Nashville SEAL: Jameson: Nashville SEALs

by Sharon Hamilton

  The music playing was always their warmup when he walked out with his guitar, his rum and coke discreetly placed close by. But as he stepped up to the microphone, the band would quit treading water and begin some serious groove on. He preferred the heat level hot to begin with. The slow sexy songs came after he was good and sweaty, his voice becoming raspy. That’s what the crowd wanted. He aimed to please.

  Playing at Halfway to Heaven was a trophy experience for him, as it was for thousands of other up-and-coming Nashville stars who would sacrifice their right leg to have a gig here. If need be, they’d hobble around on stage, just as the old timers did who now drank too much. Drunk or sober, the audience loved them.

  At twenty-five, he was perhaps starting late, and he was new to Nashville. But playing at Halfway to Heaven did two things, in order of importance. First, it gave him the chance to meet up with a producer who might buy his songs, or, better yet, offer him a record deal. Second, as the name implied, his social life and sexual needs were satisfied every night with a hot girl who would boost his confidence and stroke his ego, as well as another very important body part. He thought the venue name was well-chosen.

  The bright faces of the lovelies cheered him up just as the band gave him that kick of confidence. He began his theme song.

  Bring, bring it on, baby,

  The night is still young…

  He smiled, seeing his old friend, Thomas Becker, bellying up to the bar and raising his drink to him. Thomas had told him, “Shoot, Jameson, any little lady in the audience who didn’t have the idea of going home with you tonight sure had one after hearing that song. That’s your fuckin’ siren song. ‘Come fuck me!’”

  Thomas had been right here, his cowboy boots standing where Jameson’s were now. And he’d lived in the limelight, but now he basked in the shadow of Jameson’s light. He was Jameson’s sometimes warmup act, a friend who didn’t want to steal from him, just envied and liked him, and didn’t expect a handout. And as fast as Thomas’s sunk, Jameson’s star was on the rise.

  Jameson tipped his hat to Thomas, the gesture returned. Then the girls started to scream, arms in the air, as he continued.

  We were made for lovin’

  We’re gonna have it all.

  He didn’t look for a single face in particular as the sets played on. The band was having a good night, laughing and improvising with each other. The crowd was especially loud and responsive. He tried to take a short break, and they kept begging him to stay on stage, so he accepted someone’s shirt, wiped the sweat from his brow and chest, threw it back, and continued.

  His break came twenty minutes late. Back in his dressing room, he set his guitar in the stand, removed his hat, and lifted his rum and coke—already prepared for him—to his forehead, as he sat back and propped up his feet.

  Music filtered in through the dressing room door as it opened a crack. She had on impossibly tight jeans and red cowboy boots. Her white shirt was wet, sticking to a noteworthy chest. When she gave him that shy smile, he could see the courage it took to sneak into his dressing room and admired her boldness, but remained seated.

  Arlen Strickland, Jameson’s head of security, barged into the room behind the little blonde. “Sorry, Jameson. She slipped past me.” He had a hand on her forearm as the girl frowned and tented her eyebrows.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Daniels. Just wanted an autograph. That’s all.” Her big eyes flashed up to him in what he knew to be an obvious lie. It tickled him. He was attracted to ladies on the forward side because it masked some of his own shyness.

  “Nah, let her stay. She’s not bothering me. Go ahead. I’ll bring her out in a bit, Arlen.”

  Jameson stood, pressing his palm against the door as his guard left the little alcove. He caught her admiring the posters of past concerts and other legendary stars plastered over all the walls. It wasn’t a glamorous place, but it held so much history Jameson felt as if the music beat deep within the walls of the place.

  At last she was done with her perusal and focused on him.

  “Well?” he asked, towering over her and seeing her shake. She had bucked up her courage and now was considering whether it was a good thing. He always enjoyed playing with them a little, so he didn’t speak and let her nervousness take over.

