by Cari Quinn
I was probably the biggest threat she faced, but I just couldn’t stay away.
A moth flittered around the small caged light near the side door as I stepped into the alcove. Apt, wasn’t it? She was my light, ever burning. Always unattainable.
Fuck, I didn’t have a way in.
The keypad offered no clues. The side entrance didn’t have a buzzer, at least that I could see. I squinted at the numbers. I knew this make and model of keyless entry system. It wasn’t high level. Another reason this wasn’t the best place for Zoe.
Not your call to make, dick.
My mind raced as I strained to remember the sequence of numbers Zoe had punched in. I’d paid attention, while pretending to look anywhere else. I’d suspected I’d want to gain entry again.
32…18?
It didn’t kick me out, just waited. If I’d gotten that sequence wrong, it would’ve errored out and made me start over. So that was the building code. Just needed two more sets of numbers for her particular flat.
I was pretty sure the next number was also in the teens. Thirteen? Nope. Start over. Fifteen? Wrong. Fourteen.
The system waited.
Shifting my guitar to the ground between my feet, I tried a hack that had worked on other systems. A master override, if you will. I quickly hit 00 and waited for it to kick me out—but the door unlatched and the light on the keypad glowed a steady green.
I let out a whoop and pushed inside before the lock changed its mind.
It took me a second to find my way back to Zoe’s flat. I knocked and tilted my head as she peeked out the gap in the door, still held closed by a chain lock. “The security on this place is shit.”
She stared at me as if I was an apparition. “How did you get in here?”
I raised my eyebrows. “See my point?”
“Go away.”
She started to shut the door but I stuck my boot in the crack—and nearly lost some toes for my trouble.
Industrial-strength boots were no match for Zoe Manning.
“Now now, is that how you treat a guest?”
“An uninvited guest who somehow broke in? Yes.” She started to close the door again—my toes be damned—and then seemed to think better of it and pulled it back, jerking the chain. “Let me guess. You asked one of the bikinis outside for her code?”
“That sounds like a disembodied bathing suit, and I can assure you I would run, not make conversation.”
The corner of her mouth lifted and I thought I’d actually get a smile out of her. Instead, she pushed on the door.
“Are you this unfriendly with all males or is it just me?” I had a disturbing thought. “You haven’t started swinging for the other side, have you?” I leaned my guitar case against my leg and mimed swinging a bat.
She narrowed her eyes. Such beautiful eyes, even mad. “You really think a lot of yourself, don’t you?”
“Depends on the day you catch me. Right now, I’m on an upward trend. I had a fucking amazing show tonight.”
“Good for you. Congratulations.”
“That sounds insincere, but thank you.”
“Why are you here bothering me then? Surely you had some breasts in your face to write on.”
I frowned and cocked my head. “That insult sounds oddly specific. And sure, you’re right. But I like yours better.” I wiggled my fingers. “I’d be happy to write my name on any part you’d like though. Don’t even have to use a proper marker—”
“You’re drunk.”
I nodded. “Survey says yes.”
She sniffed. “And you’ve been smoking pot. Or hanging out with potheads.”
“Clubs are rife with drugs. Damn shame, really.” I shook my head in mock disapproval. “Though a joint can be quite medicinal.”
“I just bet. And what’s your condition?”
I glanced down at my groin. “Oh, love, you don’t want to know. I’ve been in a state over you for weeks.”
She rolled her eyes. “Do these lines work on anyone? Ever?”
“I don’t normally have to use lines. I just sing. Maybe I should just sing you your song.”
“My—what?”
“Your song,” I said matter-of-factly. “I wrote it for you. Because you’ve put me in an extreme state of sexual denial.”
When she just stared at me, I started to hum “For You.” She wouldn’t know it, since she hadn’t been at the show. So, I launched into the first verse, dropping my head back as I let my voice lift.
A bit drunkenly, sure, but I still sounded good.
Probably.
The door shut in my face.
At least I’d moved my foot first.
I sighed and leaned my back against the door, still singing. Loudly. Off-key. Not really caring.
If she wasn’t going to let me in, I’d just sit here and keep singing all night.
Her across-the-hall neighbor came out and I held up a hand in apology. He glared until I mouthed “my girlfriend is mad at me,” and then he nodded in understanding and went back into his flat.
All men had experienced the scourge of an inflexible woman at one time or another.
I’d sung most of that night’s setlist, my eyelids getting disturbingly heavy as I progressed, when the door creaked behind me. It swung open and I fell on my back in the doorway, lying on the floor and staring blurrily up at Zoe.
Then my guitar case toppled over on me and nearly rendered me sterile.
My howl was pure animal agony.
“My God, you’re going to get me in trouble, you drunk lunatic.” She grabbed me under the arms and dragged me into her flat. I helped a little, but not as much as I should have, considering I was an able-bodied man.
Mostly.
“My guitar,” I mumbled as she pointed toward her sofa.
It was like climbing to the highest peak, but I grabbed hold of the arm of the couch and heaved myself up onto it. Thereby knocking over her mobile, which I bent to retrieve—and immediately glimpsed a picture of my hand scrawling my name on that woman’s tits.
