by Cari Quinn
“Up.” It was Nick’s turn to growl.
While she struggled to her feet, stumbling more than a little—he must not be the only one who felt dizzy—he leaned over to open the drawer of the table next to the couch. Bingo. A stack of foil packets awaited him. Simon stuffed rubbers every place he could. Tonight his best friend’s excessive need for latex came in hand. He grabbed a couple and tossed them on the cushion beside him, waiting for Jazz or her gallant knight to pull the plug.
Jazz didn’t bat an eyelash as she finally got off her boots and went to work on her jeans, shimmying them the rest of the way down with a twist and wiggle Nick knew wasn’t strictly necessary. Nick lifted a brow in Gray’s direction, almost daring him to back out. But he only rose to shed his own T-shirt, shoes, jeans and briefs.
The guy had lots of black ink on his back and his right arm, a fact that seemed to surprise Jazz since she was staring at Gray’s tats like she’d never seen them before. Either that or the sight of Gray’s muscled back was enough to make her turn into a statue.
She hadn’t gotten nearly as bug-eyed over the dragon tattoo on Nick’s ribs. He wasn’t even sure she’d seen it. As far as being mesmerized by his body? Nope. Not so far.
Whatever. He wasn’t dwelling on it.
Nick stood and kicked off his pajama bottoms, then walked to the door and flipped the locks. Since that was no defense against keys, he grabbed his cell and called Simon. “You and Deak can’t come home.”
“Aw, man,” Simon whined, sounding drunk. Such a shock. “You’re getting a shot at that sweet Jazzy pussy, aren’t you?”
“Tonight it came with a gift with purchase. Think I might return it. Pretty sure it’s defective,” he said, eyeing Gray as he pulled Jazz into his lap. She faced the room so that Nick could see every nuance when Gray spread her thighs and ran his thumbs up the insides of her legs. Between her thighs gleamed the swollen, hairless pink crease he’d been fantasizing about since the last time they’d been in this very room.
“Huh? What did you buy?” Simon wasn’t good with subtext on a normal day, but when he was drunk, forget it. He’d believe anything. “Did you keep your receipt?”
Nick would’ve grinned if his cock wasn’t perpendicular to his torso. Even breathing was a challenge. “Can’t talk now. Gotta go.”
“Wait. When can we come back?”
“Morning.” He clicked off and threw his cell in the direction of the table.
Nick knelt between Jazz’s spread legs. Though he wasn’t one of those guys who went down on every chick he messed around with—unlike Simon, who passed out oral like lollipops—his mouth was actually watering. But he didn’t move. Not yet.
She wet her lips and relaxed against Gray, wriggling a little from what Nick knew was the very hard cock wedged against her back. Gray’s fingers wandered higher, drawing circles over her inner legs, sliding up to the tops of her thighs. Barely making contact. Sliding closer to the juncture between.
Jazz squirmed like she couldn’t stay still as Gray’s thumb darted between the lips of her pussy, almost shyly. Did Gray expect her to refuse him? Couldn’t he see how she was jiggling back and forth, her skin prettily flushed and already damp with sweat?
All of her was damp. Nick fisted his throbbing cock. Seriously fucking damp.
Gray’s long fingers met up with the piercing that caged her clit and his hand stilled. He grabbed her chin with his other hand, making her look at him. “What the hell is that?” he growled against her lips.
She whimpered some unintelligible response before slanting her mouth over his. At the same time, Gray slid his fingers inside her. Even muffled by their kiss, Gray’s long, ragged groan echoed in Nick’s head.
This wasn’t just a good fuck to Gray. This was a dream coming true.
And he was about to break it wide open.
Nick edged forward. He had no intention of coming on his own stomach, and if he didn’t do something fast, he was going to. He leaned in and captured one of her nipples between his teeth, pulling hard while he twisted the other. She writhed between them, Gray’s fingers dancing over her with a skill he hadn’t only learned on his instrument. While he’d been expecting Jazz to save herself, he’d obviously been screwing his share of chicks.
