by Paige Thomas
Count Me In
Paige Thomas
Features characters from Starstruck.
Rock star Ricky Bradshaw is simply going through the motions. Though surrounded by people—many of whom are good friends—he feels alone, empty. Then he finds a naked fan in his bed, and figures…why not? He’ll show the gorgeous woman exactly how he earned his sex-symbol status while losing himself for a few hours in soft curves, hot flesh and sweaty sex.
Chelsea Wainwright has never wanted for anything. Her life has been easy—until now. After one devastating diagnosis, she’s living on borrowed time and making every second count. With only weeks left, Chelsea’s crossed every item off her to-do list save for one—a single night of wild, raw, uninhibited sex with the most famous drummer of the twenty-first century.
What’s the old expression? Saving the best for last? Oh yeah. That.
A Romantica® contemporary erotic romance from Ellora’s Cave
COUNT ME IN
Paige Thomas
Dedication
For my editor, my mama bear, Violet Hughes, whose guidance and friendship is priceless. And Arial Burnz, for sitting up and taking notice. To both amazing women, I will be forever grateful.
Chapter One
Early 2002
The sudden slam of the door in the next room startled Chelsea, even though she’d been expecting his arrival. Her pulse quickened as the deadbolt clicked into the lock, resounding off the walls.
The bedroom door hung slightly ajar—just enough light spilling in from the foyer to outline the furniture around the darkened room.
His suite was decked out with the thickest drapes she’d ever seen. The band demanded light-tight windows so they could sleep peacefully during the day—just one of the many facts she’d recently read about Jerico though, to her dismay, not all of them were true. For starters, she’d done everything imaginable to gain his attention bar jumping the bouncers lining the rim of the outer stage, but disappointingly hadn’t been pulled from the front row. Word on the forums was security would discreetly pluck a select few from the crowd closest the stage and lead the lucky ladies through a series of secret passageways to wait for the band after the show. Yet the burly men dressed in black, Security printed in bold white letters on the backs of their shirts, barely flexed a biceps all night, forcing her to move to Plan B.
With a slow deep breath, she rearranged the cool silken sheet around her hips one last time and settled back amongst the soft pillows.
His footsteps quickly altered from the clomp of heavy boots to the quiet pad of bare feet. He shuffled across the polished hardwood floor of the living room and arrived within view at the small bar against the wall to pour himself a drink, the ice cubes clinking loudly against the glass. From where he stood, his left foot peeked out from the leg of his frayed jeans through the small gap in the doorway. Nonetheless, her breath deepened and her heart threatened to jump right out of her chest at the simple sight of his toes. She’d painstakingly choreographed this moment for so long, she almost couldn’t believe it was finally coming to fruition. Her mouth watered with anticipation and want.
An electronic bleep was followed by the sports channel blaring from the large flat screen in the main room. She shot up and faced the door. She’d assumed he would come straight to bed after such a long night. It was already past four in the morning and the band had played to a full stadium for over three hours straight. She’d been informed by one of the men who worked at the hotel—the young lad who’d eagerly pocketed the five one-hundred-dollar bills and sneaked her inside Room 1101—that the boys often went out for drinks after a show, but she’d been sure the rock star would’ve been ready to turn in by now.
She was glad she wasn’t a betting woman.
The forty minutes which followed had her madly reassessing her original plan. This was her final act, the last remaining item on her bucket list.
She’d recently killed two birds with one stone—her fear of flying and heights—by jumping out of a perfectly good plane, her safety dependent solely upon the flimsy sheet of material packed and strapped to her back. The following day, she’d given the majority of her trust fund to the needy—people she would have ordinarily turned up her nose at. In the past, she’d not spared an ounce of her precious time on the less fortunate, let alone a dime. But after distributing over twenty million dollars to the homeless of Philly, she’d been surprised to find the act of giving warmed her heart more than designer furs ever could.