Not even my full name. I’d written Kagan #1.
I started to laugh.
Zoe snatched the phone out of my hand.
“You were reading up on me.” My laughter subsided as I thought about the scene from her point of view. I wasn’t used to doing that often. Especially when it came to women. “I didn’t do anything with her.”
Zoe swiped across her phone screen and it went black. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”
“No, I do.” Suddenly, it was vitally important she understand. I reached for her hand, and she let me take it, but she didn’t look my way. “I wouldn’t do that, I swear. If I’d wanted her or any of them, I wouldn’t be here singing to the wallpaper in your hall.”
“I’m a challenge to you. I get it. But you might as well not bother.”
“Though you’re not a lesbian,” I said carefully, only to have her snatch her hand away. I sighed. “Just making sure.”
“No, I’m quite interested in men. Is it that hard for you to believe you’re not my type?”
I should probably be honest. “Yes.”
She let out a laugh and sat on the other arm of the couch. “You’re a piece of work, Kagan.”
She didn’t doubt I was who I’d said. Probably hadn’t thought twice about it, but still. It felt like vindication. Like she believed in me even when no one else did. Just by accepting I was who I said I was.
Even if I was so much else as well.
“Not for the reasons you think.” I sucked in a breath, my heart stampeding in my ears. “I just can’t imagine you not feeling anything for me when I feel…everything for you.”
“Stop it. You don’t even know me.”
“I know your eyes have a little ring of gold around your pupils. I know you smell like an afternoon on the beach. Coconuts and sunshine and saltwater. With that little hint of chemicals from your work. I know you’re strong and brave and so talented that you don’t hav
e time for anyone else. I get that. Truly.” I inched across the sofa and gripped her hand. “I’m not offering to marry you.”
“No kidding, Romeo.” But she nearly smiled.
So close.
“But I am offering to give you a night just for you. No strings. No expectations.”
“Oh, just for me, hmm?”
“Entirely. Just touching you would be enough. I’d need nothing else.” I turned her hand over, nudging aside the delicate bracelet she wore to kiss the soft skin of her wrist. My eyes never left hers as I rubbed my lips over her flesh. “That would be everything to me.”
Her throat moved as she swallowed. “I don’t think you know the meaning of no expectations.”
“Try me.” I traced the letters of the word magic up the inside of her arm with my lips, adding a hint of tongue. Her breath shuddered out. “I won’t talk. Even a little bit. Promise.”
“That is tempting.”
“I’ll stop wherever you want. Whenever you want. No discussion.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Her eyes closed so I kept doing what I’d been doing, now tracing the word in the opposite direction.
A five-letter word was way harder than it should’ve been to write backward.
Drugs were bad.
Alcohol was bad.
Zoe was beyond compare.
“Also, I always use rubbers and have no diseases—”
“Good to know, but when do you stop talking?”
My lips twitched before I ran my tongue over the pulse hammering between the fragile bones of her wrist. “Right now.”
Fifteen
Stupid.
The most idiotic of notions in all of the universe was staring up at me with the proverbial puppy-dog eyes. Then again, his puppy-dog eyes were more like registered weapons.
I knew because I’d been effectively swayed by them for weeks now.
He was lightning in a stormy sky. I could almost taste the ions in the air between us.
Then he scraped his teeth over the skin on the inside of my wrist. Just a light nip. Enough to let me know that he was more than just a singsong drunk who had been bellowing outside my door for the last hour.
Hour.
Who the hell sang for an hour outside a girl’s door? For fuck’s sake—any door. Especially when I knew he’d done a show tonight. One that was burning up the wire. They treated it like the Foo Fighters had done a secret show.
And while I was a very large fan of Dave Grohl, he didn’t turn my crank like Ian did. Especially with the understanding in his eyes that I wasn’t sure I was prepared for. I wasn’t an innocent, but my handful of boyfriends probably didn’t have the knowledge this man did between all of them.
He slid his arm around the back of my hips, twisting me so I faced him while still sitting on the arm of the couch. Intrigued by what he was after, I didn’t say a damn word. I wasn’t helping him in this seduction game.
If he wanted to prove to me that he was after only one thing—my pleasure—then he would have to earn it. Most men talked a good game about their oral prowess. About how much they were givers.
Five minutes with a sloppy tongue wouldn’t sway me onto Team Ian.
But it would let me shut the door on this ridiculous fascination I had with him.
And maybe I needed that.
To treat him like a real man, instead of this fantasy who wouldn’t be tempered.
I couldn’t even water him down with turpentine at this point. Every night I woke with a piece of him in my psyche. A smile in a crowd. A touch in the night. Even a disembodied voice on the open sea when I was alone.
It didn’t matter.
So I had to get him out of my brain. And at the very least, I could probably get an orgasm out of the deal. No bad there. I certainly hadn’t been able to do the job well enough on my own.
“Thinky-thinky, Magic.”
“I thought this was going to shut you up?” Though I almost wished he wouldn’t follow that directive. He was so goddamn contrary any other time. His raspy voice with the wash of England in it was as addictive as his dimples. Or the hairline scar at the corner of his mouth that he was forever touching with his tongue.
