Seduced

by Cari Quinn

  His cock got hard so fast he had to bite back a grunt from his zipper’s unhappy stranglehold.

  “Did I stutter?”

  He curled his fingers into his palm. “No, you didn’t.” Trying a charming smile, he held out his hand. “Simon.”

  Her lashes lowered, giving her eyes a feline tilt. She tipped her head to the side, but didn’t reach for him. “Who are you?”

  “I think I just said my name.”

  That eyebrow arched again. “You could be John Smith for all I care. Who are you?”

  “I’m with the band, baby.”

  “Please.” She turned on her heel and walked back out the door. The trail of honeysuckle teased a groan out of him.

  Simon rocked back on his heels, then stared at the ceiling and laughed.

  Deacon ducked his head in from the control room. “Would you get in here?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Hold your balls.” And because he could, he touched her violin before following the sounds of his bandmates through the cracked door.

  Chapter Eleven

  Nick: Breaking It Down

  You build me up, take me higher, only to break it all down.

  Nick spun his cell one way on the table in front of him, then spun it the other. When it clattered onto the floor, he sighed, reached down to retrieve it and stuffed it into his pocket. Then he started tapping out a new song he was working on with the studio pen and pencil he’d snagged. Free stuff was always a good thing. His cupholder at home proved it. He wouldn’t have to buy a Bic until he was in the old folks’ home.

  God, he was bored.

  Being in the studio was completely different from being on stage. Three days in and he hadn’t really adapted yet. There were no crazy spotlights, no smoke machines, no fans chanting or snoring depending on the show. It didn’t matter, since the same ol’ nerves surfaced about practicing with people he didn’t know that well.

  Add in the various musical voyeurs who wanted to take a piece of them financially—if they decided Oblivion was worth the effort—and Nick had a permanent itch between his shoulder blades. Too many people. He couldn’t keep still while the orchestra members tuned up in the adjoining rehearsal room.

  The first couple of days had been about explaining a whole fuck ton of shit he would never remember about the sound board and the soundtrack and the big ass movie the score would be attached to. Then they’d started rehearsing some of Oblivion’s most popular songs, just to ease them in. Over and over again. He didn’t consider himself a genius at reading people, but even he could tell they’d yet to start impressing anyone.

  Huge surprise there. The five of them had been working together for a few weeks. They were still struggling to anticipate even the most basic of key changes from each other.

  The good part was this wasn’t about how they usually did things. Jackson Miller had brought Oblivion in to fulfill a specific need. And the guys behind the boards were pulling their strings under the guise of getting the perfect sound.

  And the perfect song, which apparently wasn’t one of Oblivion’s. That was Deak’s and Gray’s little ditty, “The Becoming”.

  Becoming Shit, from the sounds of it right now.

  Deacon seemed to be his usual calm, unflappable self, cracking jokes with the sound engineers and chatting with the dude that brought them coffee—mineral water with lemon for Simon, who claimed his voice needed “babying”—as if he’d known them forever. Gray went through the motions with silent skill, doing whatever was required with his own inimitable style. The control board people took to him immediately, sensing he was a technician like them. One who did what was required with no fuss.

  And they glared a lot at Nick.

  He’d probably never be at ease playing around people he didn’t know well, and that flaw had made itself known the few times they’d actually needed him in the studio. But oddly enough, the last time he’d played for Blitz, none of the nerves had surfaced. Maybe because the studio was such a contained bubble that once he’d gotten used to it, he could pretend he was alone? Whatever the reason, he knew Nelson and Blitz had been more impressed with his last take than any of the others, though that hadn’t led to increased playing time. Yet.

  As for Jazz…she blindsided Nick every time he saw her. Her pink and purple hair was in a mass of braids that clinked when she moved, and she’d popped in purple contacts that matched her tight jeans and tit-baring top. Her breasts weren’t totally on display, but damn close enough. He could practically see her nipples.

  Fuck, he wanted to see her nipples. Taste them. Soak her skin in whiskey and watch the liquid bead and trickle down the pale slope of her belly.

  But that would have to wait until they got through this BS.

