Suspended: A Bad Boy Rockstar Romance

by Zoey Oliver

  “Uh… sure.” I have no clue what he’s up to, but as long as he’s touching me, I’m not going to complain.

  He lifts my foot off the ground, and the layers of sheer fabric of my dress slide up my legs, bunching up around my thighs, exposing my knees. I tip back and grab the arms of the chair to keep my butt from slipping off the cushion.

  Henry places my foot in his lap and begins undoing the straps of my high heels. I watch as his fingers work deftly on the tiny buckles. How many times has he done this? He gently slips my shoe off and sets it on the ground.

  “You said your left ankle was hurting, right?”

  “Oh, yes.” I did say that. And it is, but…

  He rubs his hands together and then places them on my ankle, the warmth flooding into my skin as he begins lightly kneading his palms against my tender muscles.

  The sensation is heavenly. A small moan escapes me, and I lay my head back against the chair. “Oh my God, that feels so good.”

  “So, tell me, Abi — why haven’t I seen you in seven years?”

  It’s hard to form words with the little waves of pleasure running up my leg from his firm, warm hands. “I’ve been in school nearly non-stop until this summer.”

  “Didn’t you have any breaks?”

  “Sure, a few.”

  “Why didn’t you come visit?”

  Because my home and this palace and everything about nobility is an archaic throwback, and I wanted to escape it while I could.

  “I did, once.” The words just slip right out. I can’t think straight when he’s touching me, my heel pressing into his inner thigh. Immediately, heat creeps into my face and I clamp my mouth shut.

  He raises an eyebrow. “Oh? Why don’t I remember this?”

  I tilt my head sideways, trying to look casual. “I didn’t stay long.”

  Henry looks at me curiously as he works the palm of his hand against the underside of my lower calf. “Why’s that?”

  “Just had things to do... you know.” I shrug calmly, but my cheeks are on fire, and from the look on Henry’s face, I’m not pulling it off.

  That look reminds me of when the East Lawn flooded, and he caught the ten-year-old me damming the creek in the adjacent woods. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Nothing,” I say, the word rushing out in denial too quickly.

  Henry stops massaging my leg. He’s really staring at me now, his head cocked to one side. “Abigail Strathmore. You have a secret.”

  “No, I don’t.” Oh my God.

  “Tell me.”

  “No.”

  He raises an eyebrow, studying me. “Is it that dark and twisted?”

  “No. It’s just… God, it’s just embarrassing.”

  “I bet it’s not that bad. Try me.”

  “You’re the last person I want to tell.” Why can’t I just stop talking?

  “Oh? Really?” He leans forward. “Now you have to tell me.”

  I shake my head and will my mouth to zip itself shut forever.

  He gives me a determined smile that makes my stomach do flips. “You know I’m not going to let this go. And I usually get what I want.”

  I draw in a deep breath, bracing myself. “Fine.”

  “Good.” His smile deepens, and he looks at me expectantly. “I’m listening.”

  “It was about two years ago I think. I came back for a visit and I was supposed to meet Spencer here to go to some charity event at the Brightson Galleria.”

  “All right. What’s the embarrassing part?”

  “Pierre said Spencer was in the music room. So, I went there, looking for him.”

  “Go on.” He shifts to the edge of his seat, my knee bending as he moves forward, still holding my ankle.

  I put my fingers over my lips and shake my head. “I can’t.”

  “Sure you can.” A small smile plays at the corner of his mouth. “You went to the music room and…”

  “Spencer wasn’t there.”

  “If that’s the whole story, you’re a terrible tease.”

  I lower my eyes. “You were there.”

  “Was I?” Henry’s mysterious smile deepens.

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  “And you didn’t come in and say hello because…?”

  There’s a devilish look dancing in his eyes, and I hesitate for a moment before finally saying the words.

  “You weren’t alone.”

  That devilish look reaches to his lips. “No, I wasn’t. I remember this day now. The day you didn’t show up for the Brightson event. I was entertaining a guest.”

