“No,” he gasped out. And then, as if to make sure she understood, he gave a short, quick shake of his head.
No? Part of her recoiled from the blunt rejection. He didn’t want her. She’d managed to disappoint him just by having a messy orgasm all over his tongue.
But another part of her was simply confused. Any man, and a famous, sexy rock star at that, didn’t lick a girl to orgasm and then just masturbate beside her when he was finished. And that definitely couldn’t be normal sex-contract procedure, even if she didn’t really know what that would be. He could perform almost any act on her, and the way he was watching her breasts as he touched himself, she knew he wanted to. So why didn’t he? A sudden tenderness filled her as she watched sweat bead on his brow.
She brushed it away. “If you want to…do that, it’s fine. I’ll just help, okay? I’ll be right next to you and help.”
His lips pursed; his brow furrowed. Even while he fought with himself, his hand didn’t stop. He was fighting with himself and jerking himself off, and she wondered if those were the same things.
“Okay,” he gasped.
She reached out and paused, uncertain. Her hands hovered above him, like some sort of dirty healer. “What do you want me to do?”
“Touch me,” he ground out, still working, still stroking.
She put her palms on his chest. Just placed them flat against bunched, sweaty muscles, an ironing board to unruly wrinkles.
“With your mouth,” he grunted, and she leaned forward to place a kiss on a pale brown nipple.
“Lower.”
She pressed her lips to his abs. Her eyes met his, and without really planning it, a challenge passed from her to him.
His lids lowered. “Do you want me to make you?”
She could never tell him to do that, not in three days, not in a million years. All she could do was bow her head and pray he would do it anyway. His other hand tangled in her hair, grasped it at the base, and guided her mouth to where they both wanted it to be.
* * *
His jaw ached. His cock ached. Everything ached. She was so much fucking work—exhausting—and he couldn't get enough.
He tugged the silky blonde strands tangled in his fingers and resisted the urge to pull her up to his sticky lips, to bury his face in her hair. Hair that he knew smelled just like the baby powder he sprinkled on his hands before a show.
There was nothing coy about her, nothing calculating. But she blinked at him with her clear brown eyes, said those things, and manipulated him just the same. Maybe if he filled that mouth with his cock, he could break the spell. Maybe he was kidding himself.
She touched him with just the tip of her tongue, tasted him, slipped a bead of precum into her mouth and moaned. A live fucking wire, a shorted-out amp. He felt that flick shoot to his balls, along his spine, right to the top of his head. Jesus. The wet slide of her mouth as she swallowed him was warm and welcome. Slow. She wanted to help. It was like his cock found a home.
“That's it, baby. Take it all.”
He pushed her down until she made a muffled choking noise, the head of his cock hitting the back of her throat, her lips still not at the base. She didn't balk or pull away; she just relaxed into it. Took it. And then she swirled her goddamn tongue, like a question. He hissed the answer through clenched teeth. “Yesssss.”
This was not the plan. The plan was to jerk off with her mouth, use her like a masturbatory sex toy, a living Fleshlight. Fuck her face until she didn't want to look at him.
He wasn't in control anymore.
Spinning on a razor edge of bliss, rocking his hips, he trailed his hand down the side of her face. Caressed her hollowed cheek with his thumb as she worked over him. Her naked body bent to the task, her pale shoulders a stark contrast to his tanned skin. He smoothed her hair back so he could see the gorgeous mess he'd made, her lips pulled tight, her eyes watering.
She smiled.
He let his head sink into the pillows. Let the pleasure claim him, just this once. When her searching hand found his balls, cupped them, that was a question too.
His body answered for him. The orgasm rocked through him like a violent quake. She took it all. He held her there, just to make sure.
SEVEN
Saturday morning
Hailey stretched, feeling the warmth of sunlight on her face…and a hairy leg beneath her foot. That brought her up short.