  Now it was Thursday, their third day in the studio—the first day had been for the building tour and the spiel and the gladhanding—and it was all more of the same. Mixing and matching harmonies to beats, trying the song with different arrangements, different lead singers. Not always Simon, since he seemed to be having trouble reaching the higher notes without screeching. The lemon hadn’t done anything but make the studio reek while Simon sulked and watched Gray take his place for this go-round.

  Fucking Gray.

  “This is all your fault,” Nick said to his best friend while Gray and Deak sang their song. Jazz banged away on the drums in an isolation booth. The guys were rehearsing to a scaled-back demo of the song done on the keyboards, sans guitars, played by the virtuosa herself, Ms. Jasmine Edwards. Now she was adding the percussion layer.

  Those three hadn’t had a free minute today. Him and Simon, on the other hand, were real busy doing nada.

  “I could sing that better than him.” Simon jerked his juiced-up water at the glass that separated them from the main rehearsal room. “Gray’s a guitarist, not a singer. That’s my job.”

  “Not today it’s not.” Nick leaned his head on Simon’s shoulder. “How does it feel to be nudged out of your own band? To be handed your nuts by a guy who’s just barely old enough to crank out some chin pubes?”

  Simon shoved him away. His face was turning into a mosaic of sickly colors. They matched the patchwork of yellow and green on Nick’s torso. At least their cracked lips had mostly healed. “Gray’s only a year younger than us. Doesn’t seem to bother you when you’re fucking Miss Barely Legal behind her kit.”

  Nick grabbed Simon’s water and took a long pull. Tart lemon blasted his tongue. “Jeebus, that’s nasty. Sure you haven’t shriveled up your cords? Could be why they ain’t working.” With a grin, he handed back the water. “And I haven’t fucked her. Yet.”

  “Matter of time.”

  Nick kicked his feet up on the desk, wincing only a little. Most of his bruises had healed enough that he wasn’t hobbling around like a senior citizen who’d missed his morning ex-lax. “Aww, want to have a chat about girls, Pretty Boy? I’m down. I saw that iced-up brunette in the orchestra giving you the eye, though she looked like she wanted to nail you with her bow—”

  “Shut up.”

  Nick scratched his jaw and decided pissing off Simon was a fine substitute for being pissed off himself. Why should it bother him he was warming a chair instead of rehearsing with his own freaking band? No reason.

  “I could think of some fun things to do with a bow, actually,” Nick said in an undertone. “Imagine if you tied up that prissy babe’s wrists and—”

  “Can it, would you?” Simon stalked out and slammed the door, shaking the glass hard enough that Gray glanced up. He sneered at Nick, his expression saying more than a string of curses.

  Loser. Who’s in there and who’s out here?

  Oh, really. So that’s how they were playing things now. And Nick had actually been feeling guilty enough since the Frenzy show to steer clear of Jazz.

  For the most part. A few kisses heavy on tongue and a couple of boob grabs behind the soundboard didn’t count. She had grade A tits, and he wasn’t a saint.

  He dropped his feet to the f
loor and rose. So much for trying to hold himself in check. Gray wanted to act like a dick about something way more important than a little slap and tickle? He’d reciprocate.

  Time to see who was really the loser when he had Gray’s little pink princess panting through an orgasm feet away from him.

  Nick cracked his knuckles as he made his way to the isolation chamber. Jazz was taking a break for a couple minutes while the vocal coach worked with Gray and Deak, so it was a good time to give her a break as well.

  He opened the door and slipped inside the darkened booth. Jazz’s head whipped toward him from where she was leaning against her kit. She’d been drinking, but the sight of him made her stop. The plastic bottle slipped from her hand and bounced on the floor, trickling water over her toes. Her bare toes. She didn’t like to wear shoes while she was behind the drums.

  If she got any more delicious, he’d be on his knees with his tongue stuck up that slick pink crevice between her thighs.

  Would be anyway soon enough.

  She bent to wipe up the water and he leaned forward to grab another tissue—and to nonchalantly turn on the mic.

  “What’re you doing in here, Nick?”

  “You’ve been working really hard.” He crouched to blot up the water. Lots of expensive equipment in this place. Lots that he wasn’t getting touch.