“Well, stop telegraphing your challenge. I can smell it through your pores.” He dragged his nose along the curve of my knee. He ducked his head down and draped my leg over his shoulder.
I yelped a little. Unbalanced, I let my legs fall apart as I gripped the couch cushion.
“Now there’s a good girl.” He dragged his lips over the inside of my thigh. His fingers inched higher to the boxer shorts I was wearing. He groaned as he discovered that boxers were all I was wearing. “Oh, that’s not playing fair.”
“Who said I had to?”
“Are these boy pants?” He lifted the hem of my muslin shirt.
“I believe the package said boxers.”
“Yes, and I’m suddenly in love with them.”
I glanced down between us to where his jeans were barely hanging on. His button-down shirt was wrinkled and missing quite a few of said buttons. But that wasn’t the important part. No, it was the decidedly boxer-less situation he had going on.
His chest was pretty smooth save for the trail starting at the space between his navel and the snap of his jeans. I itched to scrape my nails through the dark arrow of hair. Would it be silky or coarse?
And the curve of his cock swelling against his jeans? That was even more tempting. Was it curved just because of the confines? Or would it scrape inside me and drag out all sorts of new sensations?
I swallowed. “Not in love enough to wear them.”
His lips slid into a smirk. “See anything you like?”
“Not much choice, rocker boy. One good twist and your jeans will be off your ass.” I tugged at the belt loop above the tightly notched vee he had. No shoestring tonight. Though he didn’t need a belt of any style for this pair of pants. They were nearly spray-painted to his skin.
“Don’t worry about my denims, Magic. They’ll stay where they need to for now. This is about you.” He dug his fingers under my butt and leaned me back. He kissed my inner thigh and tugged my shorts over.
Good God. He didn’t even bother taking them off.
He swiped his tongue along the crease where my thigh and pelvis met. He hummed out a little groan and did it again. I squirmed because I wasn’t exactly prepared for guests down there.
“Ian…”
He peered up at me, his tongue already tracing over the shockingly swollen state of affairs I had going on. “Busy. Talk later.”
I hissed out a laugh. “I could take a shower first.”
“Nope.” He dug his fingers into my ass. “I’m going to swallow you down like that gelato stuff I’ve had on your boardwalk.” He licked his way up my slit and my elbow gave out on me. “Zings on the tongue. I’ve never tasted anything like you.”
“Liar.”
His smirk was back. I couldn’t stop watching as he slowly filled me with his tongue. Testing out what I liked, turning to go deeper, then lighter depending on the noises I made.
I wanted to keep quiet.
To pretend he didn’t affect me.
But it was a lie.
Just having his wide shoulders holding me open was enough to push me way too close to the edge. Then again, I’d been dreaming of him for so long, he could probably blow on me and I’d go over like a virgin.
Fuck.
We were cramped on my couch. It wasn’t the cushy kind that invited someone to stay forever. It was long and skinny to allow the maximum space for my studio. But it was also sturdy as hell.
His other hand came up to gently press my thighs open even wider. Those long, elegant fingers were impossibly talented. The little nicks and scars from his guitar and a lifetime of hardship created the perfect topographical match to my softer skin.
But it was the swirl of his thumb at the top of my pussy that was his first victory. I couldn’t hold out against his tongue and fingers. Especially whe
n they worked in tandem. Thank God, he’d shut his eyes to…concentrate?
Whatever you wanted to call it.
Count.
Do the alphabet and times tables in his head.
I didn’t fucking care.
I gripped the couch cushion as I arched up to meet each lash of his tongue. Then he opened his eyes again and I was gone.
I didn’t even realize I’d shoved him to the floor.
He knelt on the floor, then dragged me off the arm of the couch to the cushioned seat and spread me wide open. If I’d had any brain cells left, I might have been embarrassed about how every part of me shook and arched up to greet his mouth and fingers.
I screamed his name and tried desperately to stay coherent enough to consume every detail. If this would be the one and only time I’d have this experience, I was going to drown in it.
My thighs shook.
My brain seized.
I couldn’t breathe around the pleasure.
“Ian! God, I can’t.”
He slipped two fingers inside me with a groan as I clamped down on him. I needed more than that. So much more.
I didn’t even realize I’d transferred my grip from the couch to his hair. Silky and thick, the curls twisted around my wrist. Pain shone in his furrowed brow and the pinch around his eyes. I gentled my hold.
He lashed at my clit harder, and I immediately fisted to match. Like it was a direct conduit to my every reaction.
He jerked down my shorts, tossing them over his shoulder then split me wide open once more. “I need to see you. All of you.” He was still on his knees, but he was tall enough that he could lean against the juncture of my thighs with his raging hard-on. He ground the denim-covered masterpiece against my abused skin.
“Fuck.” His voice was more growl than words.
He shoved his hand under my shirt and groaned when he came into contact with my breasts. I was small-chested, but I was acutely sensitive. So much so that I’d actually had to beg for boyfriends to lay off of them.
But he didn’t.
He lightly undulated his hips so that the slow burn of pressure against my pussy left me on standby. Not enough to let me come again, but just enough that I couldn’t come back down.
