“The only devil around here is you.”
I graze her earlobe with my teeth. “Flattery will get you everything.”
“I don’t fuck on a first date, no matter how much I want to.”
“But I’m tempting the hell out of you, right?” It’s a rhetorical question. I don’t actually need an answer, because she’s beneath me, and I can feel the heat of her skin, and see the blush across the top of her breasts. Her body rocks, hips lifting to maintain the contact with my hand, pressing, giving her the friction she needs, exactly where she needs it.
“You’ve done this before,” she crows, breath sharp and unsteady.
“Fucked on stage? I haven’t, actually.” I know that’s not what she meant. She means what I’m doing with my hand and fingers. And the truth is yes, I may have had a little bit of practice. Sex doesn’t always have to consist of plain old bump and grind. There are thousands of ways to get a woman off. I’m not going to pretend I’ve tried them all, but I have mastered a few, particularly the most important one. Engage the brain. Sex has to be more than just mechanics.
“How big is your clit?” I ask. “Does it get enormous when you’re turned on, and stand up all hard and eager? Is it standing up for me right now?” I find it through the denim and work it smoothly with my thumb.
“Oh fuck,” she says, trembling. “Just there.”
“Here?”
“Yeah…Nate...”
I turn so that I’m looking right at her again.
“Oh, God!” She breaks apart right beneath me, shivers rolling through her body, and her back arching up off the floor. Her head tips backwards, and I bite her chin as it points up at the ceiling. I stay right with her as she rides the wave.
“I like your come face too,” I tell her, before dropping a kiss onto the tip of her nose, and then pressing another to her lips. Her arms wrap around me and we roll into the darkness at the side of the stage.
Only in the shadows do we break apart.
Well, kind of, because her hands are still on my torso, holding me at arm’s length as if she’s not sure whether to push me away or drag me closer for another round of tongue wars.
“What are we doing?”
“Fuck if I know.”
“We have to stop.”
“That’d be wise.”
“I’m not sure I’m very wise. I shouldn’t have come in here.”
“Bollocks. It’s the best thing anyone has done all night.”
She grins so that her canines make an appearance. They’re sharp little points, like there’s a bit of Tepes blood in her, although her accent is pure Cornish without a hint of Wallachia. “Yeah, but…Soon.”
I nod, because I know. In a few short hours Graham Callahan is going to destroy whatever it is that’s growing between us by pitching us head to head in a fight to the death—I’m picturing battle of the bands, Hunger Games style. Wonder if I’m going to be throttled with a guitar string, smashed over the head with snare or just smothered to death feasting between the thighs of one of the best bass players on the planet. Yes, I rate her that highly, and dying while buried in her muff doesn’t seem such a bad way to go.
“I ought to go and let you get back to your composition.”
My composition—the one I hope to destroy her with tomorrow. Yeah, I do actually need to get back to that, which means I need to stuff all this high emotion that’s bubbling between us into a vault and sink it to the bottom of a lagoon. This is absolutely the wrong time in my life to be getting doe-eyed over a girl. I reckon I’ve just about packaged it up, when she leans in and then it’s all wet and heady between us again.
I want to cling on and wind her up to orgasm number two, but then something else besides desire rears its head, something ugly, and irate. Why is she here toying with my feelings like this, turning a straight forward fight into something that’s too emotionally fraught for words? Isn’t it enough that I’ve Knox to pin down and knock into shape, a wayward brother who can’t keep his dick in his pants and only wants to make it because it’ll get him more pussy, not to mention a bee in my ear buzzing away with Joel Ashton’s voice about doing whatever it takes? He’s going to call me every name under the sun when he finds out about this.
Man enough to screw her, but not to employ her—fucking hell, Nate! Couldn’t you do it the other way around, and screw Knox?
Knox is already screwed. He has been for years. He doesn’t need me adding to his woes.
