Owned (Rockstar Romance) (Lost in Oblivion Book 5)

by Cari Quinn

  The dog happily wolfed it down.

  “There’s a boy.” Fred ruffled his ears. “What are we going to do with you, huh?”

  Nick scrubbed at the dog’s snow-covered chest. “Could we bring him in, just for tonight?”

  Fred tipped back his snowy baseball hat. “Well, we can’t leave him out here.”

  “I’ll watch him.”

  She hid a smile behind her hand. Nick sounded like a kid asking his father if he could keep a dog. His cheek was shiny with snow and…blood?

  “What did you do to yourself?” she asked.

  Nick looked over his shoulder. “Figures. Where there’s one, there’s always the other.”

  She shoved her hands into her pockets. “Nice to see you too, Nick. Now answer the question.”

  “Your almost-a-husband happened.” He stood and brushed off his knees. “Come on, thief.”

  She sighed as Nick took off toward the main house. Delightful as ever. Fred’s eyebrow rose.

  “You get used to them,” she said.

  Fred shook his head. “Come on. We better get inside. I hope Lila’s back by now.”

  “Simon,” she called.

  He waved. “Go on. I’ll be right behind you.”

  She frowned. He was limping. She gave Fred a distracted smile and pushed her way through the snow toward Simon.

  “Go.”

  She shook her head. “What’s wrong?” She fisted her hands in her pockets. The closer he got, the more she saw the answer to her question. His shirt was ripped at the middle of his belly, and his hair was sticking up straight, regardless of the snow peppered in it. But the fat lip and swollen eye told her the rest.

  She tipped her head back. “Dammit.”

  “Vio—”

  “Don’t you Violin Girl me.” She sliced her hand through the air and stalked toward him. “Dammit, Simon. We haven’t been here more than an hour and you’re already at each other like friggin’ children?”

  He raked his hands through his hair. Blood streaked his knuckles and his hands were raw with cold. He winced as he put his arms down. “We were talking, then…we weren’t.”

  “So stupid,” she muttered as she came over and put her shoulder under his arm. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  “I can walk.”

  “Yeah, so says that wheeze.” She wrapped her arm around his back, and he swore. “Yeah, suck it up, idiot.”

  “Where’s the wifely concern?”

  “Back there in the lodge. Where it’s warm.”

  “We should definitely go there.”

  “No, we’re going in to talk to our friends and you’re going to apologize to the Ronsons for being an idiot.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re their guests and you beat the crap out of each other on their property.”

  “It’s not like we caused damage.”

  “Just to each other’s face. You know we have to meet with Donovan in a few weeks.”

  “Like I can fucking forget. That’s all everyone wants to talk about.”

  “Because we all want to get back to working.” When he didn’t say anything, she sighed. “Look—”

  “Don’t. Just don’t.” He was pissed.

  Hell, she was pissed. Her boot caught on a root. They both pitched forward. Before she could fall headfirst into the snow, Simon caught her and took the brunt of the fall.

  “Oh, God,” she said as she tried to scrabble off of him.

  Simon hissed, then moaned—not the good kind that made her bones melt—but he shielded her from the snow and cupped her against his body. “Babe, seriously…” He drew in a shallow breath. “Ribs.”

  She tried to roll off him.

  His hold firmed. “Just stop moving.”

  She slumped against him, her face pressed into the damp silk of his shirt. He smelled of snow and the crisp ozone of the air. The oriental blend he’d taken to wearing lately seeped into her consciousness. Spice and heat, and a hint of vanilla.

  He smelled of snow-scented home.

  And it had been awhile since she’d actually been against him. Desperate touches in the night were more instinct and crashing pleasure. Even those had been few and far between for the last month.

  His schedule had been awful, and her final concerts for the holidays had kept them on separate sides of the country. She propped herself up on the packed snow and looked down at him. His eyes were closed and snow dusted his cheeks, clung to his sooty lashes, and dotted his usually smirky lips.

