The Inside Track: A License to Love Novel

by Tamsen Parker

  It takes all I have not to rip the thing in half to get it off her, but instead, she helps by shimmying out of it, and there she is in all her glory. She’s pale like a lot of redheads and has these cute little beauty marks all over. I like to play a game where I try to kiss them all, but usually I get distracted and end up doing other stuff. She doesn’t seem to mind. Likes it especially when I get distracted by going down on her. Which is actually a great idea.

  I hook my thumbs in the sides of her panties and draw the things over her hips and down her legs and…it might sound weird, but I love her bush? It’s kinda fluffy and friendly, and I like how it feels against my eyelids when I really go to town on her.

  Which I won’t do yet, because it’s way more fun to start with her clit, get her writhing real good. I love when I can make her sentences as incomplete as mine mostly are. Demps is usually so on top of her shit, and it’s cool that she lets me see her when she’s not.

  I get comfy, scooting down the bed a bit and nudging her knees until they’re resting on my shoulders, and I hold her hips, use my thumbs to spread her open so I can get to the good stuff. She’s all pink and wet and slick, and it seems almost rude that she’s so perfect. But hell, I’m not gonna set up a protest or anything.

  With my first taste—a broad lick right over her clit—she moans and drops her head back, grabbing her pillow with both hands.

  “God, Nick. That feels really good.”

  I may not be an overachiever in pretty much any other area, but that’s not good enough for me. So I keep at her, using my lips, tongue, and teeth to work her delicate flesh, and there are some places she’s so sensitive it doesn’t take much to make her buck and squeal all the while getting wetter. I’m going to have Dempsey Lawrence all over my face, and I’m going to love every second of it.

  When I’ve got her incoherent and writhing underneath me, I stop. Which results in her sitting up with hair in her face and smacking me on the shoulder.

  “What the hell, Nicky? How can you—I’m so—goddamn you.”

  “Whoa, babe. Chill. You said you wanted me inside you. Well, good news, I’m gonna make that happen.”

  “Fine, but hurry it up.”

  I snort, because she’s usually hella patient with me, but apparently edging Demps is making her snappy and raring to go. I can work with that.

  By not even bothering to take off my jeans, but undoing the button and unzipping my fly. I do strip my shirt off because I like to feel her skin against my skin. She’s still got her bra on, and I’d offer to get rid of that for her but she’d probably bite my head off. What’s that insect that bites the head off its mate after they’re finished doing the deed? Like that, but before we could even fuck. That would be totally unfair. Like, if you’re going to get decapitated, you should totally get to blow your load first.

  Something bounces off my forehead and lands on Dempsey’s stomach. Right, condom. I look up at her and she’s smiling sweetly. What a brat. Well, at least I don’t have to pretzel-ify myself to grab one out of her bedside table. After I rip it and roll it, I’m ready for her and she seems ready for me.

  Her legs are still hooked over my shoulder and I’d love to fuck her like this, but I know it doesn’t always work because girls have internal organs.

  “Can we do it like this? That would be hot, but I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “Uh, yeah, that should be okay. Just go slow in case you hit my cervix or something.”

  I wince because that sounds ouchy. Like, getting kicked in the balls ouchy. “I can definitely go slow.”

  It’s the last thing I want to do because she’s so goddamn gorgeous and she’s gonna feel like heaven, but I’m not a total clod. At least I don’t have to be. And damn, sinking into her like this… I’d love to watch her face as I do, but it gets to be too much, too overwhelming, so I close my eyes and grit my teeth. She’s warm and slick and tight, and I love how her thighs feel against my chest.

  I’ve fucked a lot of girls, and I like to think they’ve enjoyed it. I’ve tried to be considerate and make them like me, but it’s never been like this. Like, yeah, Demps knows who I am and what I’m like, and she’s cool with all of that, but she also believes in me, that I can be mindful of shit, that I can learn and be a good, reliable partner. I can be. Not in all the ways, but I hope in the ones that are most important.

