Blackthorne: Heart of Fame, Book 8

by Lexxie Couper

  The pressure around Josh’s head grew thicker, clamping the back of his neck, his shoulders. “Who’s we?”

  “Me. Her parents.” Liev snorted, the noise a harrowing mix of exasperation and pain. “My brother and I don’t speak anymore, but her mum—my sister-in-law—has told me she’s pleaded with Caitlin to start thinking about herself again over and over. I know I’ve done the same. She needs to stop feeling guilty about saying goodbye, especially when…”

  “When what?”

  Liev muttered another curse. “She needs someone in her life to show her what being alive really means, Josh.”

  A thick lump filled Josh’s throat. He closed his eyes and buried his fingers in his hair. “And you think that person is me?”

  Liev surprised him with a weak laugh. “I did. I do. At the age of seventeen, Caitlin moved mountains to help me get over my shit so Chris and I could be together. I was kinda hoping I could return the favour now, but damn, she’s stubborn.”

  “And still in love?”

  The question felt wrong. Predatory somehow.

  Liev’s answer didn’t help. “It’s not my place to answer that, mate. I only know I can’t stand back anymore and do nothing while she grows more lost to a relationship no longer there. I’ve got to help her find her smile, her happiness. She needs passion in her life, Josh. She needs a living future to ache for, to crave, not a ghost of what had once been. And if you’re the bloke to give her that…” Another ragged sigh came through the connection. “Then I will make sure you record the closing track for every movie Chris makes from here on in.”

  The promise was an empty one. Josh knew that. It was never the main star who decided something like the film’s soundtrack, but the significance behind it squeezed his heart tight. As did the thought of Caitlin’s grief and loneliness and bleak uncertainty.

  It made sense now, her prickly response to his flirting at the beginning of the night, her confusion when their obvious sexual chemistry began to fire, her raw response when he’d kissed her.

  Her tormented conflict at that response…

  Straightening, he turned back to the Chaos Room’s closed entry door. Was she still in there? Or had she left via another door, avoiding him as she went home?

  “You still there, Blackthorne?”

  Josh startled at the unexpected voice in his ear. He’d forgotten he was still on the phone to Caitlin’s uncle. He studied the door, his pulse a wild beat in his throat. “Yeah, I’m still here.”

  The urge to bang on the door, to make Caitlin open it, flooded through him. What he would do if she did, however…

  Kiss her? Could he do that? Knowing what he knew now?

  Could he?

  “I’m sorry I sent you on a bum-steer, mate.” Liev’s apology filled his head, contrite and disheartened. “Didn’t mean to fuck up your first night back in Australia.”

  Josh ran his stare over the nightclub’s etched-steel door. His heart thumped fast in his chest. A charged energy claimed his body.

  “No apologies needed,” he replied, but he sounded distant even to his ears.

  A plan began to form in his head.

  He stared at the door, pictured the woman on the other side. Remembered the way she’d responded to his kiss, remembered the wretched pain in her eyes when she begged him to leave.

  “Just…just don’t give up on her, okay?” Liev asked. “My gut tells me you’re exactly what she needs.”

  “Is your gut always right?”

  Liev let out a wry chuckle. “Only when it comes to important things.”

  Josh let out his own dry laugh. “Well, in that case, tell Chris he better start looking at scripts.”

  He ended the call without another word, his stare fixed on the door.

  She was still in there. He could feel it. She was in there, alone.

  Waiting.

  Every fibre in his body ached. Every nerve ending sparked. His mind raced. His heart did the same.

  With a nod and a small smile, he pivoted on his heel and walked away from the Chaos Room, searching for a taxi.

  There were things that needed to be done.

  Now.

  Caitlin watched Josh move away from the club’s main door, the CCTV footage doing nothing to hide the smoldering, sex-god sensuality of the man.

  She sucked in a slow breath, willing her body to stop behaving the way it was.