  I let out a little scoff. “Oh, is that what you call it?”

  He leans close to me, his eyes fixed on mine. “Well, actually, I was licking her pussy,” he whispers. “And you were watching me.”

  My eyes go wide. “How — how did you know?”

  “I didn’t, until just now. The look on your face is priceless.”

  My chest fills with something between mortifying embarrassment and rage — maybe both. I brace myself on the arms of the chair and pull my foot out of his lap. “Fuck you, Henry.”

  Before I can stand up, he drops to the stone on his knees and runs his hands under my dress, up my legs. It catches me off-guard, and I freeze.

  “Don’t be angry, Abi. That wasn’t how I meant it.”

  My whole body is shaking, partly from fury and partly from the effect his words and hands are having on me. “The hell it wasn’t.”

  His right hand slides over my knee, moving slowly up my thigh. “I just wanted to know if you’re interested.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “You’re an asshole.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe I like it when you’re feisty,” he says, his gaze turned up to me, a wicked expression of delight on his face. “That fire in your eyes right now — it’s beautiful.”

  I blush and turn my head away as he inches his hand further up my thigh. My legs are trembling, and it’s not from anger.

  Part of me is convinced this is a trick, some cruel game my brother’s put him up to — Hey, you know a great way we could fuck with Abi? Flirt with her, pretend like you’re seducing her. It’ll be hilarious.

  But the way Henry’s been looking at me tonight, it makes my heart pound. It can’t be fake, can it?

  I don’t want him to stop, but I’m scared. Scared he’s going to suddenly pull away and laugh at me, at my naivety and how easily I gave in, so stupid and gullible. Scared that he’s just playing with me and I’m just a silly girl under his spell.

  “Abi,” he whispers. He slides his other hand up my thigh. I know he can feel my legs shaking under his touch.

  I glance at him, my hand curled against my mouth. I haven’t felt this shy in ages, if ever. He’s still staring at me, studying my face.

  “Would you like me to do to you what I was doing to her?”

  I shake my head. “No.” Liar. I’ve thought of that scene countless times over the past two years, the vivid images playing in my head as I masturbated, equal measure of both unrequited lust and the burning heat of envy driving me on, desperately wishing my fingers were Henry’s tongue.

  He smiles and slides his hands to the top of my thighs. “Why not?”

  “I don’t want to be one of your… hookups. I’m not that kind of woman.”

  “What kind is that? The kind who likes pleasure?”

  His fingers stroke the fabric of my panties, inching closer and closer to the sensitive mound between my thighs.

  “Who likes when a man makes her wet?”

  He presses his thumb down on my clit through the sheer fabric, and I gasp involuntarily.

  “Who likes when a man makes her cry out in ecstasy?”

  He begins rubbing his thumb in a circle over the top of my underwear, swirling across my clit, sending waves of pleasure through me. With his other hand, he hooks a finger under the elastic band between my legs.

  “Do you think any of the men i
n there want to pleasure you like I do right now?”

  I’m not thinking about Finley or any of the other suitors my parents’ advisors have approved. Henry has my undivided attention. All I can focus on are his hands under my dress, his husky voice whispering into the still night air. I can’t believe I’m letting him do this, but I want him to, so badly. I want his hands between my legs, his tongue, his...

  “They want your power, your wealth, your status,” he continues. “I don’t need any of those things — I have my own.”

  He slides the strip of fabric to the side, and his fingers make contact with my sensitive skin. My heart is racing, and my clit is throbbing under his thumb.

  “What do you want?” I manage to whisper.

  “I just want to make you come.”

  Henry keeps rubbing his thumb in a firm, tight circle against my clit while he slowly strokes a finger along the folds of my pussy. “Oh my God, you’re so fucking wet.”

  A little moan escapes me, and then another. I’m holding onto the chair as though it will keep me grounded here on earth. His touch is sending me flying, and I know it’s wrong, but I need more. I’m so close to coming already, he doesn’t even know. I’ve been electrified since he whirled me across the ballroom, my entire body sizzling with static charge as he held me close.