Nick switched his attention to Jazz’s other breast, licking the swollen tip while he looked down at the action way too close to his cock. Gray’s fingers pressing in and out, wet from her. So wet, all the way up to his knuckles.
“Christ.” Nick contented himself with her breast, sucking hard while he covered her clit and piercing with his thumb. Gray made room for him, spreading his arms so that one finger from each hand pistoned into her, cramming into that tight little slit until each movement sounded slick from her arousal.
So fucking hot.
Nick nearly groaned and counted to ten in his head to try to distract himself. Man, he was so close. Evidently so was she. Two, maybe three strokes of Nick’s thumb and Jazz exploded between them, twisting back and forth without shame. God. Nick bit down harder on her nipple than he’d meant to but she only cried out again.
Such a sexy thing she was. All pent-up and ready to go. And so was he.
Instead of Gray demanding a condom—as Nick would’ve in his place—he reached down and grabbed the backs of her thighs, lifting her up to Nick. Putting her pussy so damn close to Nick’s face that he would’ve been a moron to say no.
He wasn’t a moron.
Lowering his head, Nick made eye contact with her an instant before his tongue trailed over her soaked flesh. She reached back to fist her hands in Gray’s messy hair, locking him in place so he had no choice but to watch as Nick covered her with his mouth.
Nick pushed his tongue inside and curled it up to savor her burnt sugar taste. If he’d ever had technique, he didn’t tonight. He was shaking so hard he could barely lick, and it was a damn miracle he managed to suck her clit hard enough to make her moan. The piercing helped. He tugged on one of the crystals, trapping in between his teeth. She whimpered and shifted in Gray’s hold, a live wire about to overload on pleasure.
Knowing his fumbling wouldn’t get her there as fast as he needed to, Nick cheated and used his fingers. Curving them. She lost it within a few strong, deep thrusts. Her cries filled the room, the sound almost as arousing as her madly pumping hips.
He didn’t move his mouth away until he’d licked her clean. God, she tasted even better than she smelled. If he didn’t get her around him soon, he’d rub one off on the damn arm of the couch.
When she’d recovered, Nick stood up on wobbly legs to grab the condoms. He glanced back at Gray in question, who only minutely shook his head. His eyelids were heavy, low over his sleet-colored eyes, and Nick understood why when he glimpsed Jazz working Gray’s erection with her fist. Was Gray really going to satisfy himself with her hand when he could have all of her?
As Nick ripped open a condom with his teeth, he got his answer.
Gray’s groan tore from his chest, so loud that Jazz moaned too. She shifted enough for Nick to see her fingers moving like a blur. She was clearly determined to make the guy come. Now. If she squeezed Gray any harder, she was going to get Nick to come too just from the memory of how good it felt to be in her hands.
Almost without warning, Gray’s release sprayed over her side. Dripping like melted ice cream on her hip.
Nick gripped the opened condom and forced his gaze away from the tangible reminder she belonged to Gray and was—at best—on loan to him. He didn’t want to see it. Didn’t want to know.
He busied himself with putting on the condom. But eventually he had to look again.
Gray had thrown his head against the back of the sofa and closed his eyes. The cords in his neck vibrated with his harsh breaths. Jazz stared at Gray and traced her fingers an inch above his lips like she was afraid to touch. Then she settled for smearing her fingers over her side and pressing them to her own lips instead, sucking them as she slowly shut her eyes.
And Jazz…
Jazz gazed at Nick, her wet eyes begging him silently. Her tears seemed trapped behind her contacts, unable to fall.
Make me feel good again. Take the pain away. Please.
Nick moved like a ghost, his feet barely gliding over the carpet. He bent and lifted her into his arms, tugging her on his lap as he fell back into one of the club chairs. With one tug the condom was in place and he was thrusting up blindly, looking for her in what felt like too much dark space. His sweat trickled into his eyes, burning, blurring, as he tried to adjust her thighs over him. To get her open enough to accept him.