  She had no right being flustered by him. No right being…aroused by him. What the hell was that? She was engaged, for Pete’s sake. She loved another man. She shouldn’t be…it was wrong to be…

  On screen, a taxi drew to a halt at the curb, its vacant light flickering out as Josh Blackthorne opened its back passenger door.

  Caitlin stared at the CCTV screen. A fluttering tension filled her belly.

  Why was she watching him climb into the cab like this? Why was her tummy a damn mess of butterflies?

  Why was she wishing he were back in her office?

  She watched Blackthorne climb into the taxi on the screen, his snug black pants showing off the far-too-perfect shape of his arse and sinewy perfection of his legs.

  Because he looks like that?

  Belly churning, the junction of her thighs fluttering, she killed the CCTV image and turned from the screen to fix her stare on the painting Matt had given her instead.

  Matt.

  She had to think of Matt.

  Closing her eyes, she drew an image of him into her mind.

  His floppy sandy-blond hair, his sky-blue eyes with their little crinkly lines on either side when he smiled. The subtle cleft in his chin, the just as subtle ridge on his nose where it had been broken in a rugby union match in his university days. The tiny scar below his right eye he’d gotten from a fight in a pub during graduation celebrations. His square jaw, his broad shoulders. His flat stomach with its dark-blond trail of hair leading down from his shallow navel to…lower. His lean hips and long legs…legs that felt so good wrapped around her hips…

  His laugh, his voice…the way it sounded whenever he murmured her name.

  Before they’d started to grow apart, before they’d become too busy for each other, too focused on other things.

  God, she missed the way he used to say her name, the way he would groan it when they made love.

  The way he used to nuzzle his lips into the side of her neck when he came home from the hospital, tired and mentally drained but still horny for her, still hot for her.

  The way he would smooth his palms over the curve of her hips, the plane of her belly, down to the curve of her sex. The way he would hold her against his body, his erection pressed to the crevice of her butt, stroking his fingers along the seam of her pussy through her clothes as he nipped a line up her neck to her ear…

  A shiver rippled through Caitlin, hot and raw at once.

  She let out a slow, choppy breath.

  Slumped in her chair.

  Her body ached, craving something she’d denied it for a long time.

  The material of her bra and shirt rubbed against her nipples. Surely, if she felt this aroused it meant she was really aching for Matt? Surely being this turned on meant she wanted him to come back so they could work it out? Would she be this turned on if the only real emotion she felt about him now was guilt?

  Surely not?

  Shards of tight heat shot through her and she caught her bottom lip with her teeth, suppressing the soft moan wanting to escape her.

  Instead, she squeezed her thighs together, putting as much pressure as she could on her sex, her clit, without touching them.

  Christ, she needed…

  Connection. A warm, living connection.

  Release.

  Now.

  Letting out another ragged breath, her cheeks hot, her lips tingling, Caitlin inched her fingers to the top button of her jeans.

  Popped it open.

  Her breasts swelled, straining against her bra and shirt. Her nipples turned to tips of concentrated sensitivity.<
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  She trailed the fingers of her right hand over her left nipple, pretending they were Matt’s fingers. Who else would she want touching her, after all? The lightest of contact sheared through her like a hot blade. Her pussy contracted.

  She did it again.

  Again, her body reacted.

  She lowered her jean’s zipper, brushing her left nipple through her shirt and bra with soft strokes of her fingertips as she did so.

  Heavy pressure swelled through the pit of her belly. Her breath grew quicker.

  The cool air of her office kissed her newly exposed flesh beneath her belly button. A shiver raced over her skin. Her nipples hardened more.

  She groaned. Aloud this time.

  The tormented sound hung in the silence of her office, both an accusation and a plea for more.

  A part of Caitlin wished she’d left her classical music playlist turned on. The music would camouflage the sound of her tortured need, if only to her own ears.

  But another part—a part that took her by surprise, that confused her and excited her at the same time—wanted to snatch up her iPod, find the most recent album she’d purchased on iTunes and play it loud.

  No-holds-barred rock ’n’ roll.