  He’d get to touch the prettiest piece of all in about thirty seconds.

  “It’s fun.” She flashed her trademark grin. “Nothing really fazes me.”

  Yeah, and that was another knee in the gut. Jazz rolled with the musical punches better than any boxer he’d ever seen. She played every instrument they threw at her well. If he, Gray and Simon gave up the guitars, she could probably take their place. The only thing he’d yet to see her do was write songs. Evidently words weren’t her favorite thing.

  Right then, they weren’t his either. It was time for a live action sequence.

  “Is that so?” When they were knee-to-knee, he reached out and pressed his fingers to the seam of her jeans between her legs. She gasped and rocketed upward so fast that her head bumped his chin. “Then you don’t need me to help you take the edge off?”

  Her eerie purple eyes leveled on his. Damn contacts. “Don’t. I’m working.”

  Sure, she was working. Too bad he didn’t have anything else to do. Except this.

  He pressed harder. “Don’t feel like playing with me today?” He leaned in and dragged her bottom lip between his teeth, pulling until she moaned. “Afraid he’s going to find out?”

  She twisted away as if she could see Gray through the wall beneath the glass that faced the main rehearsal area. And that was all the answer he needed.

  He rose and hit the button for the curtains that blocked the glass. Maroon drapes slid over the pane, caging them in the humid dark. Jazz’s breathing audibly accelerated and his heartbeat thrummed in time, as if they were connected. He circled her and gripped her ass, nudging her forward until she grabbed the seat behind the kit.

  “Simon mentioned me fucking you behind your drums. That never occurred to me, but I gotta say, I like the idea,” he murmured against her ear, keeping his voice beneath the range of the mic. The static hiss prickled over his skin, though she didn’t seem to notice. He pushed his nose through her collection of braids, finally latching on to the side of her neck with his teeth. “Wanna?”

  He smiled as she fumbled for her zipper. “We only have a minute. Seriously.” She reached for his hand and levered it into the gap of her jeans. “Anyone could come—”

  His fingers skimmed her slickened flesh and she stumbled into silence. “Someone is going to come. You.”

  He thrust into her with just his middle finger, wasting no time building his rhythm. She was obviously just like the rest of them. Playing was like foreplay. Every minute working his guitar keyed him up higher and higher, like the hottest chick in the world was riding his dick with her mouth and never let him get off. Sucking just lightly enough to keep him aroused, but never giving him that release.

  As much as he wanted to fuck Jazz—finally—there wasn’t time. So he’d mete out his revenge on Gray and his own locked-down libido on her sweet, swollen pussy.

  “Bend over. Spread your legs.” Without waiting, he yanked her jeans to her thighs and parted the cheeks of her tight little ass, rimming her back there too just to hear her whimper. So fucking innocent.

  Jesus, she made him hot.

  He eased his hand lower, back to the warmth that called to him. Sinking his finger inside her again, he used his other hand to toy with her breast through her revealing top, finally going in over the neckline to tug out her tight nipple. It was cool in the studio, the air conditioning pumping almost as hard as her breathing and her heart-shaped ass against his straining cock.

  His mouth covered her ear again. “Do you imagine me doing this to you while you’re whaling on those drums? Do you remember my dick in your hand when you’re working the sticks? The way you pulled me in your throat and swallowed me down?”

  “Nick,” she pleaded, her forehead banging against a cymbal and sending it clanging.

  He smiled and pressed harder, rubbing her piercing with his free fingers and tugging on her bared nipple with his other hand. God, he wished there were some mirrors in here. He’d love to see her bent over her drums while he did her like this. “Almost there, baby.”

  She moaned and his satisfied smile grew. Take that, you motherfucking band-stealing piece of shit.

  Then she squeezed him, rocking into his strokes and gasping her pleasure, and he forgot all about Gray and the studio.

  She was his guitar, and running his fingers up and down her slick seam to coax out her sounds of delight moved him as much as any piece of music.

  Pushing her farther down against the seat, he murmured encouragement in her ear. “Use me to get off, baby. Come on my fingers. You can do it.”

