was hot against her palm. It delighted her he wasn’t wearing boxers or briefs. Commando all the way, baby.
A raw growl vibrated through him at her touch and he tore his lips from hers. “Tell me, Chloe,” he ground out, face hovering but an inch from hers, his ragged breath hot on her moist lips. “Am I here because you’re rebelling against your father and brother? Or am I here because you really want me to fuck you?”
She gazed up into his eyes, her heart a crazy hammer in her throat. In her hand, his engorged cock pulsed. “Does it matter?”
An unreadable tension filled his eyes. His jaw bunched. “I can’t believe I’m saying this,” he said, confusion scratching at the words, “but it does.”
Chloe grew still at his answer. Her heart, already wild, thumped harder and faster. She swallowed, searching his eyes for…for…
What?
Something to show he was kidding?
What had started four years ago as a piqued sexual interest—before transforming into a rebellious sexual longing—for Jed due to her father’s recommendation she stay away from him, had become something far more complex as the years passed.
Lust's Rhythm (Heart of Fame Book 10) Page 2
