My cheeks burn, but I do as he asks. I hear myself whisper it. If whispers are things you holler loud enough to wake the dead. I babble, telling him that I want him in my mouth, my cunt, my arse, anywhere he’ll take me, anywhere he’ll have me. Maybe everyplace all at once, but mostly I tell him to fuck me hard, to not hold back and to make me feel it, because that’s what he does. He makes me want him, even though I know it’s every kind of stupid to entangle myself with him and will cause holy hellfire if Jessie and Ivy find out.
I guess he’s in a similar boat on that score, Paradise Kiss aren’t going to be anymore thrilled to find him balls deep inside of me than my Bitch Slap sisters are.
Not that those facts stop us. Some things are just meant to be. It doesn’t matter how wrong they are, not when they feel so incredibly right.
Nathaniel Darke on the verge of screwing me senseless feels incredibly right, like I was born to live this moment.
“I’m going to bang you so hard everyone in the hotel will here you scream.”
Like I’m not making that sort of noise already.
I can’t hold it in, not when he’s teasing my clit from the inside like that, not when my need is so great, it’s driven me up onto tip-toes and my thighs are like jelly from straining to inch my hips that bit closer to his.
“I don’t want to wait. Fuck me.”
“Let me get dressed for the occasion.”
That involves a stumbling journey into the bedroom, during which he sheds his jeans and I finally get to admire him completely naked.
Fuck! The sight of his body alone is enough to turn me to treacle. He’s built like a runner, hard and lean. There are knots of muscles on his thighs, abs and arms. His back, one side and the whole of one arm is covered with bright tattoos—butterflies and skulls interwoven with snakes. It’s a good thing I’m not freaked by creepy-crawlies. A scarab-like beetle sits on the curve of his left arse-cheek, seemingly about to scurry into the crack.
There’s one bit of him that fascinates me more than all his body paint though. There’s just something so primal and visceral about a rock hard cock pointing at you like an accusation.
Watching a man roll a condom over his shaft has never been more erotic and excruciating at the same time. I love the way his long fingers dance, making the sheath sit just right, but simultaneously, I’m too desperate to wait and genuinely appreciate the show.
“Come here,” he beckons, back to the wall, once he’s finished putting on his raincoat.
I wish I had time to snap his photograph. A naked man against a magnolia wall shouldn’t make for extraordinary art, but it’s the best landscape I’ve ever seen.
The moment I’m close enough, he grabs hold of me, rolls us, so that it’s me with my back against the wall. He lifts me as if I weigh nothing, holds me right up off the floor as if I’m flying. I expect him to just shove his cock right into me and take what he wants, but he doesn’t. He notches the head like he’s contemplating the fit, then tugs me on like a goddamned glove.
I keen like a frickin banshee.
Someone, somewhere nearby has just heard the siren call of their death.
I squeeze him tight with my muscles, pulling him that bit deeper. In turn, he lifts me higher, then peels me away from the wall and turns so that the bed is behind us.
Hot breath. Hot musk. The scent of me. The scent of us. He’s all sweat and muscle, and raw, angry power. He hates me. I can feel it in the way he drives himself deep, and the way his breath hisses between his teeth. This is all about conquering me and trying to extinguish what’s burning so frickin brightly where our bodies and love of music meet. It won’t work. I know that, because I hate him too for making me want him when it’s stupid to do so. I hate him and I’m drawn to him at the same time. We’re too alike, too ambitious, both too desperate for what Graham Callahan is offering–that boost up to the next level. Whatever it takes…And yet, here we are, our bodies moving in perfect sync, hearts providing the underlying beat, the slap our bodies make when they meet, providing percussion, while our wails and scorched breaths fill out the rest of the melody. And in my head, I have the perfect bass-line. The one that’s going to make me a mint, as soon as I find the chords and accompanying sounds to go with it.
“Lie back.”
Lie back? I’m suspended in mid-fucking-air.
“Come on, Love. Don’t tell me you’re not going to dance the dance with me.”