One stroke and he was inside her. She didn’t cry out like she had when Gray’s fingers had pierced her. She just rocked with him, her arms banding around his shoulders, seeking her comfort from the endless siege of his body into hers. Erasing what had come before.
Nick brushed kisses over her mouth, cheek, neck. His gaze drifted, zeroing in on the man who wouldn’t look at them.
Gray fisted the cushion at his side, the only sign he gave that he was even awake. He couldn’t look, but he could hear. And he knew who held Jazz now.
Nick’s chest seized up, everything locking. His arms and legs. His spine. His mind. Trying to reject what was happening. It was sex. Just sex. He wouldn’t let it be more.
Nick grappled to steady her hips, but they were wet and he knew why. Didn’t much matter, since his palms were wet too. It was all a sticky mess, and the two of them were hurtling through it, sending the chair flying back against the wall, squeaking its old springs. He could barely hold on to her. She was racing too fast, slipping away. He’d barely gotten his hands on her and she was already shooting past him, her target clear.
She arched, her braids tumbling over her creamy shoulders, her face contorted with bliss. He burrowed deeper, but it wasn’t deep enough. He couldn’t get there, couldn’t find the spot he was looking for. The one that would make her his, even if only for this minute. He was used to sharing everything. His place, his band. Hell, he’d even shared his mother’s goddamn womb.
For one fucking minute, he wanted something to call only his. Someone. Her.
But then she was coming, her body exploding around his, her wild shudders dragging him along. She moaned and his instant of satisfaction shattered at the single word she gasped into his ear.
“Gray.”
Chapter Twelve
Simon: Crystal Clear
Crystal clear perfection in a bottle
My vice, my seductress, my pain
Vodka.
The word on the label on the bottle in front of him blurred. Simon’s eyes drifted out of focus as he lowered his chin to his arms. It didn’t really matter the brand, or even the quality. His throat longed for the burn, but even more important was its ability to turn off his fucking brain.
The song was locked inside him. The stage was the key and Simon knew that, but the little box he was supposed to perform in was a shitty substitute for a live show. Each day the microphone kept getting larger and larger, and the booth felt smaller and smaller. The excitement of working in the studio was now filled with dread. The mic was a monster that reached down his throat and snatched words, only letting the off-key, warbled or flat ones free.
Mouth guard, no mouth guard, chair, no chair, open window, closed curtain. Drunk, sober, exhausted, rested—none of it mattered. None of it worked.
His voice had always been his salvation. No matter how much he fucked up, no matter how many times he let people down, at least in this one thing he’d been able to come ahead. And now everyone was staring at him, whispering about him, steering clear of him.
Simon spun the empty bottle on the table he’d commandeered in the corner of the break room. He stood and pitched the travel-sized bottle in the recycler and wandered back into the control room. He took two steps inside and stopped.
The dizzying array of controls and lights drew his ADD brain down and around the deck. Up on the screen was the visual feedback of Deak and Gray’s instrumental parts of “The Becoming”.
Deak’s meaty bass sounded amazing. Heavier than it was in most of their music, it thrummed through the background of the song like a heartbeat one minute and crashed to the forefront the next. It coated the room and pulled at the gut. Hell, even the tingles along the back of his neck were back. Son of a goddamn bitch they really had something here.
Gray’s guitar layered under the bass one minute, then took center stage the next. Gray wasn’t self-taught like he was. He had the kind of technique that usually meant hours of instruction. But the guy’s talent was about more than his precision with the strings. Beyond that was the creative way he blended attention to detail with his own style.
Simon rubbed his eyes. Nick may want to gut him with a rusty spoon for giving Deacon the green light to talk about a restructure of the band, but it was probably the best move he’d ever made. Now he just hoped Nick would forgive him one day. As much as he missed playing co-lead guitar with Nick, he couldn’t dispute the utter magic coming out of that speaker.
Another layer hummed through the room.
“Guitar 2” was the simple label on the screen.