  The music of her soul. The music she’d listened to before she met Matt. Before his disappearance in Somalia…

  The music of—

  Denying the traitorous notion, her breath a rasping echo in the silence of her office, Caitlin slipped her fingers over the lower plane of her belly, past the parted opening of her jeans.

  Another ripple of impatient urgency razed her flesh. Another moan fell from her lips. Pinching her nipple through her shirt with her other hand, she feathered her fingertips over the curve of her sex a few times before slipping her fingers beneath the cotton of her knickers.

  And touched her clit.

  “Ohh…God…”

  The words were little but a panted breath. Nothing compared to the intense pleasure of that one simple caress.

  Nothing compared to the pleasure firing through her like a frisson of primal need.

  The man in her head whose fingers she pretended were touching her chuckled, his grey eyes glinting.

  No, not grey. Matt doesn’t have grey eyes. Matt has blue—

  Arching on her chair, Caitlin dragged her finger over her clit again.

  Exquisite agony shot through her. Sank into her core.

  She pinched her nipple, closed her eyes and pictured her imaginary lover’s eyes as he touched her clit again, his dark hair a tumbled mess around his face.

  Blond hair. Matt has blond—

  Breath caught prisoner in her throat, body held captive to its long denied needs, Caitlin parted her thighs farther, sank her fingers into her wet sex and stroked the sweet spot on her inner wall.

  A shudder rocked through her. Claimed her.

  She gasped, pressing the back of her head to the edge of her chair rest, eyes closed. She wriggled her fingers deeper inside her, picturing her lover.

  Pictured his storm-cloud gaze ablaze with desire.

  Blue gaze. Not—

  Pictured his lips curling, his dimple showing.

  Oh God, Matt doesn’t have a dimple. Please, don’t think of him. Not him. Think of Matt. Think of—

  She imagined him lowering his head to her breasts, ached for his lips to circle her nipple the way her fingers were circling her nipple, ached for his mouth to suck on her flesh the way her fingers were pinching and pulling her flesh.

  She arched on her chair, knees trembling, and explored the tight walls of her sex, knowing it was her fingers propelling her closer to a precipice too wretched and wonderful and pleasurable to deny even as her starved mind told her it was someone else’s. His fingers.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, spread her legs wider and pinched her nipple and moaned, riding the mounting wave of tension in her core. The man in her head was not the one she demanded be there, but a man in black leather, with grey eyes, a roguish smirk and sinfully sexy lips…

  She scissored her fingers inside her and shook her head, refusing the image of her imagined lover, furious at its audacity to be there when it was meant to be Matt. Brought herself closer to shattering, closer to splintering into a million pieces of urgent need and want and traitorous pleasure to the thought of a man who had no right being in her head.

  She tortured her nipple, her breast, bit her lip, rolled her head from side to side and pinched her clit.

  Writhing on the chair, she stroked the tiny button of flesh encased in her folds with increasing rhythm, with wild impatience. In her head, she fought to make her lover’s hair blond, fought to make the fantasy man giving her such pleasure the man she’d promised her future to.

  And when she reached the edge of control, by the savage thrusts and mauling of her own hand, she forced her lips and tongue to call out Matt’s name, even as it was another that tore at her mind and whispered through her head.

  When she came, it wasn’t to the thought of Matt, but to a rock star.

  A rock star. A fucking egotistical, smirking rock star.

  What the hell was wrong with her?

  Guilt scraped at her sanity. Hot and sour and absolute. It tainted the fading throbs of her orgasm. Mocked her.

  She withdrew her hand from between her legs, her heart too fast to be medically sound, her head roaring.

  Throat thick, breath labored, she let her other hand slip from her breast and opened her eyes.

  Staring at the painting opposite her, Matt’s gift to her a lifetime ago, she pressed her balled fist to her mouth and cursed Josh Blackthorne.

  How dare he make her…make her…do this. How dare he come into her life and…and…

  Make you feel something? Want something?

  A tight pulse of pleasure contracted in her heat at the thought, eager and sated and aching for more. Aching for the real, not just the imagined.