She sat and took stock. A cushy, oversize bed that bore close resemblance to a cloud. An endless view of blue skies through the tall windows. And a rough-hewn man sprawled beside her. She knew there was an explanation for all this. It hovered just beyond her thoughts. But at the moment she couldn’t remember the specifics, and right here, this felt like heaven. Or a highly sexualized version of heaven.
The man rolled to face her. Without opening his eyes, his hands reached for her―and found their mark. He pulled her down beside him, wrapping his arms around her, heavy and sweet. “Go back to sleep,” he mumbled against her hair, and yes, yes, this had to be heaven.
But then she remembered. Her sister, pregnant. The band, the deadbeat. And the contract, signed.
It was a puzzle, that contract. So formal and yet so…permissive. Like building up walls and then handing her a sledgehammer. Opening her eyes, she saw the side table where he kept the contracts and the lube. Very handy for sudden sex purposes. He’d had a stack of them. How many women had signed on the very solid, very puzzling line? Probably lots of them.
He might not even have known it was her. Go back to sleep sounded a lot less charming. He didn’t want to cuddle; he wanted to hit the Snooze button on his human alarm clock.
Gross.
She felt gross. She wriggled from his grasp, needing to breathe freely again. He made a grunting sound and tossed and turned briefly before settling back into sleep. He really was pretty this way. Long lashes against tanned cheeks. The heavy eyeliner had faded from his lids, leaving him looking innocent. What a joke. No doubt he had tried everything once and then started over again, like the kinky man’s version of Around the World in Eighty Days. And she wasn’t a Paris or even a Chicago. She was a gas-station stop on Route 66.
She really needed to get out of this room.
At least Lock had the foresight to have her bag brought up last night. She slipped into the bathroom and took a shower, wondering why her skin could still remember the shape of his hands, his mouth, even when pummeled by scalding water. The clothes she’d filched from her sister seemed to fit her even worse today, without the puffery of righteous indignation to fill them out.
A clumsy attempt at makeup completed the disguise.
Hopefully she would blend in. If not, she thought wryly, she could always show them the contract. It was the cool-kids stamp of approval she’d never had back in high school. Of course then she’d owe Lock a bajillion dollars, so probably not. At least she had the little VIP card around her neck, for whatever that was worth.
As she hit the button on the elevator, she realized she wouldn’t be able to return to the room without a key card. And Lock had the key card. Maybe she should wait until he woke up? Nah. She had come here for this purpose. And he’d said she had full access to his band and the hotel when he wasn’t using her.
Like now.
Downstairs, it looked like most people had cleared out. A cleaning crew had come and gone, leaving the lobby immaculate. No puke by the potted fern. No unconscious guy slumped next to it—she hoped he was okay.
There was one relic from last night, as if to prove it hadn’t been a dream. A guy lounged in one of the fancy leather chairs. He was shirtless and shoeless, and his fly was undone. He cradled his head in his hand, clearly worse for the night’s partying.
Frowning, she tried to remember the hints her sister had dropped about the guy she liked. We love the same music. No surprise there. He really gets me. Hailey sighed. He’s just in a weird place with his life right now, and a baby would mess all that up.
Not m
uch to go on, but hey, she’d found her righteous indignation again. This little road trip hadn’t been a well thought out idea. It was pure, unadulterated frustration. Hailey refused to sit around at home and do nothing, and this was all she’d had left. She marched over and plopped herself in the seat across from the guy.
“Hi, I’m Hailey.”
He scowled at her. “Why are you shouting?”
“I’m not,” she said, but she did lower her voice. “I just wanted to introduce myself, because I’m new around here. You know, to the tour.” What did they call themselves? “The group. The…club.”
“You don’t say,” he responded drily.
“But you know, I really love their music. The band’s. It’s very…” She had a flash of a dark head wedged between her thighs. “Enthusiastic. And talented.”
“So you’re here to fuck them.” A statement, not a question.