But there was nothing simple about the sound. Simon took another two steps into the room and saw Nick sitting in the cavernous recording area that adjoined the control booth. He’d curled over his guitar and hunched his shoulders as if to hold every note to his chest. But there was no holding back the gritty anger he manipulated out of that fret board.
Simon’s eyebrows shot up. Nick had gone off the rails from “The Becoming” into another song. One of the producers moved to the control room microphone to stop him, but the musical director, Blitz, held up a hand. “Let him go.”
Gray came up beside Simon. “Do I know that song?”
Simon didn’t move his gaze away from Nick. His best friend might be the silent, lone wolf eighty percent of the time, but he never could hide his emotions when he got his hands on a guitar.
“Simon?”
He shook his head. “No idea what that song is.”
“Well, shit.”
Finally Simon looked away and again he was surprised. The usually clean-cut Gray was at least two days deep into a beard and his eyes were rimmed in scarlet. Not just bloodshot, but a painful red. “Jesus, Gray. When’s the last time you slept?”
“Not sure. I worked last night and had to come in today to redo the end of the song.”
Simon glanced over to the flurry of fingers working the board. The producer, Nelson Geier, had an IM window up on his laptop and Blitz had his cell to his ear. Nick was still playing, the guitar work nearly frenetic now.
Nelson flipped the microphone on and spoke into the recording booth. “Tell me you can do that again.”
Nick looked up, his eyes unfocused. Yep, pure emotional hangups laced through that room like weed at a concert. Nick’s gaze tripped over Gray then darted back to Nelson. “Yeah. I’m sorry, man—I got lost. I fucked up.”
“No—well, yes you fucked the recording of Becoming, but whatever you were doing there at the end. I want it again. Do you have more?”
Nick frowned. “It’s just something I’ve been messing with.”
“Do you have more?” Nelson asked, this time minus the patience.
“Yeah.”
“Good, give me five and then take it from the top.”
Gray shrank back and gripped his neck. His body could’ve been made of granite, he was so tense. Gray’s rain-colored eyes bore through the glass and probably would have singed Nick on contact.
“What�
��s with the laser beam stare?”
Gray turned to Simon as if coming out of a trance. “Nothing.”
Awesome, both of them were tripping on some sort of emotional minefield. Simon had a feeling the minefield was filled with pink and purple-colored explosions. Double fuck.
This was why girls shouldn’t be in a band. Pussy should be for after work—AKA after a show or practice. Bringing it into work was just asking for trouble. Too bad the Pink Pixie was so damn good behind her kit.
Simon folded his arms until he matched Gray’s stiff posture. Gray blinked then relaxed his shoulders and dropped his arm, the tension seeping from him like a faucet had been turned on to wash away the emotion. Gray’s face went carefully blank. He really needed to learn that trick. But it was still a trick. “Yeah, nothing my ass,” Simon muttered.
“Leave it.”
Simon cocked his head. “Now I can’t. You really should have went with a better excuse.”
Gray looked around the room. “Taking over for Deacon? Trying to keep the peace?”
Simon quirked his eyebrow. “C’mon, man. It’s not nice to insult just for the sake of it.”
Gray’s lips twitched, but his icy eyes went back to flat, as did the expression on his face. “It’s nothing anyone can fix.”
“Hook up with a chick. Works for me. Sometimes you just need to get under another girl to get the first one out of your system.”
“For once I wish that were true.” Gray scrubbed the top of his head where his hair stood on end. “Hey Nelson, you need me any more today?”
Nelson looked up from his laptop where he was furiously tapping. “I’m still not happy with that ending, Grayson. Come in at eight tomorrow.”
Gray winced, but nodded. “Will do.” He unhooked the shades from his cargo pants pocket. “Good luck.”
Simon dropped into the overstuffed leather couch that snaked along the back of the room. He was so past the luck stage. Wing and a prayer with a side of mercy killing was more like it.
He tipped his head back, letting the background noise shift and settle around him. He’d lost the best part of his buzz. All that was left was a headache and the need to take a nap. The hydraulic hiss of the door behind him followed by the scent of honeysuckle and spice teased him awake.