  Dempsey

  * * *

  Is this what Nicky looks like when he’s learning new music? Or doing something else that has him sinking into hyperfocus? Because I feel, honest-to-god, like I’m the center of his universe and it’s dizzying, partly because there is always a universe spinning around him. Everything is a wonder, everything is something to be looked at, puzzled over, distracted by. Nothing is too small or too big to attract his interest. And yet, most of those things get dropped within seconds as another star or a comet catches his fancy. But for me, for this, he is dedicated and, as he promised months ago, steady. Who could’ve imagined?

  Having him inside me like this is intense. He’s hitting deep and I’m nearly folded in half, and yet it feels good and not suffocating. I spread my legs a little more to get the contact I need on my clit. I’d like to put my hands on his shoulders or in his hair, but the way we’re connected, that’s not going to work, so instead I press at the headboard with my palms, using the leverage to rock back against him and have him as deeply inside me as anyone’s ever been.

  I’m realizing that it’s not just in a physical sense either. For however much he can fuck up—and boy, howdy, can he—Nick is…he’s really great. Like extraordinary. And so eager to please.

  “Harder, Nick. I want you to fuck me harder.”

  He blinks down at me with those wide hazel eyes as if he’s not totally sure he just heard me right. But he did.

  “Come on, Nicky. I need you. Harder, harder, fuck me harder.”

  He smiles then, challenge accepted, and pumps harder with his hips, every thrust making a slap between our skin and jarring me in the best way. Thank god for my hands at the headboard or he might give me a concussion. This is one of the things I love about him, being able to fuck like a supercollider. He’s straining, his eyes closed tightly again and sweat beading at his hairline. Yes, he’s working hard, the pistoning between my thighs driving me closer and closer to satisfaction.

  “So close, I’m so close.”

  Even in my bra, my breasts are bouncing, and I’m glad I don’t live in an apartment because my headboard is definitely bumping against the wall behind it, over and over and over and over.

  “Yes, yes, yes, yes.”

  He likes the feedback, gets nervous and unsure if it’s too quiet. There’s nothing for him to be nervous about. God, maybe I should’ve asked for this instead of taking a Xanax? But as much as I’d like for sex to cure my anxiety, that’s not really how things work. Sure, if it’s a tiny spike, I can fuck the pain away, but if it’s actually large and overwhelming, sex isn’t even going to alleviate the symptoms. But it sure feels really fucking good right now when he’s erasing all lingering, cloying traces of Did they like me? Will they tell Nick to leave me because the way I live is ridiculous?

  All those niggling worries are silenced as he drives into me over and over again, erasing everything from my head but the feel of him, the heat and pressure and pounding of him bottoming out inside me, and that’s when I find it. An explosive orgasm that makes my vision go spotty for a few seconds as I cry out and squeeze around him, my muscles spasming and causing him to follow suit.

  “Fuck, Demps, what you do to me, fucking hell.”

  It’s gritted out between his teeth as I can feel the pulse of his orgasm and regret a little that I can’t feel the spilling heat of it inside me. But condoms are a girl’s best friend. Maybe someday I’ll get to have sex without one, but today is not that day, and I don’t honestly know if Nicky will be that guy. I’d like him to be.

  He releases his grip on my thighs so I can slide my legs over his shoulde
rs, and then he’s half-collapsing on top of me, his head landing on my shoulder as he breathes heavy and loud. He’s so goddamn human and present and warm and real. So I hold him against me, kiss his sweat-dampened neck, thread my fingers through his hair, and tell him how amazing that was, how he’s the best lay I’ve ever had. He clings to me and it’s unbearably sweet, that this larger-than-life man could want anything to do with me—a woman who’s done everything possible to make her life small.

  We’re both silent for a few seconds, and for once, I’m going to beat Nick Fischer at his own big-mouthed game. “So how about that foot rub?”

  19

  Nick

  * * *

  It’s been a couple of months since the great barbecue debacle, and things have been good with Dempsey. Real good. When I’m in town, I come over most nights, and the guys have even come over a couple of times, too. I can tell they’re kinda scratching their heads over the fact that Demps literally never leaves her place, and they’ve asked me about it a few times, like doesn’t it bother me, and the more I think about it…it doesn’t. If I had to stay here all the time, I’d probably drive us both out of our minds, but I’ve got enough stuff going on that it hasn’t been an issue.