She’d seen all the wonders of the world, her parents personally escorting her on those trips. She’d driven in an amateur NASCAR race. She’d even gotten a tattoo—something she would never have done under any other circumstance, but she no longer cared what high society thought of her. She’d let go of all the presumptuous, pretentious, unimportant stuff from the moment she’d been given her diagnosis, and Ricky Bradshaw was to be her final hoorah.
Chelsea was a believer in reserving the best for last. Even at age twenty-five, she still arranged the portions of food on her dinner plate, saving what her taste buds loved most for the very end of the meal.
The headaches had worsened over the last few weeks though, thankfully, today was a good day. When her overprotective father first discovered she was sick almost twelve months ago, he’d assembled a team of specialized surgeons and medical researchers, but none of his efforts did any good. The countdown had already begun and, if the geniuses were correct, she had another four weeks left to settle her affairs. She wanted Ricky to be the last pleasurable memory she savored.
* * * * *
He’d been numb for two days. He’d gone through the motions and played as well as ever—his sticks never missed a beat—but since his father’s death almost all of his actions had been robotic, muscle memory, nothing more. Jerico had been playing professionally for fifteen years and ten of those had been in front of packed stadiums. He could play whatever set list was thrown at him. Probably even in his sleep.
Max Bradshaw’s death had been a long time coming. Rick had visualized his father’s demise many times since turning six years old, but now that the moment was here, he didn’t feel the relief he’d always imagined.
Following tonight’s show, he’d spent a couple of hours drinking with the boys—purely for appearances—to celebrate their latest success. Jerico’s last single had remained at number one for eight consecutive weeks, smashing their old record of six clean out of the ball park. Yet no amount of prosperity, fame or even the huddle of groupies in short tight dresses across the bar could erase his tarnished thoughts, the tainted memories of his past.
His childhood was likely to blame. In many ways he was still suffering the repercussions of that living hell. But the rotten bastard was dead now. Shouldn’t he be happy…ecstatic even? Why was he so empty? There was no love. No hate. There was only numb.
Jesse had tried to keep the conversation light. His years as the band’s front man bestowed him the gift of the gab, though the others had failed miserably at hiding the pity on their faces. For the first time since Rick had met them, Jackson and Ronan seemed to have trouble looking him in the eye.
And he made sure to steer clear of Drew. Their keys man was just itching for another deep-and-meaningful and Rick really didn’t want to hurt his friend’s feelings again by telling him to fuck off. Drew had always been the peacekeeper of the group—politically-minded and the first to jump in and try to fix everyone’s problems. He meant well, his heart was in the right place, but Rick didn’t talk about personal shit with anyone, especially when it concerned his father. Well…anyone except Jesse.
No. More of the band’s company wasn’t what he needed. The empty hotel room would be his sanctuary for the next several hours until he was required again for sound check.
The sporting highlights had played—for however long—on the widescreen in front of him while he’d sunk back into the soft leather couch and sipped his vodka straight. Even though he stared at the television, he wasn’t really paying attention to what was on. His mind was too busy replaying his childhood up until the time he went to live with Jesse and his family. If not for Jesse’s mother, Rick was certain he would have been beaten to death before reaching his eighteenth birthday, or rotting in jail somewhere for doing the unthinkable. He’d locked the past inside his mental vault, but the memories were pounding on the door and he could only pretend to not be home for so long. His next therapy session couldn’t come soon enough.
He placed the empty glass on the coffee table and groaned as he stood, switching off the TV. Stretching his arms above his head, he silently padded to the bedroom. A few hours of nightmare-free sleep would do him good before having to deal with his lawyer again.
* * * * *
She was still undecided about whether she should brazenly walk out to greet him or remain in his bed, naked and waiting like she’d hoped to be presented on the silk-covered platter, when the door swung wide open and the room brightened. Her entire body jolted as if she’d been zapped with a defibrillator.
His knuckles whitened on the doorknob and he growled, “What the hell!”