But even pushing that aside, I’m an idiot for letting her distract me like this. Everything is dependent on me having this song finished, and while I have her cradled in my arms there’s no bass track being written.
There’s still sparks firing between us and zapping off in all directions, but I make the decision to stop this and salvage what remains of the night. Initially, when I pull away, she tries to hold on and draw me into another kiss.
I shake my head. It can’t happen. I need to get on, find Knox, and make music. “You ought to go, before anyone stumbles in here.”
She sucks her bottom lip. “Yeah. I mean, we should all be heading to bed.”
Given the hour, she’s not wrong, but I’ve no intention of stumbling upstairs.
“We could walk to the lift together.”
That’s a terrifically stupid idea. I give my head another shake. I can see from the way her shoulders slump that she doesn’t care for my response.
“See you in the morning.”
Unfortunately.
I refuse to let myself watch her dress. What just happened can’t happen again. I can’t let myself get attached to her. It was a moment of madness that’s all. Nothing good can come of something deep and meaningful blossoming between us—absolutely nothing. The last thing I need to be feeling when we play for Callahan is guilt that I might be robbing her of the chance of a lifetime.
Dressed, she plants herself right before me. Too close for comfort, but not nearly as close as I actually want her.
“Are you going to say anything at all to me?” she asks,
What’s to say? I respond with silence.
“Fair enough, but just in case you happen to think of something.” She writes her phone number on my fore-arm, backwards and upside down, which is an accomplishment for definite.
“For what possible reason could I need this?” I’m pretending, trying to convince myself the taste I’ve had of her so far is enough.
She sees right through me. “The universe works in mysterious ways.”
“So what, you’re gonna have my back if we wake to the zombie apocalypse?”
She laughs and walks away. “I was hoping for a better bit than your back.”
“Big toe?” I respond. “A hand?”
I don’t get a reply. Instead, I hear the door to the function room swing closed, and I’m left staring at the numbers inked onto my arm, and resisting the urge to call right away.
SEVEN
Loveday Trevaskis
I’m a damned idiot. As if getting entangled with him and letting him fuck my breasts wasn’t stupid enough, I go and write my number on his arm. He’s supposed to be the enemy, the demon of darkness according to Jessie, but I confess I’m struggling to see Nathaniel Darke in that way. Oh, I dare say he has a fuck of a mean streak, but I can be a vicious bitch myself if the occasion demands, and there’s just something about him that grabs me by the vitals and reels me in. It’s not a single thing, and its nothing so shallow as his looks. Although, I won’t deny there’s plenty there to appreciate, what with his chartreuse-green eyes, cheekbones that you could ski off and hair that’s all fringe and spikes. It’s the whole maddening package.
I breathe deeply and realise I can smell his scent on me. Hardly surprising given he splattered me with his axle grease. I’ve never thought having a guy come on me would be such a turn on, but it was fucking hot watching him hump my breasts.
If we ever make a video for Perverted Tit Fucker, then we ought to get the Darke brothers to do cameos. Ac
tually, what the hell, I’m good with it just being Nate humping my tits for three minutes. I reckon it’d go viral, and Bitch Slap would have ourselves a platinum disc within a week.
I head into the ladies’ bathroom to straighten up my clothes and wash the scent of him off my skin before I track down Jessie and Ivy. There’s no sense in advertising what happened. No good will come of it, but at the same time, I refuse to feel guilty over something that gave me such an impressive high. There aren’t that many guys who have got me off, and none of them have done it without a heck of a lot of pussy-worshiping first.
Whatever happens come dawn, I’m not done with Nathaniel Darke yet. I want to know what his mouth feels like against my sex. I just pray that come six thirty, he’s not done with me.
Jessie is sitting in the bar exactly where I left her, still clasping the same Dirty Martini. I’m not sure she even likes the stuff, she just likes the sound of it, and making the bar staff hunt around for olives.