  “Oh, gosh. I never thought I could actually sneak into your dressing room. I mean, my friend told me she’d hid out in—I can’t remember now who it was. Someone big. And I just thought I’d give it a try.”

  Jameson didn’t care for the comment about “someone big” but let it slide. She was here, and he only had a few minutes.

  “So you were in luck. Normally, Arlen doesn’t let anyone this close. I guess you were a little too fast for him.”

  She swallowed hard. Her cheeks blushed, and she was having a hard time looking him in the eyes.

  “And what did you come here for, missy?” He held her chin with his thumb and forefinger, raising it up so their eyes could meet. Hers were darting all over the place and then finally landed on his lips. She inhaled, and for a second, he thought she’d back up. He tilted his head to the side. “Hmmm? I’m waiting.”

  “Could…” She swallowed again, let her eyes close for a second, and then pressed through her comment. “Could you sign my shirt?”

  “I’d love to.”

  “Really?” Her eyes widened.

  “Of course. Now, just where do you want me to sign it?”

  “Um.” She didn’t move as his fingers left her chin. “Right here?” She placed her palm over her right breast.

  “Right there.”

  “Yessir, Mr. Daniels.”

  He growled. “Now that’s not a very nice thing to say. You ever hear them announce me as Mr. Daniels? That would be my daddy, if I had one, that is.”

  He stepped closer, mostly to see if she would shrink away, but she stood firm, which allowed the front of his thighs to touch hers. He enjoyed the heat and the shaking he felt there. “Since I’m gonna kiss a very intimate body part of yours, don’t you think you should call me Jameson?”

  “Kiss?” Her eyes rounded, but she didn’t retreat.

  “I always kiss before I give an autograph there. Matter of fact, I insist.” He snaked his palm up under her white cotton shirt, laying it flat against her bosom, and then gave it a gentle squeeze. His pants tightened as he savored the feel of her smooth flesh.

  Without taking his eyes off her, he continued to massage under her bra until he could pinch her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. She closed her eyes and let her lips part. It was too much of an invitation.

  His mouth covered hers as he pinched her again. Her little moan was delicious, so he did it again, harder. His tongue played with hers as he inhaled her, commanded her breathing, and smelled her arousal.

  “Nice,” he whispered. He tucked his face down, lifted her shirt and bra, leaned over, and placed her nipple between his teeth.

  She nearly fell backwards, but he held her steady with his left hand splayed at her waist. As he continued kissing and running his tongue over her nipple, he shifted his palm, pressing lower to draw her body closer to him, her legs on either side of his thigh, and let her rock her sex against him.

  “Was this what you had in mind, darlin’?”

  “Had hoped…”

  But then he was kissing her again, deep. He kissed her neck as she wrapped her legs around him. He hiked her up around his hip line and, after two long steps, pressed her into the loveseat in the corner.

  His goal was to jack her up so hot she’d do anything with him tonight after the show. He unbuttoned her jeans, slid them down her hips, then lower, moved her panties aside, and put his forefinger deep inside her. She arched, giving him full access.

  “Is this what you came for, baby?”

  “Yes,” she whispered to a pillow that had fallen against her turned face. “Oh God, I never dreamed…”

  Jameson had unbuckled his pants when he heard the knock on the door. He hadn’t locked it
, so he stood up, swearing under his breath as he adjusted his clothes. He addressed the crack in the door quickly, telling Arlen he’d be right out. His cock had turned to granite, and he’d have to play that way the whole set. It actually was something he didn’t mind at all.

  She hadn’t moved—her eyes still closed, her pants still down about her thighs, showing him the v of her white panties between her legs. “Sorry, darlin’, I need to run. You can come by later, if you want.”

  She scrambled to her feet. “Can I come to your hotel after the show?”

  He wanted to hesitate, as if he was considering whether or not it was a wise decision. But he knew all along he’d be letting her in.

  “Of course. Besides, I never finished that autograph,” he whispered as he kissed her again, then released her.

  She fluffed her hair and exited the door.