  It had been a long time since she’d seen that sly smirk.

  Margo swiped her thumb over the arch of his brow. His eyes opened and those devastating blue eyes met hers. One a little more bloodshot than the other. “Why do you two do this to yourselves?”

  He sighed and caught her hand, dragging her wrist to his cool lips for a gentle kiss. “Because the words are too hard.”

  “You’re a musician. Words are supposed to be the easy part.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes, Simon. You’re a singer.” She slipped out of his hold and curved her fingers around his throat. His Adam’s apple worked under her palm as he swallowed, but his gaze was locked on hers. “This is your gift. I’ve heard it day after day, stronger than ever.” She slid her hand farther down to his chest, to the heart that slammed against his ribs. “I just wish you believed it.”

  He turned his face away.

  So close.

  The story of them lately. On the verge, then he locked her out.

  She got her knee under her and rose off of him, only to slump back into a mound of snow and gather her coat closed over her wet clothes.

  Simon rolled to his side, his back to her. His shoulders were hunched against the cold, and she suspected, a good deal of pain.

  She pushed herself up, her hiking boots digging into the fluffy snow. She took his arm to help, but he shook her off. She stepped back and aimed for the lodge.

  “Margo…”

  “I need to get cleaned up. Lila should be back soon.” She didn’t turn around, just focused on the lights flaring bright in the distance. The snow was slowing, even if the eerie orange-tinged sky told her that the storm was far from over.

  8

  Simon

  The urge to scream into the night was so big, and so overwhelming that Simon could only embrace the silence. He couldn’t even hear her footsteps. The snow seemed to close off sound, deaden it until it was trapped under the flakes.

  All he seemed to do was disappoint her.

  Even as his fists had plowed into Nick with satisfying crunches of pain, he’d known he would pay for every shot. Not just the ones that Nick had dealt back, but that particular look in Margo’s eyes.

  Then his favorite.

  The one where she was being so understanding, so supportive—so suffocating.

  Fuck.

  He trudged after her. He was pretty sure there was a knife sitting between two of his ribs. No, that’s right—just Nicky’s cement fist. Black snowflakes seemed to be invading his vision.

  Or those were just spots from the pain.

  The second trip to the ground with Margo hadn’t helped matters. He couldn’t say he minded much at first. It had been weeks since she’d Velcro-ed her curves to him like that. It didn’t even matter that she’d been fully clothed.

  They were constantly walking on eggshells around each other.

  More often than not he’d found her passed out on the couch, the remote in her hand. Once or twice had been because they couldn’t seem to stay in the same room together without sniping, but most were because he came in so late.

  He was hiding in work—modeling work. His agent was happy to book him until his brain was numb from studios and planes. Considering he was pretty sure he’d bought Stef a house in Malibu Colony with his fifteen percent commission, it was time to slow the fuck down.

  Not that he had a choice on that one.

  The studio was going to be the center of his universe again very soon.
Just as soon as he dealt with the band meeting headed by Lila. To add salt to the wounds, Donovan would probably be there to oversee the entire thing. The lot of them were epic fuckups lately. Mostly because of him. He could own up to that here in the heavy snow.

  Studio time, he could handle. He’d booked time in the studio to work with Jerry a few nights this month.

  Nerves had crawled up his neck like fire ants, but he’d been able to sing in front of the microphone shield. He’d even managed to sing through the bridge of “The Becoming” without a cold sweat.

  Muscle memory warred with the chaos of his brain, but he’d done it.

  How the hell was he going to sing on stage when he got the cold sweats just at the thought of the words?

  That’s where his brain had headed last night. And why his mouth was full of cotton and regrets. Nightmares of the stage blurring together with the studio had driven him to the bottle at three that morning. The old bottle of Crystal Skull had been nearly kicked, but the wash of icy heat had settled him enough to crawl back into bed until dawn.

  Until it had been time for their flight.