“No.” She blushed. Now that she’d signed the contract, it was true. She was here to fuck Lock, for three days. Or were they on two and a half now? Something panged in her gut. She should probably find breakfast soon. “Well. Yeah. But I also wondered, since you’re part of the band posse—”
“The what?” He snorted.
Maybe not posse then. She shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. Did you see a girl with the band? Blonde. Young.”
He gave her a droll look. “I’m looking at one.”
She flushed again. Damn it. “Not me. My…friend. She sold merch for a while.”
Should she give Chloe’s name? Or flash a photograph? But some old instinct to protect had her speaking in vague terms, protecting her sister’s virtue like they were in medieval times or something. Hailey had seen the looks her mother had gotten, even in a town that wasn’t small. Reputation was a fragile thing.
He leaned forward, his gaze intent. “Again, I see a lot of girls like that. Girls looking for a good time. I can tell by the dreamy look on your face that someone’s already got to you. But you should know, we share. You get bored tonight, come find me. The name’s Krist.”
She stared at him, unable to move past the two words: we share. With a knowing grin, he stood and strolled out of the lobby, whistling something that sounded vaguely familiar.
Hmm. That had gone okay. Not great, though. How was she supposed to figure this out, anyway? Too bad there wasn’t a polite way to ask, So is your life in a weird place right now? Any pressing commitment you can’t deal with? Or maybe just, Did you have unprotected sex with my sister and then leave her to deal with the consequences, you dirtbag? But all that was the opposite of subtle.
She didn’t have a plan for finding this guy. Nada. Zip. Which sucked, but she couldn’t walk away.
She refused to let her sister be publicly shamed any more than was necessary. They’d already had a taste of that in school, when knowledge of their mother’s paid “dates” made the cafeteria rounds. The fact that Hailey and Chloe had different fathers, neither of whom they’d ever met, didn’t help. Hailey wanted better than that for Chloe and her baby, so here she was. Ready to give the father of her niece or nephew a verbal butt kicking. If only she could identify him.
With Krist gone, the lobby was pretty much empty. She doubted the woman with the perfect up-do behind the desk would be interested in spilling band secrets. Wandering through the wide, carpeted halls, she found the bar had opened. Inside, a bartender was wiping glasses as he lined them up, prepping for the day and night to come. He had a metallic blue shirt and an earring, and shadows under his eyes that hinted at late nights. His smile, though, was warm when she sat down.
“What can I get you?” he asked easily.
She immediately liked this guy, immediately felt more comfortable than she’d been recently. “What do you have that’s nonalcoholic? And comforting. Like chicken soup. I guess you don't have that.”
“Unfortunately not. But I have orange juice, and I can get the kitchen to fix you pancakes. Carbs always make me feel better. What do you say?”
“I'd say you're my new best friend…Sorry, what's your name?”
“Michael. And it's coming right up.”
“Bless you.”
* * *
He woke with the top sheet tangled around his neck. Alone. Disoriented. Not as disoriented as when he'd spent his nights in the bottom of a whiskey bottle, but close. The room, unnaturally dark and frigid, hummed with silence. He ran his hand over the empty space beside him. Cool to the touch. She'd been gone for a while, long enough for all that delicious body heat to fade from the soft white sheets. He could have curled around her body and slept for days. Where the fuck was she?
He sat up, fumbled for the phone on the nightstand, and punched the buttons for room service. Before the second ring he hung up. He wasn't hungry, not for food. Maybe she'd been hungry and wandered downstairs looking for a waffle bar, like this was some highway travel lodge.
Lock had figured out young that his parents were icons. What exactly they iconicized had taken longer to figure out—and had alternately shamed and frustrated him after. Krist had been in the same tabloid-frenzied boat. When they’d first formed their band, they had stayed at shit motels, desperate to prove they were more than rock royalty. Struggling to starve so they could be artists. But when they’d signed their first big deal, hiding their parentage had been impossible. He missed the anonymity sometimes, and the waffles. He almost missed sharing a room with his “brother.” He'd never been alone back then.
Never had time to think.
