Roadie (Rock-Hard Beautiful Book 2)

by C. M. Stunich

  “Come with me, baby?” he asks and I nod, loving the warm curl of his fingers around my wrist as he drags me away from the other boys, down the hall and past the beam of light leaking underneath the bathroom door. We head into the Bat Cave and Ransom kicks the mess of clothes away from the door so he can close it.

  I think that's the first time it's been closed since we started sleeping back here as a group of five—now six, of course.

  I swallow past a suddenly dry throat as Ransom shrugs off his mesh hoodie, his tank, and then climbs up on the bed next to me. Sitting there, in front of his scarred but still beautiful body, I feel a little nervous.

  “Is everything okay, Ransom?” I ask again, but he doesn't look at me, crawling through the dark shadows of the room as lightning flashes and highlights the rectangular shapes of the windows.

  “I'm not sure, sweet thing,” he says, voice dripping with lavish shadows and luxurious twilight. The sound of it … each syllable is like a Lucullan kiss, scrumptious and decadent, like I can feel the weight of his words against my mouth. “But will you help me figure it out?”

  “Figure what out?” I ask as he flicks the switch for one of the red shaded lights that are attached to the headboard. The silver and grey stripes on the wall seem to glow, and the bat headboard grins down at me with its spindled mouth, making me shiver.

  Ransom opens one of the drawers on the headboard and digs around for a moment, coming up with a length of silky red rope, the color of freshly spilled blood.

  Blood.

  Why does that color, that thought, make me think of my dad? He didn't die in blood. But my sister did … I shake those thoughts off, determined to make it through to New York without having a breakdown. I don't need to have a breakdown, not with a whole host of scintillating rockstars to fall in love with.

  Ransom sits back down and kicks his boots off the end of the bed, glancing over at me with eyes that for once aren't half-lidded or bedroom-dark, but open, surprised, slightly confused.

  “Paxton … kissed me,” he says and I raise one red brow.

  “When?” He can't be talking about the two occasions I already know about.

  “At the museum,” he tells me, his voice even lower and harder to hear than usual. But god, it's worth it to lean in, to wait for it, to let that sensual silken sound slide across my eardrums. “We were talking through our shit and then … Fuck, Lilith, I don't know what's going on.”

  Ransom looks back at me and then lifts the bundle of rope up with a slight smile. I try to keep my eyes on his face, but I can't help my wandering gaze as it darts down to the sculpted perfection of his chest, his tummy, the scars that make him even more beautiful. I pause briefly when I catch the eyes of his mother's portrait, tattooed onto his bicep.

  “You said you wanted to see what else was in these drawers. Are you game?”

  “Who do you want to tie up?” I ask, blinking long lashes at him. “Me or Pax?”

  It's supposed to be a joke, but it comes out a little … breathy. Fuck. I'm not trying to turn their kiss into an act for my own pleasure, but I have to admit that the thought makes me feel an intense libidinal hunger that burns and aches in my lower belly.

  “God, darling, I don't know,” he says as he looks over at me, chocolate brown hair kissing his forehead, his mouth slightly parted, the most adorable expression on his face. Yes, he's confused, but I think he's also a little bit excited? I could be wrong. “I don't think I'm bisexual. I've never looked at another guy and thought, like, I wanted to fuck him.”

  He runs his palms down his face as I close the distance between us and curl myself up in his lap, laying my head against his chest and listening to the clangorous rhythm of his heart.

  “Maybe you're not bi …” I start, running my palm up the hard curves of Ransom's arm. Let's just say this: Kevin did not have arms with swoops and valleys like this. Being with a man who's filled out, who actually looks like a man, that's exciting. Kevin was soft and doughy, and honestly, at the time I thought I was in love so he was beautiful to me. But now that I look at him without rose-colored glasses? There's nothing attractive about the man. “Maybe you just like Paxton in particular? Sometimes gender is irrelevant. Love comes whether you want it to or not, and with love, sexual attraction builds. Somebody you never thought you'd find attractive becomes the sexiest human being alive.”

  “Well, I think you're the sexiest human being alive,” Ran whispers as I look up and find the sensual glimmer of his eyes looking down at me. It's like being cast in moonlight, in starlight, in all the glamorous magic that lights up the night. “But … shit, I don't know.”