I have no clue what he’s talking about, and I’m not wholly convinced the position he’s coaxing me into is going to result in anything other than an injury, but given how much I’m risking already being here, what’s one more leap of faith?
I hold onto his shoulders and lean back to the full stretch of my arms. It’s not far enough. My grip slides over his biceps, down to the crooks of his arms, and then to his wrists.
“Lie back,” he says again, as he clasps hold of my hands, and I do. I trust him, which is damned fucking crazy of me. The result sees my head lower than his knees. The bed is nearby, but just out of reach, though I could probably grab hold if I absolutely needed to.
“Now let go.” He shakes his hands free of mine, and grasps me firmly above the hips, supporting my lower back.
I’ve never felt so topsy-turvy, but once my hands hit the floor, I’m a little more balanced. I guess it’s a good thing I’m flexible.
“Best position ever.”
He may have a point. A few seconds of being inverted and I’m woozy as hell, but the rush when he moves inside of me is intense.
It’s not what I’d call a deep position, but what it lacks in that department, it makes up for in thrills.
He sinks to his knees when I’m on the edge of delirium, orgasm is looming large on the horizon and the pressure in my head has become another layer to the music we’re making together.
I could lie still, let him do the rest of the work, but actually, I want him close. I want to get my hands on him, scratch, bite, dig my nails into the muscles of his thighs and flanks. I want him so close that my breasts are squashed up against the broad expanse of his chest. When he comes—when I come, I don’t want there to be more than a millimetre of space between us.
“Jeezus woman, you feel so fucking good.” He makes some little crooning noises that totally back up his words. We slow into a steady, smooth, roll together, staring at one another, mouths hanging open. “Shouldn’t feel this good.”
“When it’s wrong, it’s always right.”
“Ever done anything this nuts before?”
I shake my head.
I can’t take my frickin eyes off him as he pumps into me. Whatever it is that’s connecting us has me well and truly trapped. I’m going to come looking him right in the eyes. I’ve never let go like that before. I’m not sure what the net result will be, it’ll probably transform the troublesome connections between us into high carbon steel bond.
“Gonna…” He mutters breathlessly, eyes glazing a little.
I push my fingers into his mouth, feel the tremors run up though his back, and his cock jolt inside of me. He comes hard, body shaking, the strain showing in his face, so that a line of perspiration forms across the top of his lip.
“Fucking come,” he growls, like I’m deliberately holding out on him, and maybe I am, because something seems to snap in response to his order.
Oh, God! I fall hard, my climax opening me up to emotions that I’d be wiser not to feel. All my defences are shredded, ripped away, exposing me. I’m sure he can see right down into my core, because I’m seeing into the very heart of him, and I’m petrified by what I find there.
TWELVE
Nathaniel Darke
The high is earth-shattering. The come down turns me into a cabbage. I don’t know what it is about Loveday Trevaskis, but just the way she looks at me does nonsensical things to my insides. Her touch is incendiary. There’s more than simple lust boiling between us. I don’t know whether to cling on tight, or scarper as fast as possible. If I w
ant a career, the latter’s the only sensible option.
I haven’t done a single sensible thing all night.
I’m not counting things like pulling on a condom before I stroked inside of her, because that’s not about sense, it’s about self-preservation.
Actually, maybe they are one and the same. It’s hard to make sense of the world anymore. Lethargy follows bliss. It seeps through my innards as I float down from the out of body high fucking her just propelled me too. I feel as if I’ve been split into electrons, and parts of me are currently residing in some far-flung galaxy. From what I remember about sub-atomic particles, that might even be true.
She cuddles me. That, I can handle. Girls enjoy a bit of post-coital intimacy, and it doesn’t cost much to wrap your arms around someone after you’ve fucked them to oblivion. What truly gets me—it razors me from the inside—is when my dick goes limp and slips from her, she’s the one to deal with the wrapper, knot it up and deposit it in the waste. Me, I just fall face first onto the nearest bed, where she joins me a moment later.