  And now he was back in Nicky’s atmosphere, and all he wanted was to drown in a bottle. The antiseptic properties notwithstanding, he just missed the taste.

  Even when it burned.

  Maybe if he finally cut the shit out of his voice box by swallowing vodka with a few razor blades as a chaser he could simply drift away into obscurity.

  He had enough in the bank to never work again…modeling included.

  Take Margo and escape to St. John.

  She turned to him from the porch, the golden light highlighting the elegance of her jaw, soft lips, and the tiny ski slope of her nose that made her beyond beautiful. A hint of mischief in the class.

  That was the Margo who had taken him down like a flash flood in a summer storm. The woman he was fighting like hell to be worthy of.

  He picked up his step, and his various aches and pains flared as he followed her into the light. He found his first smile in days when she slammed the door in his face.

  Damn, he loved that woman.

  He took the stairs up to the bedroom Lila’s parents had given them to stay in. Small miracles, no one else came out as he went for their door. He followed the sounds to the bathroom. Margo was already in the shower, soap suds gliding down her curves, her clothes puddled on the wide tile.

  “Don’t even think about coming in here.”

  “Just enjoying the show.”

  She cupped her breast with one hand, a soap-swollen washcloth in the other. Her movements slowed from economical to lazy. His throat swelled shut for a whole different reason.

  He toed off his boots and shucked his jacket.

  “Not an invitation.”

  “No?” He glanced down at her tight nipple peeking from her fingers. “Is that how you take your showers when you’re alone?”

  “Lately.” She stared at him through the heat-clouded glass. She squeezed the washcloth until the suds foamed and snaked down her belly to between her legs. “I’ve taken a lot of solo showers. Spent a lot of nights wishing you were home. Wishing you were actually with me when you were home.” Her fingers drifted past her navel to the triangle of curls before she gave him her back, tipping her face up to the spray.

  Simon gripped the counter. “Margo,” he began. What the hell was he supposed to say to that? She was right.

  Resolute with the need to show her, he dropped his pants and the rest of his clothes. The steamy air left his bone-chilled skin tingling, and his ribs screamed with each movement, but he shoved it aside.

  He was good at shoving pain to the side.

  “Don’t,” she whispered hoarsely.

  He slid his hand around her waist and drew her back against him. Not in seduction, though his dick wished otherwise since it was as hard as the icy cold ground he’d been laying on earlier. But not cold. No, there was nothing cold about him when it came to Margo.

  So much heat. Some of it included flames that burned him out, leaving a husk of his former self—where his music used to be. But then there was this, the fever and connection that he’d never felt with anyone else.

  There were only two frames of reference in his life.

  Before Margo.

  After Margo.

  He twisted his hips so the first thing she felt wasn’t his hard-on pressing into her back. Instead it was his chest, his heart slamming, his lips on her shoulder, and finally his arms holding her tight. “I can’t lose you.”

  Her nails dug into his forearms as her head fell back against his shoulder. “Then stop pushing me away.”

  He lifted his fingers to her neck, sliding gently up to her jaw before he turned her face to his. Her soft, soapy breasts teased his arm, and it nearly killed him to ignore her skin. The need to pin her to the wall and prove he could never push her away threatened to override all of his best intentions.

  Hungrily, he caught her mouth in a hot, open-mouthed kiss.

  She moaned against his lips, her cry sharp and capable of flaying him to the bone. She couldn’t hold out against the passion that flared between them any more than he could, but he knew it needed to be more than just sex.

  Sex was easy.

  Sex they knew how to do.

  He tore his mouth away and pressed his cheek to hers. “You’re my miracle, Violin Girl. The sole reason I’ve gotten this far. I promise I’m trying to get my shit together.”

  She turned in his arms. All glorious silky skin and warmth. “You don’t have to do it alone.” She gripped his shoulders and shook. “We don’t have to do anything alone anymore.”