  He fingers the rope in his hand, trailing one end up the inside of my arm. The sensation makes me shiver.

  “I feel like I'm out of control,” he says softly, the words swirling my hair around as he speaks with his lips pressed to my scalp. “I want to get back in control.”

  “Do whatever you want to me,” I tell him and feel his body stiffen around mine. I mean, it was already stiff in the place that counts, but Ransom's muscles get taut, pulled like a bowstring. “I trust you, Ran.”

  I close my eyes as he lifts a hand up and curls his fingers gently around the front of my throat, pulling me back against him so he can lean forward and kiss my mouth with hot wanton lips. I let my body go pliant in Ransom's strong arms as he drags one of his big hands over my breast, kneading the tender mound with a measure of controlled strength that gets my heart pumping violently inside my chest.

  “You might not believe this,” Ransom whispers, his voice making me swallow hard against a lump of tears. There's just something so raw about him, about the way he speaks low and quiet, like he's afraid if he shouts, he'll start screaming and never stop. That raw emotionality rakes over me, drags me across the hot coals of my own past, my own detritus of a backstory. “But this is all because of you, the fact that Paxton is even speaking to me like I'm a human being half the time.”

  “What have I done?” I ask and then gasp as he drops his calloused hand under the shirt-dress and pulls it up and over my head, exposing my lacy black bra, my ruined crotchless panties. I was planning on changing them after the show, but I got swept up in the excitement of the concert and forgot all about it.

  “That's the thing, doll face. You haven't really done anything. It's just you, your presence. You have this … way of being open, of having a conversation with reality that isn't one-sided. You're cracking all our shells with your fresh hurt, baby.”

  “I'm sorry,” I whisper but Ransom shushes me, undoing the clasp on my bra, letting my breasts tumble free into the hazy red darkness of the Bat Cave.

  “No, don't be. It's better to live wet and bleeding, wearing your hurt like a badge of pride than it is to live numb and empty, inside a shell separate from the world.”

  Ran clutches me to him, slips his hand down the front of my belly and into my panties, teasing me with his hand, making me writhe. The rough feel of his scars against my back send goose bumps shivering down my spine as I dig the thin black heels of my shoes into the sheets and arch into his touch.

  A second later, the door opens and Michael's standing there, panting.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, my own body trembling as Ransom dips his fingers inside of me and I gasp. He doesn't stop for Michael's benefit, fucking me slow and sensual and easy, as languid and luxurious as the sound of his voice, his scent.

  “I don't know how to do this,” Michael admits, slipping inside, leaning against the wall in that small, tight space at the end of the bed, watching us with eyes that would put Elizabeth Taylor to shame. She may have been famous for having purple eyes, but Michael's … they're the color of the irises in my mother's garden, vibrant and rich and saturated. “Stand out there and just …”

  “Sit down,” Ransom says, his voice gentle but firm. He's not like Paxton in that he needs to be in charge all the time, but right now … this is what he wants. “Watch me fuck her,” he whispers against my ear, his brea
th hot, making me bite my lip at the sensation of it curling around my ear.

  Michael watches me for a long moment, putting his hands on his hips and taking a deep breath. This is not easy for him, I can see that. He's going to have to do a lot of adjusting if he wants to make this work.

  “Fuck,” he whispers, but he tears his shirt over his head and tosses it aside, kicking off his shoes, socks, and pants and joining us in nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs. The slick material does nothing to hide the generous bulge beneath it. “I must be losing my damn mind.”

  “Minds can get complicated,” I say and make a funny little chirp of a gasp, blushing at the sound. Ransom's hands are … well, they're magic. All that time fingering his bass has taught him how to tease the most intimate parts of a woman and make her sing. “Sometimes it's a good thing to lose one.”

  My eyelids droop as Ran draws me easily into an orgasm, this one the color of starlight on a forest floor, dappled and patterned, bright in some places and dark in others. That's us right now, a gentle mess, but a beautiful one.