  He moves his hands around my hips and pulls me forward, my ass sliding to the edge of the seat. “Abi...”

  It’s a husky, desperate growl of a whisper that spreads through me like a drug, my nipples hardening into stiff point, my pussy clenching at the sound of his voice begging for a taste of me.

  I steal a glance at him, and the look on his face, so possessed with hunger, makes my insides quiver. The longing in my eyes is all the permission he needs. He pushes my dress up to my waist and tears my panties away, ripping them off me as if they were made of delicate paper.

  I’m bared to him and exposed to the night air, but it’s a naughty, delicious feeling. I dart a quick peek at the balcony doors, but all I can see is the backside of the security man’s suit jacket.

  No one is looking outside, which is a good thing, because Henry leans forward and dips his chin, and his mouth is on me, hot and wet. I clutch the arms of the chair as he kisses my most sensitive area, his tongue darting between my folds.

  He gently spreads the lips of my pussy and dives on my clit like it’s Christmas and he’s been waiting all day to open his presents.

  It’s better than my hands and fingers have ever been. It’s better than I’ve fantasized. The heat from his mouth, his nimble tongue flicking against my swollen nub, it’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced, and I can’t believe it’s finally happening here, now, on the balcony outside the ballroom.

  I hear breathy gasps between long, blissful moans, and realize it’s me. There’s a white-hot tension building between my legs, and I’m ready to explode. The heat rises from my pussy and into my chest. I want to run his hair through my fingers, to grab onto his shoulders, but I keep my death grip on the chair.

  But my hips, my hips respond to Henry. It’s just the smallest of movements — a little sway like on the dancefloor — but he groans as I move with him. Henry does something with his tongue — oh my God, does he do something with his tongue — pressing into my clit with a circle, and my thighs tremble and clench.

  The lights on the balcony begin to flicker and I wonder if I’m going to blackout from holding my breath in as my body vibrates. I lift myself from the seat, pressing into him with need.

  Henry squeezes his fingers into my rear, getting good handfuls of my ass as his licks my pussy and sucks my clit like a man possessed. I clamp my lips shut to muffle my cries, whimpering silent moans of long-awaited-for satisfaction, my skin hot with the flush of a powerful orgasm.

  Chapter 5

  ABIGAIL

  “Would you like more tea?” The waiter leans over my right shoulder expectantly, but I cover the dainty cup with my hand and shake my head.

  “No, thank you.” If I have any more tea, I’m going to be waddling like a fat duck to the ladies’ room.

  Two hundred guests — the royal family, foreign dignitaries, high-ranking members of the court, and assorted celebrities — are seated at large round tables under an expansive white tent on the East Lawn. There’s a late season cold, crisp in the air, and thousands upon thousands of tiny lights are woven throughout the tent. The effect is like luminous fairy dust.

  Dinner is almost over, and dessert will be served soon, but I’m too stuffed to take another bite. The legendary late night Black Diamond event — the charity poker game which has brought in wealthy card sharks and high-rolling celebrities from all over the world — is about to begin, which will last well into the night. A man’s event, mostly, ending in cigar smoke and unbuttoned tuxedo collars.

  As luck would have it, I’ve been seated at the same table as Henry. The seating arrangements are supposed to be random — as each guest arrives, they draw a playing card and find the numbered table matching their card. But something tells me Henry skipped over luck of the draw and went straight for an empty spot at my table. Royal prerogative. Not like anyone’s going to reprimand him.

  He’s sitting across from me, a wide expanse of white linen between us, enough to prevent a polite volume of conversation, especially with the buzz of chatter and clinking of silverware and dishes filling the tent. He’s talking to the Duke of Fellsworth, but his eyes are on me, as they have been all through dinner.

  Every time I look up, he’s staring, and I blush like a schoolgirl making eye contact with a cute boy for the first time. Over and over. Or perhaps I’m staring at him, I don’t know anymore. I can’t keep track of who is looking at who at this point. It’s a shock no one has noticed, or if they have, at least they haven’t said anything, except for Emily, who has elbowed me at least a dozen times over the past hour and is currently muffling a giggle behind her teacup.