  I like her, like, a lot. And I’ve never been so content. That’s not even a thing I thought I could be, but here we are. It’s a Tuesday and Dempsey’s done with work and she’s upstairs getting changed. We’re gonna eat dinner and then watch something on TV. Fiona’s having a sleepover at Teague’s house because he thinks he wants a dog and Christian wants him to do a trial first before he agrees. I give them three days before Christian gives in.

  The doorbell rings, and I call upstairs.

  “Hey, babe, did you already order food or something?”

  She doesn’t say anything right away, and I don’t wait for her to answer because what does it matter? Dempsey gets, like, four deliveries a day. It’s probably some new clothes or her groceries or a book she wanted to read or, maybe if I’m super-lucky, some new sexy-as-hell lingerie. Not that she needs lingerie to be sexy, but sometimes it’s—

  The door I’d unlocked and started to open crashes into me, knocking me back, and before I can get my balance, I’m on the floor, wind knocked out of me. It’s not the first time I’ve gotten body slammed because god knows I can push people past their limits but…

  Dempsey.

  I try to yell for her, warn her because something clearly isn’t right, but I still can’t breathe. And now someone’s straddling my hips and not in a sexy way. Nope, not sexy at all.

  The face looming above me is flushed with rage, vein popping out at the temple and everything. Who even is this guy and why—

  He punches me. Fist meets my cheek, and my head snaps to the side. Motherfuck that hurt. Before I can recover or say anything, he lands another punch, making my head jolt the other way and stars appear in my vision. I’m so going to have a concussion, but this one won’t be my fault. Or will it? Who is this guy? And why is he beating the living shit out of me?

  I’m trying to struggle, get him the fuck off of me, but I still can’t draw a full breath and he’s landing punch after punch in my face, and I can’t see well enough to get a lock on what I should be doing. Plus, he’s heavier than I am, and oh right, he’s punching me really goddamn hard in my goddamn face.

  “She’s mine, asshole. You think you can have her just because you’re famous and rich? You can’t take her from me.”

  Every sentence is punctuated by another blow to my face, and I can’t think straight. Even more than usual, which is saying something. But I’ve finally managed to get some air into my lungs, and that settles me enough to wrap my hands around his flailing arms and use the leverage of a foot on the floor to shove him off me.

  We both scramble to our feet, and even though one of my eyes is already starting to swell, I can see my attacker.

  He’s an ordinary-looking white dude. Jeans, blond hair, and wearing a black hoodie. Regular-looking guy you’d see walking down any street. Aside from the murderous rage, of course. Is it that he’s so average that makes me think I’ve seen him somewhere before? Or have I?

  “Hey, man. Be cool. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I pause to spit out some blood that’s pooling in my mouth. Hopefully he didn’t break any of my teeth because I really hate going to the dentist. All I can think of is fucking Little Shop of Horrors. That movie is sick and not in a good way. “I didn’t steal your girl. I’ve got one of my own.”

  Guy’s started pacing Dempsey’s living room, and I hope she’s heard me, gotten out of the house, called 911. Except the farthest she’d have gone is the backyard, and if this guy is as off his rocker as he seems to be, the backyard isn’t far enough. I’ve never cared much about Demps not leaving her house except for missing her when I’ve gotta be on the road. But right now I’m cursing it, because her refusal to leave could be putting her in severe danger. Does this asshole have a gun? He could totally have a gun. My stomach hits the floor in a watery puddle thinking about Dempsey getting shot.

  “Then why did you kiss my girlfriend?” he demands. “Why have you sent her presents? Why do you send her emails? You called her on her birthday. Yeah, I know all about you two. And your girlfriend. Does she know you’re in love with someone else? Is she even your real girlfriend?”

  What the hell? I fucking announced it on a Jumbotron at a concert. What the hell other proof does the guy need? “Of course she is. I’m not in love with someone else.”