  “Lay on your side, darling,” Ransom tells me, glancing up briefly to meet Michael's eyes. He's leaning against a mountain of pillows propped in front of the headboard, chest rising and falling with rapid, panting breaths. It almost looks like the firebird tattooed on his chest is flying.

  “I've never done anything like this before,” I say, and it's not a line. It's true. I've never been tied up during sex. Half of me is terrified. But the other half? That part's ecstatic.

  “I've got you, wonderful,” he breathes and I feel my mouth curve into a smile. Wonderful. Now that is a cute pet name.

  I do as Ransom asked, facing Michael, watching him watching me.

  My breath hitches as Ran curls his fingers under my panties and drags them down my legs and off, throwing them to the floor. He takes the length of rope in his hand and unravels it.

  “I'm not an expert or anything,” he prefaces, his own lips curving into a small smile as I glance back at him, once again struck by the color of his eyes. They're not just brown. They're as pretty as Pax's grey ones, Muse's hazel ones, Cope's turquoise and Michael's purple. They're rich and deep, like there's an old soul buried inside that young body of his. “I just like the idea of losing control … of taking it. If you get uncomfortable with anything, you just let me know, sweetheart.”

  “Okay,” I whisper back, unable to raise my voice any higher when he manages to sound so delicious at such a low volume. My heart flutters like a wild butterfly, seeking out nectar from all the blooming flowers of spring. Only … my flowers are five rock-hard beautiful musicians with pasts as dark or darker than my own.

  One day, our storms would clear and we'd all stand together staring up at the seamless blue of a cloudless sky, rays of golden sunshine warming our collective faces. One day … but today, there's thunder and lightning outside, Pax kissed Ransom again, and I'm about to be tied up.

  I can't say I'm unhappy in this particular storm. At least the driving rain and the grey clouds of today are blocking out the pain of last week, hiding my father's death from me for a few more precious days. Once we get to New York, I won't be able to close my eyes any longer. I'll have to open them wide and see it all, let it really sink in, accept that things will never be the same again.

  But not right now, not right here.

  I put my hands in a prayer position and lay my head atop them, looking at Michael's shuttered gaze and parted lips. He looks so tense, almost battle ready. Our gazes meet, my body naked but for my heels, my charm bracelet … and the pair of necklaces that he gave me. I wonder if I'll ever take them off or if they'll become as much a part of my skin as the bracelet my mother once wore.

  Ransom takes my leg in his hands, sliding his palms down the long sweaty surface, making my lids flutter and my breathing ache. That's a strange thought, an aching breath. But that's exactly what it is. My lungs are so tight, filled with too much emotion to leave room for oxygen. Each inhale makes my body tremble, my throat constrict.

  Ransom takes the silky red rope and starts to wrap it around my leg in a complicated pattern, crisscrossing it against my pale skin, the splash of bright color almost startling. He ties me up like a spider weaving a web, starting at the crease between my hip and thigh and working his way down to my toes. He points them like a ballerina's and then weaves the magic of his rope to keep them that way.

  My body thrills at the different sensations—the heat of his breath, the rough graze of fingertips, the gentle kiss of satiny rope.

  I keep my eyes closed through most of it, too overwhelmed by texture and mixed stimuli to look at Michael. When I finally do open them, I'm glad I didn't do it sooner. The sight of that man with his sleeves of jewel toned tattoos, his vibrant chest piece, with his hand inside his boxer briefs, stroking and caressing the hidden length of his shaft … it almost sends me over the edge.

  I let out a gasp as my eyes flick up to Ransom and find him threading the end of the rope through a small silver ring in the ceiling, one I hadn't noticed before. He uses a thick knot to tie my foot to it, suspending my leg in the air, the other lying flat on the bed, my foot between Ransom's knees.

  The bedroom door opens again, spilling warm air into the room. The current curls around my naked flesh, teasing the slick swollen heat of my cunt. It's as bare and exposed as it could possibly get, almost put on display. I like that, knowing that the boys are getting a good look at the center of my sensual power. I take pride in the wetness of my core, the scorching heat of my desire. I think … I was never ashamed of it before, but I didn't know how to take ownership of it.

  I feel like I'm taking ownership of it now.