  Jameson combed his hair quickly, patted on a little more aftershave and deodorant, gargled with salt water; then he downed the remainder of his rum and coke. He put his hat on last and looked at himself in the mirror.

  What a life he lived. Who wouldn’t want to do this every night? It was exciting and fun. Most men would kill to have the lifestyle he had. He felt as if he were King of the Road, Rocket Man in the bedroom, and Elvis on stage every night.

  In the hallway, heading toward the stage, he heard them cheering as his name was announced. With his guitar strapped over his shoulder, he adjusted his pants, then his hat, took a deep breath, and walked out into the lights and the screams of strangers all wanting either his body or his music. He didn’t care which one it was, as long as they wanted him. He lived for these times.

  If he was lucky, the confidence and power he felt right now would last until morning.

  Chapter 2

  ‡

  The hotel rooms they booked him in were identical: a chain that was adequate and clean, but the kind of place where Jameson could never tell what city he was staying in. Every lobby and room looked familiar to him. Even the lingering trace of cigarette smoke that wasn’t supposed to be there had that acrid scent he’d come to expect.

  He flicked on the TV out of habit, volume turned low, and made himself a drink from the minibar. After kicking off his boots, he picked up his guitar, sat back on the king-sized bed, and began to explore a tune he’d had running around his head all day. It was a new song forming, new words floating by, making him pick up the spiral bound book and jot down notes.

  He knew he was biding time until the little blonde from this evening dropped by, so he wasn’t surprised when he heard the soft knock on his door.

  It wasn’t who he expected. She was tall and curvaceous, but not heavy. Her shiny dark hair hung shoulder length. She was wearing a red leather jacket with fringe up the arms, her arms pressed to her body, sending her chest out farther, as she shivered in the cold hallway.

  Jameson’s rule was always the same. If they were attractive to him, he’d let them in. If not, he’d make an excuse that he was too tired and take a pass. This one was exceptional and worth standing up the little blonde for.

  “Well, come on in.” He turned on the charm, used the same words, and stepped aside.

  He didn’t know why women forever tried to take in the room at a cheap motel, telling themselves lies about their purpose in dropping by. It was always this way with every other strange and exciting liaison he’d had over the past three years. She was no different, pausing in the middle of the room as if taking stock of him. He quickly checked the hallway to see if blondie was on her way and found it empty.

  He remembered to put the “do not disturb” sign in the key slot just before he let it slam shut behind him.

  She was taking off her jacket, revealing long legs and a fine ass. The view was equally stunning when she turned, her red lips forming a smirk. While looking at his sock-encased feet, she dropped her jacket on the bed. Without saying a word, she began unbuttoning her plaid, red flannel shirt, watching him watching her.

  “If it makes a difference to you, my name is Heather,” she sighed, as she licked her forefinger and let it travel between her breasts, burying it under the flannel on her left.

  “That’s a pretty name for a pretty lady.”

  Her smile was pleasing, warm and sultry. “Your music makes me want to take my clothes off and get nekked,” she drawled. He thought Texas, perhaps.

  “I like that, too.” He meant it. “What was your favorite song?”

  “Other Side of the Mountain.” She swayed back and forth, swinging her shoulders as she slowly showed her midriff then her red bra. Soon, she’d removed her shirt and begun sliding her jeans down tanned thighs. Her matching red thong appeared so small compared to the size of her bra on top, which was doing double-time trying to keep her tits from springing loose. Her abdomen was flat and well-toned. As if she were a practiced beauty queen, she walked toward him without an ounce of bashfulness present.

  Her fingers unsnapped his shirt as her thighs touched his. She placed a kiss in the middle of his chest, rolled her tongue to his left nipple, laved it with a sharp nibble, and followed up with a kiss. His hands found her soft peach of an ass, so perfectly formed for him.

  Her hungry gaze snagged him with her dark eyes. She licked her lips and purred, “I’ll bet you hear that all the time, though. You make women want to take their clothes off every day, don’t you?”