  I lower my eyes, embarrassed at the rosy shade of my cheeks, and hiss at her. “Emily, for heaven’s sake, shush. You are not helping.”

  She’s already making me regret telling her about the private moments with Henry on the balcony last night, but I still love her anyway, and besides, who else was I going to tell? It was too big to keep to myself — a momentous occasion worthy of shouting from the rooftops, if I could.

  He literally took my breath away and rocked my world, ooooh did he ever. My God, I had no idea I could even come that hard. I’d wanted more, I wanted all of him, every hot, firm inch of him inside me — his tongue, his fingers, his cock. But a moment after my legs stopped shaking from my earth-shattering orgasm and my vision swam back into focus, Henry pulled my dress down.

  “Sorry, Abi,” he’d whispered. He rose from his knees and pressed his lips to my cheek in a tender kiss, his skin hot against mine.

  Bewildered, I’d sat forward, reaching for Henry, but he was already walking away. I thought the flashing of lights behind my closed eyelids had been orgasm-induced, but upon opening my eyes, I noticed the dim lights of the sconces along the exterior wall of the balcony were indeed blinking on and off. A second later, the glass door swung open and the royal guard stuck his head outside.

  “Your Highness?” the guard had called hesitantly, his eyes lowered to the ground. “So sorry to disturb you, sir, but your father, sorry, His Highness the King, is having another of his migraines. He needs you to step in as host.”

  “Yes, coming,” Henry said, already halfway to the door.

  The lights had stopped blinking by then, and I realized it had been a signal to the Prince that our private moment was about to be interrupted. Just before he slipped through the door into the ballroom, he’d turned and looked at me, a lingering gaze that I couldn’t quite read. And then he was gone.

  Emily’s continued giggling pulls me back to the present. The noise level at the table has increased now that dinner is finished and large quantities of wine and spirits have been consumed.

  I can still fe
el Henry’s eyes on me, undressing me in front of everyone, this intense sparkle in his gaze. And is that a hint of jealousy I’m catching once in a while? I think it might be. Every time one of the men at the table talks to me, Henry is on instant alert.

  I’m supposed to be chatting politely with the guests seated at the table, including two of the suitors my parents have picked out for me, but there is a growing wetness between my legs that is entirely distracting, because I can’t look at Henry without thinking about his mouth on me, and how he knows exactly what to do with his tongue. It sends a pulse of pleasure through my pussy every time he lifts his champagne glass and parts his mouth to take a sip.

  It doesn’t help that he keeps licking his lips — whether intentionally or not, it’s driving me crazy.

  I want to climb across the table, draped with crisp white linen and crystal stemware, directly into Henry’s lap and wrap my legs around him, proper dinner party be damned. The fantasy is playing itself out in my head so vividly that all my attempts at conversation have been awkward and short lived.

  The gentleman on my right — Horace something, I believe — turns to me. “Lady Abigail, I heard you just graduated magna cum laude from Umberland.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “What was your field of study, if I may ask?” Horace is easily twenty years my senior, with an actual, bonafide pencil mustache, thin brown hair, and a deeply pockmarked red nose.

  Despite staring at Henry for most of the evening, I couldn’t help but notice that Horace had sucked down five glasses of wine already and is currently working on the sixth.

  “Environmental engineering, actually.”

  He wrinkles his nose, his tone becoming a mix of patrimony and incredulity. “Engineering? Isn’t that a man’s job?”

  What the hell? Where did my parents’ advisors find this joker? “Well, traditionally, most positions have been held by men, but that’s slowly changing.” At least outside of the royal court, in the modern world.

  “It doesn’t matter, I suppose.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He waves his hands. “Oh, you know — you’ve got your little piece of paper to show that you’ve accomplished something, a nice certificate to hang on the wall. Very urban of you.”