  Caitlin let out a choked sob, guilt lashing at her anew.

  “No,” she rasped, her voice a husky, strangled note. “No, this is…not right. This is…”

  Tears stung the backs of her eyes, as hot and acrid as her guilt, and she squeezed them shut.

  God, what had she done?

  What had she done?

  Chapter Six

  All it took was one phone call. Well, two, if he counted the call he made to Pepper from the back seat of the taxi telling her what he wanted to do. After he got the go-ahead from Synergy’s manager—and an assurance she would let the rest of the guys know—Josh spent the remaining hours of the morning in an excited state bordering on feverish.

  By the time the dawn sun broke over the eastern horizon, turning the waters of Sydney Harbour to a shimmering golden-pink blanket, he’d mapped out a plan.

  Waiting until it was a decent hour to ring Zach Chapman was the difficult part.

  At seven-fifteen, unable to hold off any longer, he snatched his mobile phone from where it sat on the balcony’s table and, watching the water taxis zigzag across the harbour’s surface, dialed the Chaos Room’s second-in-charge.

  Josh’s heart thumped faster. His gut churned. A nervous smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

  All he needed now was a yes from the man.

  Just one yes.

  And then—

  “Who the fuck is this?” a sleepy voice growled into Josh’s ear through the connection. “And do you know what time it is?”

  “Zach?” Josh shifted his feet and rested his elbows on the balcony’s rail. “It’s Josh Blackthorne. How serious were you about me coming back to the Chaos Room whenever I wanted?”

  “Blackthorne?” The word was less sleepy, more dubious. “Bullshit. Who is it really? Daz? Strop?”

  Josh chuckled. “Nope. It’s really me. Last night when we were talking soccer I told you I could get you season tickets to the Sydney FC games and you gave me your number. Remember?”

  “Fuck.” Not a hint of sleep or suspicion cut the exclamation. Now Zach s
ounded surprised. Shocked. “I remember. I didn’t think you would. Remember my number, that is. Or be serious on the offer. Shit, dude, thanks. I mean…fuck, sorry. You caught me still asleep.”

  “No apologies needed.’ Josh smiled, tracking the path of one particularly manic water taxi as it cut across the water under Sydney’s iconic harbour bridge. “Sorry for waking you. I wanted to run something past you, if that’s okay? An idea I had during the night.”

  A pause came at the other end, long and weighted, before Zach said, “If it’s how to get into the boss’s pants, I can’t help you.”

  The tight heat licking through Josh’s body since he’d kissed Caitlin on the dance floor radiated into a hot ball in his groin at the thought of being in Caitlin Reynolds’s bed.

  For a second, he was overwhelmed by an image of Caitlin waiting for him in that bed, her naked body partly covered by the tousled sheet, one long bare leg exposed, one hip, the top swell of one breast, her shoulders…

  “That’s not what I’m after,” he answered, banishing the mental torment as a wave of hotter guilt crashed over him. “I’m thinking I want to do an unplugged, one-night-only performance while I’m here in Sydney. A spur-of-the-moment kind of thing. Hoping I could do that at the Chaos Room. What do you think? Interested?”

  Silence greeted his question.

  “Zach?” Josh frowned. “You still there?”

  “Are you sure this isn’t a scheme to get the boss to sleep with you?”

  The suspicious uncertainty had returned to Zach’s voice. And something else—protective menace.

  Josh let out a slow breath, at once in awe of the respect and loyalty Caitlin created in the man, and unsettled by the distinct possibility getting into her pants was exactly the reason for his suggestion.

  No. You want to do something for her because life has fucked her over. Because she is sad and needs to find her happy. That’s it. That’s—

  “Because if that’s the reason,” Zach went on, steel in the words, “you can fuck off. Famous or not, I won’t be a part of someone taking advantage of her pain. Understand?”

  Josh pictured the club’s second-in-charge. There was little doubt in his mind if Zach Chapman wanted to hurt him, he could. And would if he felt Josh deserved it. The guy would be capable of picking him up and breaking him in half without raising a sweat.