A muffled buzz emitted from the nightstand drawer, the one with lube and clean contracts and a freshly inked agreement with Hailey's bubbly signature. He fished the phone out and groaned when he saw a hairy ass on the screen. Fucking Moe. He couldn't change his pass code fast enough. “You have my pick. What do you want now?”
“You got a sweet little blonde on your payroll?” The smart-ass was damn near giddy and more gossipy than an old lady at the beauty parlor.
“I don't pay them, Moe. That's your deal.”
“You know what I mean.” And he did. They all did. He didn't discuss his contractual relationships with the guys, but they knew his situations were pretty regimented. Especially after that last nuclear disaster had gone viral. And not the kind of viral that required blood work. The kind that couldn't be scrubbed from RedTube no matter how slick the record label's lawyer. He couldn't blame them for thinking he used pros, though no one could confuse Hailey with a professional.
“She causing trouble?” He couldn't imagine what that would even look like. He pictured her trying to lace Krist's combat boots so he wouldn't trip. She'd be crouched on one knee, that too-short skirt riding up, head bent―he coughed. He didn't need a hard-on while he was talking to Moe.
“No, but she's causing a little scene in the bar trying to pay for her breakfast. Won't give ’em a room number.”
Shit. All she had to do was give his name. Was his little mouse ashamed? “Are you there? Hand her the phone.”
He heard some muffled footsteps and voices as Moe pushed his phone on Hailey.
“Yes?” The sweet tickle of her uncertain voice had him shifting again.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Paying for my breakfast. Trying, anyway.”
“You're mine for three days, Hailey. I take care of what's mine.”
“I didn't know your room number.” She said it in a fast whisper. “Do penthouses have room numbers?”
He shouldn't have let her leave on her own. He should've tied her to the bed and fucked her right back into oblivion. Then ordered room service so they could do it all over again after they ate. He'd just been so sleepy, so comfortable wrapped around her. He hadn't slept that well in years. “Just show them your VIP pass and they’ll know you’re with me. They’ll know you’re mine. Then get your ass up here so I can take it out in trade.”
“Is that how this works? Trade?” She was still whispering, but he could almost hear her smile.
“No. Not
really. There is no trade. There's only you giving me your ass.”
“Bodily available.” It wasn't a question. It was an affirmation. Those two words on her lips, buzzing in his ear, sent all the blood in his head rushing toward his dick.
“Don't make me wait.”
“Will there be…consequences?” The quiver in her voice, the hesitation, all thready and breathless, sounded more like anticipation than fear. She just kept surprising him.
“Would you like that?”
She didn't answer with words, only a gasp. A sharp intake that sounded so much like the noise she made when he thrust inside her—he pressed the heel of his palm to his throbbing erection and growled into the phone. “Be here in five minutes, or I'm putting you over my knee.”
He hoped she took her time.
EIGHT
Tim took the steps up to Chloe's apartment two at a time. If he slowed down, he might start thinking again, and if he started thinking, he'd never do what he needed to do. It was early, the sun just peeking over the treetops, but he knew she’d be awake. She was a morning person, and he…had not been able to sleep at all.
He'd never been to her apartment before. The one she shared with Hailey. But he knew where they lived; basically the whole congregation did. They were like pets, the two of them, especially after their mother had skipped town. Food baskets and bags of cast-off sweaters, a few dollars toward a gas bill during a particularly brutal winter.
They'd struggled in ways he could only imagine. He wouldn't add to that. Not any more than he already had. They were going to have a baby. A child who would need food and sweaters and heat and two parents that loved him. Or her. As long as it's healthy. That's what people said. The gender didn't matter as long as it was healthy.
He knew what that meant now.
He rapped his knuckles against the door. Would Hailey be home? Did she already know? What would she say? His heart pounded in his chest. That didn't matter either. Done is done. It was time to soak up the spilled milk.
BANGED: Rock Stars, Bad Boys & Dirty Deeds Page 26