  She arched, her spine locking, her glittery purple nails raking the seat. Her body jerked, flailing so wildly that he felt like he’d caught a fish at the end of a hook. Except this one was wriggling for more, not to get away. He impaled her with that one single finger again and again, surging deeper then finally swiveling and holding as the pressure in his balls built until he was a second from orgasm himself. She broke underneath him, her wetness drenching him, her snug heat pulsing while she moaned and panted and begged.

  “Beautiful.” He licked the damp side of her throat, unsure if the moisture was just from his mouth or her sweat. It tasted salty and sweet. A chocolate-covered pretzel soaked in sparkles, that was his Jasmine.

  Even if she wasn’t. His.

  “Was it good for you?” he teased, pinching her hip.

  When she twisted around to punch him, he chuckled and darted back. He’d just managed to tug up her sinfully tight jeans when the door swung open and Jackson Miller’s broad frame filled the space.

  Fuck.

  Nick opened his mouth to explain. They couldn’t lose this gig before they even knew if they had it. This studio thing had been a trial run to see if they would work for the soundtrack—and if Jackson would work for them. Jazz was too busy trying to fight her breast back into her top to worry about lost deals.

  He was worrying a little too late. Whoops.

  Nick backed up to the table and slapped a hand on the mic behind him, turning it off. “Look, man, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to—”

  Jackson waved him off with a wide grin. “So I guess this means the rumors are true?” He circled his pinky, clad with a giant gold initial ring, between Nick and Jazz. He held up his smart phone with the other hand. “I was just checking out the latest YouTube vid someone snapped of Oblivion at the Rhino, and lo and behold, what do I find? A link in the comments to another vid of the encore.” Jazz glanced at Nick and he shrugged, as clueless as she was. “You two kissing is all everyone’s talking about in the comments. There’s all this buzz about Oblivion’s Romeo and Juliet.”

  “Huh? Who’s killing
themselves?” Nick pushed a hand through his hair. “Look, never mind that. When can I get my guitar back into the studio? I have some ideas.”

  “Never mind? Soundstages one and two just got treated to the sounds of Jasmine—” Jackson coughed delicately while Jazz went bug-eyed.

  “What the hell do you mean?” As she caught Nick’s guilty expression and mentally connected the dots, she grabbed the sticks she’d tucked next to her kit and pointed them at Nick. “You fucking bastard. You did that on purpose.” She advanced on him, sticks out, and Nick held up his hands.

  Whoops number two.

  Jackson stepped smoothly between them. “Now, kids, relax. This is a good thing. Whatever Nick’s motives for, ah, broadcasting that, it’s exactly the missing ingredient this song has been needing. There’s an erotic element to the film, you know.” He glanced between the two of them, his cheeks turning pink. “I don’t suppose the two of you would be willing to do another ta—”

  “No,” Nick and Jazz echoed in unison.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, we’re sure. That’s crazy,” Nick muttered.

  “As crazy as you setting me up like that.” After giving Nick a hard shove, Jazz pushed past Jackson into the hall.

  “I don’t know if someone taped that somehow, but destroy that track,” Nick said to Jackson. “I’m not kidding. It was a stupid move on my part, and completely unprofessional to boot, but it’s not going to be part of a song. Any song. Ever.”

  Nick followed Jazz, only to find the rest of the band waiting in the hall, minus Gray. “Good performance, man,” Simon taunted as Nick passed.

  Nick shook his head and kept going, his gaze trained on the flash of pink and purple blurring up ahead. He’d need an even better performance to convince Jazz he wasn’t a complete asshole.

  Good luck on convincing himself.

  * * *

  Nick kicked back on the couch and channel surfed. Wrestling, news, porn, soccer, a weepfest talk show, then finally, real man’s television—Beavis and Butthead on the classic cartoon channel. In his lap he had a bag of cheese puffs, which he crunched into with enthusiastic vigor. He didn’t have any cash to spare on dinner, but he’d snagged these from the break room at the studio. If he never got to freaking play there, at least he could swipe their junk food so he wouldn’t starve to death. Tomorrow he was bringing his backpack to load up.