Her fingers trace the lines of the snakes that flow around the other ink on my back. “That was all rather intense,” she remarks, sounding as casual as you please. I wonder if that’s how she actually feels, but I haven’t the strength to lift my head in order to turn and make any sort of eye contact with her. “Anyone would think you were worked up over something.”
She knows exactly how much frustration I needed to find an outlet for. Everything I’ve ever cared about is on the cusp of going tits up.
“Ah, don’t go getting rattled again.” She smacks a hand against my arse, then gives it a squeeze. “God, your butt is so adorable. I need to lick it or something.”
Evidently while my libido has been temporarily sated, Loveday is still buzzing and up for more. I hate to disappoint her, but I have literally no strength left. Not even enough to complain at the way she’s pinching and squeezing my arse and dancing her digits all over me.
“Do you have an arse fetish?” I ask after several more minutes of this assault. Every time I think she’s done, she seems to return for an extra jab.
“Nope.”
“Then what are you playing at?” I make a feeble attempt to turn. It really is a pathetic effort. She stills me instantly by slapping a hand down upon my hip and pushing me deeper into the mattress. “Keep still, I’m writing. I don’t want it smudged.”
Writing? “Writing what?”
“Music. I’ve got this beat in my head and, I need to get down before it slips away. You know what it’s like. You think you’ll remember, but if you don’t put it in black and white it goes poof, and all you’re left with is the knowledge that you let go of something awesome.”
I do strain my neck in order to glimpse what she’s about now. “Would a sheet of paper be better?”
She’s doodling on my arse in purple ink.
She considers, pink tongue poking from between her lips, while she holds the Sharpie poised over my flesh. “Nah. Your arse is way more inspiring. Blank paper is just soul-sapping. I’d have to jazz it up before I could get anything written down.”
“Yes, but writing your masterpiece on my arse might prove more inconvenient in the long term. I mean, what happens when you need to refer to it later, and maybe I’m busy or I’ve showered and washed it off.”
I expect some kind of revelatory acceptance that she’s made a mistake, but she just flashes me an enormous grin.
“Oh, that’s not a problem. I’ll remember it. I always do once I’ve jotted it down. And I guess if want to play it safe, I can sit you on a photocopier once I’m done. They’re sure to have one in the hotel office.”
“You are not photocopying my arse.”
“Sure?”
OK, so if she keeps on smiling and tugging at my heartstrings in the way she already is, then I might well commit my bum-print to paper. Dammit, this woman should not have this much power over me. She’s dangerous. Probably the most dangerous woman I’ve ever crossed paths with, and believe me, I’ve known a few thoroughly manipulative bitches. My aunt Trish being one of them.
“I’m going to get you some paper, OK?”
“Oh, don’t.” Again she stays me with the press of her hand, and by straddling both of my thighs. “This is your theme tune. It came to me while you were inside me, so this—” She slaps my arse again. “—is absolutely the best place to record it.”
“My theme?”
“Yeah. It goes…” She makes some rumbling sounds, and laughs. “Well, kind of like that. I don’t do good guitar impersonations.”
“K,” I agree, still flattered because I’m not sure I’ve ever inspired a piece of music before. I’ve created plenty, but never moved someone else to write something outside of a jamming session.
“In any case, it really compliments your other ink. I’m not just throwing notes around willy nilly, you know. I’m making it artistic.”
I can only imagine, since she won’t let me see, and it’s not all that easy to look at your own arse at the best of times. I decide compliance is the path of least resistance, and it’s really not so bad lying here, feeling dozy and sated, while she prettifies my butt.
“You know this little fella is really growing on me.” She licks the lucky scarab beetle I have tattooed on the edge of my arse crack, which instantly puts my brain on high alert. Suddenly, my insides are flapping about like Kermit the frog in distress, because unwittingly she’s just tapped into one of my secret fantasies.
I wonder…I hope, maybe she’d extend that lick a little to the right, and explore the crevice she’s on the precipice of.