  He gripped her hair and stared into her dark eyes. So earnest, so perfect and giving. She was so much more than he deserved. “I’m never going to be good enough for you.”

  “I get to make those decisions, buddy.”

  He laughed, but it sounded hollow to his own ears. “You are too kind and beautiful for your own good.”

  “No, I’m really not. If you knew how many different ways I’ve imagined tossing you out the window of our penthouse, you wouldn’t think I was so sweet.”

  His laugh was easier this time. “I’m trying like hell to make sure I become the man you need.”

  “I have everything I need.”

  “No.” He cupped her face in his hands. “Don’t you think I see it? How much you miss the band, the stage, the lights?” She looked away. “No, don’t do that. Neither of us have been honest when it comes to this.”

  She met his gaze once more. Her huge dark eyes rimmed with red. “I know you’re not ready.”

  He swallowed. Fuck. That was the crux of it. He wasn’t sure he was ever going to be ready, but he needed to try. For them, for the band, for himself. “I want to be.” He lowered his mouth to hers, the kiss harder than he’d intended. “I want to be,” he whispered against her mouth as the water flowed over her shoulders and between them.

  She clung to his hips as she went onto her toes and fit herself against him. Her mouth was hot and strong, her skin stirring him up with each sway of her hips.

  He sucked down the pain. She needed this. He needed this. “Margo.”

  She stepped back until her shoulders met the tile and hauled him against her. “Touch me. Make me believe it.”

  He slapped his hand over her head and dragged his cock between her legs, brushing along the perfect pussy he swore had been made just for him. His battered ribs shrieked in response, but he wouldn’t stop.

  Not for anything.

  Not when she was saying yes.

  When she was burning for him again.

  He lifted up her knee and around his hip. He watched as he disappeared inside of her. He ripped his gaze away and locked on her huge eyes, then down to her mouth where she sunk her teeth into her lower lip. He bent his knees and angled himself lower, so he could thrust up where she needed him.

  He knew her so well.

  Knew every clasping ridge of tissue inside her sw
eet body. He knew how deep he needed to go to push her past the woman that thought too much, to the woman who gave herself to him freely. Her thigh trembled as he drove into her, his own thighs burning with each upward thrust.

  She gripped his shoulder, pushing him away.

  Yes.

  Now, he knew she was close.

  When she tried to escape the pleasure because it was too big.

  He knew his girl.

  He drew his arms around her waist and lifted her so she came down on his cock. Her head tilted back and she squeezed him. “Fuck,” he said against her neck. Hopefully she thought it was just in passion. His vision went spotty as his body rebelled at movements that were usually so easy.

  Shower sex was their favorite.

  Holy fuckballs, Nick had tried to cripple him.

  He put the pain in a box. Instead, he sipped the streaming water off of her skin, following the roadmap that never failed him. The way he could read her like no one else on this earth. His hips flexed against her welcoming body, the flutters inside her dragging him out of the song. The Margo song, for which he knew every note and chord.

  The swamping need he’d held back crashed into him as she pulsed around him. She cried out his name, laying destruction to his focus until there was nothing but slapping skin and water, then the rushing blackness as he emptied himself into her.

  The stinging water on his back brought him back. She’d clawed the shit out of his skin. At least those wounds he’d wear with honor. His throbbing eyesocket and ribs hated him with ruthless aggression, but the pain was so very worth it.

  She shuddered around him, her breath heavy against his neck as he lowered her feet to the floor. She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Don’t let go. Not yet.”

  “Never.” He slid out of her and folded his arms around her waist.

  They stayed there until the water went from steam to tepid, and finally to cold again. It was only her chattering teeth that prompted him to turn off the faucet and wrap her in a fluffy towel.

  He swung her into his arms.

  “Simon!”

  His ribs nearly made him bobble her, but he held on, walking into their room in the lodge. The walls were a bright, cream color with rustic beams striping the ceiling. It was so very different from the modern lines of their home.