Her eyes widened, her throat constricting to the width of a drinking straw. The bare-chested man who stood before her was even more handsome in real life. All long lean legs, piercing brown eyes and dark hair. The thirty-year-old drummer who cautiously crept toward her had been the bad-boy of her dreams since forever. She needed this night so badly. She’d fantasized about this moment and wanted nothing more than to be fucked senseless by a real man, not the uptight businessmen her father had insisted she date in the past.
Ricky loomed over her, his broad shoulders tight with tension, his right pectoral muscle twitching like a distressed heartbeat. If she wasn’t so turned on by his half-naked body, she might have been more than a little scared of the deep scowl etched in his forehead.
“Who the fuck are you, princess? And what the hell do ya think ya doin’ in my room? This some kinda joke? One of the boys put ya up to it?”
“N-no.” She sat up, fumbled to find the edge of the sheet and covered her breasts.
He shot a glance over his shoulder, almost as if he expected someone to be standing behind him, but when he turned back around the anger melted away and he became the cocky self-assured man he was publicly renowned for.
His lips curled with the slowest of grins as he folded his arms and stared down at her. “So who was it? Ronan? No, wait…it was Jackson, wasn’t it?”
“No. Nobody put me up to anything.”
He cocked an eyebrow.
“I swear.” She remained still as he studied her face, his head comically tilted to the side like a puppy’s though his stare remained slightly narrowed with wariness.
She closed her eyes as her body hummed with nervous energy, his closeness reactivating her self-doubt. Was she making a fool of herself? Should she steal the sheet, hide herself with it, cut her losses and run for the door?
When she finally braved to raise her eyelids, she was met with an intense gaze filled with steel determination and dancing with excitement. She’d found her answers. There’d be no running tonight. The brash, wicked promise twitching at the corner of his mouth stopped all thoughts of flight in their tracks.
He dropped to his knees beside the bed and tugged the sheet from her clenched hands, dragged it down her body until it rested just below her navel. “Is that so?”
She nodded.
“What’s your name?”
Should she give a false identity? Her name was all too familiar to most households due to her father’s success in the mining industry—more so since news got out of his only daughter’s illness—but she was only about honesty these days. She centered her nerves and spoke the truth. “Chelsea. Chelsea Wainwright.”
A hint of surprise flashed across his face before he sighed, raking his long fingers through his hair. His focus dropped to her breast and he groaned, rubbing his palm across the scruff on his cheek. “Do I even want to know how you got in here?”
After a pause, he returned his attention to her face. She shook her head.
His chuckle was deep and husky. “You’ve got guts, princess, I’ll give ya that.” His eyes flickered back to her breasts. “And considering you’ve gone to all this trouble…”
He leaned closer, his hand grazing down her side, over her hip, coaxing the sheet to fall to her thighs. He licked his lips and she wanted them on her skin…anywhere…everywhere.
With new resolve, she straightened her shoulders, the last of her inhibitions falling away. “Give me one night. I want nothing more. Nothing less.”
His smirk was sinful right before his lips came down on hers, pushed her into the many pillows lining the headboard. Dressed only in tattered blue jeans, he hovered above her. He smelled incredible—like fresh rain with a hint of woodsy cologne.
Her muscles relaxed as he slowly dipped his weight until he was comfortably cradled between her thighs. She focused on his lips, soft and plump, grazing hungrily on her mouth and barely allowing her ample breath while his fearless hands explored.
Every inch of his hard body pressed against her, now rhythmic and seeking friction. She broke away from his kiss with the slight tilt of her head, needing air. His lips didn’t stop, trailing a line of sensuous kisses as his tongue licked the column of her throat.
“Fuck, I didn’t realize how much I needed this,” he murmured against her skin. “You taste so good.”
She gasped as he captured her left nipple between his lips and sucked, pulled on the sensitive nerves. With an embarrassing moan, she arched against him, dragged her long fingernails across his muscled back until he hissed from the sting. He bit down and her hands flew to hold him in place. She eagerly threaded her fingers through his baby-soft hair, and when they reached the ends, she tugged, mewling against the crown of his head.