  “Come in,” I tell the surprised face at the door. It's Derek, standing there with his mouth slightly ajar, his shirt missing (as usual), an apple clutched in his left hand. “And get Copeland.”

  “You want an audience, honey?” Ransom asks, kissing the naked spaces of flesh between the ropes, making me squirm.

  “And Paxton. Get Pax, too,” I tell Muse and feel Ran stiffen up a little.

  “Yeah, yeah, gotcha,” Muse says, touching the slicked curve of his silver-black mohawk with a shaking hand. “Fuck.”

  He turns quickly and disappears down the hall as I feel the bed moving, Ransom sliding around behind me. He opens another drawer and takes out a new length of red rope. I start to move, to glance back at him, but he gently pushes me back into the bed with a hand on my shoulder.

  Being topped by Ransom Riggs … it's soothing, safe, but also … I can taste the dark twisted perfume of his grief and anger in the air. It adds this slight edge to the satin of his touch, this enigmatic mystery to the feel of his fingertip dragging down my spine.

  “Stay right where you are,” he tells me, but his hands are trembling now. Because of Pax? It must be. It has to be.

  I keep looking at Michael Luxe, my lips inadvertently whispering his name, teasing the air with the sweet sound of it. Michael Luxe. Luxe, Luxe, Luxe. That's how he looks right now: luxe. Expensive … no, no priceless. A rough and unpolished jewel covered in tattoos and dark razored hair that hits at the shoulders, arm muscles decorated with esoteric intricacies.

  As I stare at him, Ransom reaches over me and tugs my praying hands out from under my head, wrapping them up in knots that tie me up, but feel like one big long hug. He binds my palms together, my wrists, all the way down to the elbows and then lets me lay my head back on them.

  Michael's shoving his underwear off now, throwing the bunched fabric to the floor. The big thick length of his cock is held in a tight grip as he grits his teeth and stares at Ransom and me with that fucking intensity of his, that vibrant interactive gaze that demands attention.

  “Orders dispensed and received,” Muse says, slipping back into the room and crawling up on the bed, lying on his side in front of Michael so that we're at eye level. “Who are you?” he asks, reaching out to lay a palm on the side of my face. “That you have the power to
do this to me?”

  “It was Ransom that did this,” I whisper, but Muse just leans forward and kisses me, that strange break in his expression still intriguing me, begging me to dig deeper, but right now, I can do nothing but surrender to the warmth and touch of my mates.

  My wildcat purrs her assent.

  Muse takes my mouth apart with his tongue, kisses me so deep and long that I hardly notice Ransom straddling my left leg, positioning the hard head of his shaft to the aching bareness of my opening. He drives into me and I scream—purely in pleasure, of course—right against Muse's lips, making him groan and dig his fingertips into my face.

  My eyes close, my body trying to acclimate to such wildly violent pleasure. It tears through me the same way Muse's kiss just took over my mouth, making me tremble wildly, groan and arch and wiggle.

  Vaguely, I recognize movement behind me, the soft gentle touch of a boyfriend's sweet hands.

  That's Copeland, has to be.

  He trails kisses across my shoulders, up the back of my neck to my hairline. He touches me reverently, respectfully, as if being in here with me is some sort of privilege. Ransom though … Ransom holds my hip with one hand, his other curled around my bound leg, and he just fucks hard and fast and desperate, burying himself in me with long agonizing thrusts.

  I can feel him bumping the end of me, almost too long with my legs spread wide like this.

  Almost.

  I feel every emotion that he's feeling in his thrusts, all of that fucked-up strangeness with Paxton, the years of fighting, the anger, the rage, the unfairness of it all.

  “It's a bloody party in here, isn't it?”

  The words come from behind me, next to Ransom, and his thrusts slow, still, my aching cunt gripping him, rippling in pleasure.

  Muse and I break our kiss briefly to glance back at the two men.

  They're looking at each other now, Ransom's face hard, that shield up and in place, firmly held against whatever cruelty Paxton might throw his way. But the man with the cold, cruel gaze says nothing. Instead, he shrugs out of his navy suit jacket and tosses it on the floor, takes his tie off and leaves it hanging around his neck as he unbuttons his white shirt with terrifying slowness.