“What are they doing?” she demands when I slip onto the bar stool next to hers. She turns and grabs hold of both my hands. “Please tell me they’re as rattled as we hoped.”
Meaning twice as panicked as she is. Nope—no can do. The only member of Paradise Kiss I stumbled on was Darke, and while he was definitely a little on edge, he’s Mr. Cool next to Jessie.
“Well?” Jessie prompts releasing her grip on me in order to engage in some hand flapping. Patience isn’t something she’s ever had in abundance. “What did you see? What did they say?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” She screws up her pretty face, so that her eyebrows and pout are almost touching.
“I didn’t see anyone, Jess.” I’m not precisely sure why I decide to outright lie, maybe it’s simply to protect myself from a verbal onslaught. Jessie in a rage is never fun. Or maybe I’m still trying to process what the hell happened between Darke and me, beyond it being a whole lot of awesome. I mean jamming and then shagging him really wasn’t the plan. Not that I had an actual plan, just orders to do some reconnaissance.
“Fuck it! We need to know what they’re planning.”
I don’t see why. Knowing what track they’re playing isn’t going to make any difference, but Jessie needs to feel as if she’s doing something, primarily because she can’t bear the thought of Dane beating her at anything. Me, I think we’ve bigger problems to focus on.
“Where’s Ivy?”
“Upstairs, sulking. Probably on the phone to Nightshift.” Jessie cradles her drink closer to her chest. I suddenly wish I had a glass to hold and some cheap oblivion to pour down my throat. “I can’t believe she’s being so difficult about this. It’s our shot at the big time. Most people have to work for years and years to even get a crack at something like this, and all she can do is whine about the fact it’ll take her away from her boyfriend.”
“She’ll play, though,” I say. Ives will, she might be flaky, but she’s not pond scum. She won’t leave us in the lurch when it really matters.
“And afterwards?”
“Maybe it’s best not to think too far ahead. Could be Graham Callahan knows a stupendous keyboardist who just happens not to be attached to a group right now.”
“Yeah, and it could be that he’s only after us because he thinks Black Halo fans will love Ivy flashing her muff.”
“Dunno.” I scratch my head, because I’d hate to think the only reason we’re in the running was because our exhibitionist mate doesn’t wax. “Maybe there’s no sense in dwelling on it, and we just have to see what tomorrow brings.”
“You’re being awfully philosophical.”
“Yeah, well I didn’t get punched in the face earlier tonight.”
Jessie sighs and rubs her jaw where a bruise is forming. We sit a moment in companionable silence.
“Did Dane ever hit you when you were together?”
She shakes her head, then leans over her drink with her fingers threaded through the front of her hair. “Leastways, only on the arse.” She peeps at me from beneath her heavy eyelashes and smiles. “We have to win, Loveday. No way am I letting that dickhead think he’s better than me.”
“Then we’d better get some shut eye.” That’ll put us ahead of Paradise Kiss, because I’m not sure any of them are planning on hitting the sack.
EIGHT
Nathaniel Darke
After Loveday leaves, I spend two minutes checking over Knox’s bass and my Gretsch for damage. Both instruments appear to have survived our rampaging libidos unscathed. However, I don’t attempt to settle down and resume what I was doing. I was getting nowhere even with the rest of the song playing on endless repeat. Instead, I decide it’s time to track down Knox.
I swear if I find him crashed out in bed, I’m going to give him such a kicking.
We’re bunked up in twin rooms. It’s all the hotel was prepared to offer, eight rooms to split between the five bands that were on tonight’s roster. I’ve heard that Bulldozer are all packed into one room consisting of two doubles and a dodgy sofa, so the fact that I’m ostensibly sharing with either Knox or Joel, I chalk up as a minor inconvenience. It beats sharing with my brother, which I point blank refuse to do. We spent enough nights as kids listening to one another snivel and heavy breathe. That, and he inevitably has company.