One of his hands was quick to slide between her legs. Two fingers spread and exposed her heated flesh to the cool air of the room. His long, middle finger slowly traced the slit of her sex, seductively gliding back and forth, neglecting her clit, apparently intent on circling and teasing her with every languid lap.
His lips hummed against her skin as he swept his mouth from one breast to the other. He groaned when she slickened more beneath his fingertips, the evidence of her arousal dripping down the crease of her thigh. He clamped down again with his teeth, harder than before. Her right nipple peaked against his tongue as he pinched and pulled, sending a glorious current directly to her pussy. She squirmed beneath him.
“Mmm, you like that, baby?” Keeping his lips in place, he peered up at her with a hopeful gleam in his eyes and slipped his finger inside her.
Then, he stopped moving. She tried to buck against him, but he held her firmly in place with his hands and thighs, biting down once more on her wired nipple. She wanted to purr with pleasure and scream with frustration as she pushed her breast firm to his mouth, needing to be utterly consumed by him. When his hand finally moved she exhaled a deep sigh of relief. Sublime ecstasy rushed through her veins—tingles in her pussy, flutters in her stomach. His fingers were slow but thorough, pressing and massaging her inner walls. He seemed to know just where to stimulate her.
He raised his hips and she quickly swept her hands down his chiseled stomach to unbutton his jeans, fearful he’d try to remove them himself and stop his ministrations. With hurried fingers, she unzipped his fly and pushed the worn denim down his thighs, her feet picking up when her hands could no longer reach. She discovered she liked a man who wasn’t afraid to go commando.
He stretched to the side, reached for the small drawer of the side table and pulled out a foil square. With a smirk that would’ve made the devil weep with pure jealousy, he swiftly shook his ankles free from the tangle wh
ich were his jeans and ripped apart the thin packet with his teeth as if he were a starving man. After rolling the latex glove down his impressive shaft, he settled back over her.
With one hard, fevered thrust, he was fully sheathed, groaning into the crook of her neck. Her muscles quivered and pulsed as they molded around him, inside and out. He was definitely larger than she was accustomed to, but not uncomfortably so. She wanted to squeal with glee, happy to be able to report at least one of the myths was definitely true—Ricky Bradshaw was packing some serious heat.
His hips moved in a wanton rhythm, rubbed sinfully against her with each stroke, ignited the flight of her senses. And when she was certain she couldn’t possibly fly to a greater height, he firmly grasped both her thighs, wrapped them tightly around his waist and leaned back on his haunches. He altered the angle of his thrusts and the motion sent her soaring head-on into what she hoped wouldn’t be her first and only release of the night. She panted hard as the pleasure washed through her, yet she was already hungry for more. And by the consistent pounding of Ricky’s hips he was nowhere near done.
With his eagerness and vigor he’d managed to shove her too far up the bed. Her head painfully knocked once, twice, on the solid rails of the headboard. Before she could catch her breath to air her discomfort, he tugged her back down by her thighs.
Grasping both her wrists, he placed them above her head and wrapped her fingers around the thin planks of polished ornate wood. He planted his much larger hands right beside hers and stared directly into her eyes as he withdrew until only the tip of his cock remained inside her.
“Make sure to hold on nice and tight, princess. This ride might get a little bumpy.”
“Then bring it, cowboy. Giddyup.” She spurred him on with a smile, making a concentrated effort to re-impale herself, lifting her ass off the bed. At the pinnacle of her upward thrust he sank deep inside her, rolled his hips and sighed as the head of his length brushed against her inner limit. There was a touch of discomfort, a pinch of pain, though she enjoyed him being so flush with her pussy, so immersed that any small move he made tugged on every erogenous cable in her body. She was going to come again. The pressure built even more rapidly than the first time. How was that even possible?