  “Right now, Heather, I don’t remember. I like that you’re taking yours off. Maybe you could help me with mine?”

  “If I did, would you sing to me?”

  “No, honey, I don’t do that. That’s for when I’m on stage.”

  She had removed his shirt and was working on his belt buckle, then undid the buttons at his fly.

  “Couldn’t we pretend you’re on stage here?” She slid his pants down, allowing a red fingernail to travel up the side of his thigh afterward. He wondered if she was going to laugh at the fact he preferred wearing red, white, and blue boxers, but she merely inserted her delicate fingers inside the front opening and squeezed his cock. “If I was really nice to you?” She dropped to her knees, leaned forward, and put the head of his penis in her mouth and sucked, rolling her tongue over him, as her mouth pulled him deep inside her.

  It was really nice, as she’d promised, and he sent himself a warning, feeling like he might prematurely burst and come in her mouth, ruining his plans for the evening. “I just sing on stage, darlin’, but I’d be happy to sing you something special tomorrow night, if you stop by the show.”

  “What kind of a woman inspires you to write such a beautiful song? And it’s so sad, but I love it,” she mumbled, as her tongue played with his tip.

  Jameson had had enough. He didn’t intend to talk about anything that had to do with him or what made him do things. He wanted to fuck her, had wanted to fuck for the past four hours, ever since the encounter with the little blonde in his dressing room. Now, he regretted not fucking her because he was almost too aroused. If they played much longer, he wouldn’t achieve the satisfaction he was seeking, for both of them.

  He grabbed a condom he kept in the nightstand, pulled her to the bed, and lay back against the pillows, his erection so thick it was nearly causing him pain.

  “Let me,” she whispered as he opened the packet. Her fingers smoothed the ribbed plastic over his cock, raising one eyebrow as she did so. “I like the way you prepare.”

  “Always, darlin’.”

  He brought her up on top of him, massaging the lips of her sex with his fingers, pulling aside the elastic and sliding her over his hardness until he hooked himself at her opening. Her knees at the sides of his hips, she arched back as she rose up. Then he grabbed her hips and forced her down on him.

  Her long sorry moan was achingly sweet, telegraphing her need and the satisfaction of having him deep inside her. He helped her body move up and down on him, each time arching his own hips to receive the depth of her warm channel. She bounced as he impaled her, her full breasts kissed by warm, pin
k knotted nipples she squeezed herself.

  He could smell her arousal through the sweaty heat they were making, flesh slapping against flesh, as he tried to give her more than she could handle. Yet she wanted more.

  He was going to explode when her muscles began a rolling wave, milking his cock. He pressed one thumb down against her clitoris where they were joined, and she unraveled.

  He tossed her onto her belly, roughly spread her knees apart, and lapped her juices from behind as she shuddered and convulsed in front of him. Her salty taste nearly had him spilling, so he grabbed a pillow, inserting it under her belly and raising her rump up at the perfect angle, plunged in deep, and held. Catching a breath, he pulled back and then rammed inside again, holding. She melted beneath him, totally conquered, releasing and clamping down on him.

  He bit the side of her neck, her shoulder. She dug her nails into his thigh, so he spanked her. Her muffled “Oh” drove him crazy. He reached under and rubbed his forefinger against her nub, causing her to bounce and shudder until he’d wrung her out. His seed flowed, the satisfying release taking him over the threshold into a dream state.

  He was lulled to near sleep with the sounds of her heavy breathing. At last, they rolled to the side, and he buried his face in the hair at the back of her neck, and in that perfumed forest, he began to fall asleep. He was fairly sure he’d never slept with her before. He didn’t always remember faces, but he remembered bodies. Still, the routine was as familiar as if they’d been partners for years, like a memory was trying to surface he’d long tucked away. Maybe he was remembering the lady from North Carolina who had become the standard bearer for him.

  Just before he allowed himself to let go and tumble into the deep satisfying rest he needed, he heard the faint knocking on his hotel room door.