I don’t know why, but I find the concept of rimming a tremendous turn on. Maybe it’s the taboo nature of it. It isn’t something I’ve experienced first-hand, so it’s possible reality won’t live up to my fantasies, but there’s only one way to find out, and that depends upon finding someone dirty enough to experiment with.
Crazy to think that having my arse licked is currently at the top of my list of things to do when I’m rich and famous. I’m pretty sure that once Paradise Kiss is a household name, I’ll have a string of volunteers willing to grant my every wish.
Girl volunteers, I mean. I’ve heard guys are more open to the idea of sticking their tongues in intimate places, but I’m not interested in playing with a cock that isn’t mine, or risking having one shoved where the sun doesn’t shine. I don’t want to be fucked in the arse, just tickled there.
God, she’s so fucking close.
Loveday stills above me. “Are you holding your breath?”
I shake my head, but I am. I so am. Her fingers are splayed across my right cheek. The tips are curled so they lie mere millimetres from my arsehole, and she must have licked and kissed my scarab a dozen times by now.
“You are. How come?”
“No reason. I’m not.” The air gushes from my lungs far too fast.
“It’s cause I licked your bug, isn’t it?”
“Nope.”
“Sure about that?”
She does it again, which instantly makes my toes curl, and causes a “hmm” sound to vibrate in my throat.
Amused laughter ripples through her body, making her shake, which in turn shakes me. “I’ve just a few notes left to get down. Then you can have a reward. You’ve been a very patient muse.”
I like the idea that I’m her muse. I like the idea of a reward even more, though I daren’t hope what it might be. Instead, I freeze and let her work, desperately trying to ignore the ticklish strokes of the pen.
“There, all done.” She snaps the cap back on the Sharpie, which I realise is one of mine she’s taken off the nightstand, and not the one she inked her number onto me with earlier this evening. “So, rewards.” She stretches out over my body, so that her pointy chin hits my shoulder. “Do you want me to lick your arse?”
Oh Jesus, do I ever!
Gotta love that she’s so matter of fact, but I’m disturbed by how easily she reads me
.
The tip of her tongue traces the shell of my ear causing shivers to roll right through my body.
“Well?”
“I wouldn’t dream of asking. Not on a first date…or a second.” This is technically our second.
“Yeah, but we’re not on a date. This is a rescue mission, remember: zombie apocalypse, fallen comrades. That means anything goes.”
I could’ve lived without the reminder of Knox comatose in the bath. Although when she slides the heel of her hand down my spine between our bodies until she reaches my tailbone, and then extends two fingers so that they sit right over the tight furl of muscle that is my anus, I forget all about him again.
Maybe she’s an angel sent here to save me. She looks like one with all that fly away golden hair.
Except, I’m pretty sure angels don’t attempt to seduce you into sinning with them, and arse play is definitely a sin. I’ve read a few holy books.
“Are you brave enough to admit it’s what you want?” she asks, her breath warm against the side of my head.
I pray this isn’t a tease, and that if I actually bite, she won’t make grossed out noises and bid me adieu for the night.
I want her tongue in an intimate place, but I want her continued company more. Two more hours until we have to perform for Graham Callahan, two hours before my world falls apart. I don’t want to face them alone.
She sighs. “I admitted that I wanted you in my cunt.”
I have the shivers.
She says cunt so quietly, I know it’s a strain for her.
“Do it,” I say. “Lick me there. Rim my arsehole.”
“You’ve such a potty mouth, Darke.” Her hands land firmly on my arse. Then she drags the globes apart. I hope the ink is dry, or her musical notes are going to be all smudged. I steal a very bated breath. “Good thing I like dirty.”
“Oh God!”
What she does then and there, no woman has ever done to me. She licks me, and I love her for it.
Knox was right. Loveday Trevaskis is dirty. She’s really fucking dirty.
I’ve found my soul mate.
BANGED: Rock Stars, Bad Boys & Dirty Deeds Page 47