  “Yeah, right. I’m supposed to believe you’re not using Dempsey Lawrence as a front? How come she’s never in pictures with you? All those selfies you post on social media of you in front of her door and you and your ugly ass dog in her neighborhood, but none actually with her? I know what you’re about, fuckface, and you’re not stealing my girl.” He spears his fingers through his hair and clenches tufts of it in his fists.

  Oh, shit. Fucking hell, did I basically give this guy a map to Dempsey’s doorstep? It’s not like I’ve posted her address or her phone number online, but… Yeah, I’ve definitely posted shit like “At my girl’s place after months on tour,” “#PrincessFiona doing a fashion walk through my girl’s neighborhood,” “Trick or treat! Think my girl will like our costumes?” Which of course, Dempsey did because I make an excellent Luke Skywalker and how can you not love a big fat bulldog in a Princess Leia costume, cinnamon roll buns and all? But that is not the point. The point is that I have royally fucked Dempsey’s privacy without meaning to. All those stories that ran about her after my Madison Square Garden stunt wouldn’t have helped either, which were also my fucking fault.

  And kiss? I haven’t kissed anyone but Dempsey in…months. Haven’t even wanted to. As for the other stuff, I’ve got fan clubs that send automated shit, that must be what he’s talking about because I haven’t—

  Suddenly it thwacks me upside the head, where I know this guy from. We went on a morning show a few weeks ago while we were in New York, and when we were standing outside with the crowds, we shook hands and waved and signed stuff as usual. And there was a girl who told me she’d bet her big sister fifty bucks that she could get a kiss from me. I’m super-sympathetic to bets because who hasn’t lost money off of one at some point or another? I mean, I usually win, but sometimes it’s been at the cost of a broken limb or something else not so good. So I’d kissed her cheek and let her take a selfie. And when we checked to see how it had come out, I saw this guy standing behind her, looking like he was about to blow a gasket. I’m used to not being a favorite of guys, but this dude was over the top.

  I’d forgotten because people look at me like they want to kill me on the regular. But up until now, they’ve never actually tried to fucking do it. Christ.

  Dempsey

  * * *

  Nicky is standing there, his face bloody and swelling. He looks godawful, and I want to go to him, cradle his head in my lap, dab at the blood, and hold an ice pack to his eye where he’s no doubt
going to have an epic shiner tomorrow. He’d smile up at me and make bawdy jokes about my tits, and it would help me not cry over what’s happened to him. Hopefully that’s going to be as bad as his injuries will get because I can’t stand the idea that this whackjob is going to take Nick away from me.

  Not in my house, asshole.

  Does he know I’m here? Is he expecting me? I’ve called 911, but I hung up on the dispatcher because I can’t have them talking and tipping off this person who has destroyed the sanctity of my home. How fucking dare he?

  I don’t keep a gun in my house, but I sure as hell have a baseball bat and have paid handsomely to have private self-defense classes in my home. Wash has gone over a hundred times places to hide, corners to make use of to surprise people, things I can use as weapons in various rooms. I’ve had security consults so I have a plan for cases just like this. But never did it involve Nick, who is a total wild card.

  I dart across the doorway, trying to get a better view of this guy who is terrorizing us. He’s pacing, pacing, but at least he’s methodical about it. And Nick is keeping him talking so I can get the timing down. Six strides forth, six strides back. Six strides forth, six strides back. Over and over. I’m trying not to concentrate on what the guy is saying because it’s not important. What’s important is that if I time it right, I can take him out. It’s like a song, a dance with a rhythm, and he’s not expecting the bridge.

  And I am not expecting the knife he pulls. Fucking hell.

  Scarier even than fearing for my life is seeing the raw terror in Nick’s eyes, and being able to tell by the way his gaze is darting around that he has no idea where I am and he has no clue how to get in touch with me. The immediate threat catalyzes my need to do something and overcomes the completely rational fear that’s kept me in the planning phase instead of the action phase. This is only going to get worse if I don’t do something about it. Either Nick’s going to play the hero or this guy is going to jump Nick, and either way, Nicky is ill-prepared. But I am not.