The guys aren’t in either of our assigned berths. Dane’s obviously gone to her place, whoever the lady in question is. Joel, fuck knows, I guess he’s off somewhere being pissed at me, but Knox…Knox isn’t allowed to be AWOL. I fucking well need him to be here.
I check in the closet and under the beds, but no joy.
Fuck!
I pick up my phone, and try calling him, but Teddy is obviously off having a picnic somewhere and doesn’t pick up. Another scope of the adjoining room reveals his smartphone on the bed stand chirping merrily to itself. He’s not been back here. If he had, the device would be gone, as Dane and Joel’s are. We all left them up here rather than risk stowing them in the dressing room—too many thieving bastards about. No, I do not trust the venue staff, the other bands, or their groupies. Most of them don’t have a decent bone in their bodies, and labour under the misinformed impression that because Paradise Kiss are more popular, and frankly better than they are, that we’re raking it in. I wish…But getting back to my quest for Knox, I head out into the corridor again.
I doubt he’s in the bar, it was all shut up, and what’s the point of hanging there if you can’t procure hard liquor? If he’s found his way into one of the other bands’ rooms, I’m stuffed, because I have no idea what their room numbers are, and the desk staff won’t hand them out, especially at this hour of the night. I’m pretty certain I’m not going to find him in the gym, but that could be where Joel’s lurking, given he fancies himself as a sprinter.
I plod in that direction anyway, because even though it’s going to necessitate another round of snarky comments and arm-twisting, two of us conducting a search and rescue should theoretically double the odds of locating Knox.
Only the gym’s locked up tighter than a virgin’s snatch.
I’m about ready to admit defeat and wind my way back to the function room, when a clatter from the direction of the emergency exit makes me pause. Who the hell uses the stairs in a hotel? Seriously, it’s the lift or nothing. I mean, most hotels don’t even bother to prettify the alternative. It’s purely functional magnolia on the walls and heavy duty lino under foot.
I head through the door, this place entirely lives up to my expectations, bar some fancy fleur-de-lys shit above the dado rail. I find Knox slumped against the wall part way between the second and third floors. It takes approximately three milliseconds to realise he’s utterly wasted. There’s not a hope in hell’s chance that I’m going to get anything useful out of him tonight. Actually, I’m not sure he’s even going to be in a fit state at six ‘o clock.
My priorities adjust accordingly, to get Knox straightened out, and then give him the bollocking of the century.
“What are you doing here?”
“Finding you.” His mouth forms a slack grin that fails to contain the drool which leaks from one corner. “Guess I did it.”
“Nope, this is me finding you. I was where we played the gig. All you needed to do was meet me there.”
“Yeah…guess,” he slurs. “But I got switched around in all the corridors. It’s like a maze.”
Seriously, the average lab rat would mind map this hotel in about fifteen seconds. The problem isn’t the lay out of the building, but that Teddy-boy here has no control over his addictions, the memory of a sea cucumber and an idiot mate that’s prepared to put up with him. The latter being me.
I hunch down beside him and take proper stock of what I’m dealing with—a cocktail of alcohol and hash, based on the smell, and most likely something else too, given that when I practically kneel on him, he neither murmurs in pain or attempts to move.
“Have you been dropping tabs?”
“Nah,” he sighs, still grinning like a village idiot, and giving his chin a slow wash.
I’m not sure I trust his memory, but hey, maybe we’ve progressed to something worse. I push up his sleeves to look for needle marks. Nothing and nothing, but it’s not just weed that’s got him in this state. “What the hell have you taken, Knox?”
He flaps a hand before me. “It’s all good, Nate.” He simulates inhaling. “The stuff was seriously smooth. You should try it.”
Smooth? I’ll accept it might have taken him halfway to paradise while he was inhaling, but it’s shit, whatever the laced weed has done to him. “Knox, your frickin’ legs aren’t working.”
“Are you sure?” he asks.
BANGED: Rock Stars, Bad Boys & Dirty Deeds Page 43
