by S. E. Hall
He groans when I squeeze, grunts when I tug, and utterly hisses when I perpetrate a twisting motion. “Baby, enough,” he begs in a breathy huff and takes a step away, turning around. “Finish washing me before I finish, please.”
I re-lather up and start at his shoulders, dipping down into his pits, finding them almost as ticklish as mine, then caress over every rigidly flexed muscle in his back. Licking my lips, I grip both his butt cheeks and rub my palms and fingers lasciviously; this taut, delectable ass is definitely one of my favorite parts of his body. I can’t wait to test my theory of its buoyancy later.
“All done,” I pant, backing into the spray to make sure I’m completely rinsed.
“Hardly.” He turns, stalking me the few steps until my back is against the wall. He spins me around, seeking out my hands and forcing them flat against the tile in front of me. “Leave ‘em there,” he growls in my ear, partaking of a nibble while he’s there. I feel his piercing grip my hips, tugging back on them ‘til he has me poised at the angle he wants me.
I shiver, scarcely able to stay braced and upright as he runs a single finger through my moisture, mockingly sliding that single digit inside me, then just as swiftly out. “Love the way your body talks to me. I want you too, my little Siren,” he says at the same time he spreads me open and plunges his thick hardness all the way into me.
I moan/scream at the tight fit, the stretching fullness bordering on stinging pain.
“Easy, baby, relax,” he coos into the back of my neck. “You little minx, quit flexing or this won’t last long.”
I’m not doing it on purpose, my center is literally protesting the intrusion on its own.
When his dexterous fingers find my clit and strum it in perfect harmony, I do relax, every muscle in me going lax with glorious euphoria. “There we go, melt around me, baby, tight but eased wet, just how I like it,” he murmurs as his thrusts pick up speed and force. He tugs at my hips, bringing me up on my tiptoes, then pushes down on my lower back, effectively popping my ass higher in the air.
“Fuckkk yeah,” he rumbles, reaching a whole new that spot inside me. “Right there, perfect.”
It feels so damn good, the friction of his head hitting my upper wall, his fingers relentless on my clit, and his sounds—God, his sounds—the quivers within my walls come on quick.
“That’s my girl.” He bites lightly at my shoulder, immediately covering it with an open mouth kiss. “Give it to me, Lizzie, drench my cock. Now.”
His ministrations grow more urgent, pressing down and around, rolling my clit like his toy, his pounding into me maniacal, and I do… I see black, then flashes of white, my head falling forward limply as I clasp and pulse around him. Nothing else exists, just the two of us locked in a bubble of pure ecstasy where I float, only aware of the sweet sounds of our slapping skin and his pleasure, piercing but unable to penetrate my blissful daze.
He comes, body going motionless, hands compressing down mercilessly on my hips, dick twitching inside me. I embrace it, mind, body, and soul, basking in what we make each other feel.
Having yet to reclaim my breath or bearings, he slips from me, the hot evidence of physical domination coating the insides of my thighs. Instantly, he’s there with a washcloth, soothingly cleaning me before twirling me back around to face him.
“Making love to you is the only perfect thing I’ve ever known.” He kisses my forehead then beholds my eyes. “I love you, Lizzie Hannah Carmichael, and I always will. Completely.”
“I love you too.” Overcome, I lay my cheek to his chest and count his heartbeats thundering beneath my ear.
“We better get ready.” And with one more kiss to my hair and playful pat on my ass, we do just that.
Chapter 25
“Sark, my man!” Cannon and his friend bro hug, complete with sharp slaps on the back.
“How the hell you been, Cannonball? Traveling man now, huh?” his handsome, charismatic, blond buddy asks.
“Something like that.” Cannon chuckles. “Hey, I want you to meet someone.” He reaches back to where I’m trying to blend in behind him and snares my waist, catapulting me forward. “Kasen Sark, this is Lizzie Carmichael, my one.”
A confused visage crosses his face briefly, but he’s quick to recover. “Pleasure, Lizzie. Thanks for doing some shows here.” He initiates a handshake, mine cold and clammy from a stranger’s touch.
“Pleasure’s mine, and thank you for having us,” I muster, my head dipping marginally. I can’t help being a bit apprehensive…he’s wondering where Ruthie is, obviously. Do I measure up? Does he already hate me? And I care why?
Because he means something to Cannon, who means everything to me—that’s why.
“What, uh, happened to—”
“Why don’t you show us around, Mr. Tactful,” Cannon interrupts him, knowing, as I do, he was about to ask about Grandma Fiancé. Told ya.
“Oh. Yeah, sure.” He changes directions of conversational topic and to show us around the place, suddenly spewing off every fact about the bar, “his new baby,” he can think to tell.
The place is very sleek; red, black and yellow leather seating, along. L-shaped bar and a ginormous dance floor, which is white, but obviously made to glow with the right lighting. Upstairs is a plush VIP area, same color combos and its own, smaller bar as well. Sark tells us as we tour that there’s a full kitchen somewhere that serves until 11, then finally takes us down a different set of stairs to show us the stage and tombs. He has a state of the art drum kit, sound board and stage lights, and asks if he can run for us.
Fancy schmancy.
Cannon looks to me for how to answer and I just shrug. We’ve never done all the bells and whistles, so even if Sark does it wrong, I’ll never know.
“Just don’t shine anything bright up in our eyes,” I say, jovial.
“You got it. So you guys wanna go ahead and sound check or do you need the others?”
“We don’t have our instruments,” I answer. Did he not notice that?
“I’ve got some backstage. They should work to get things set.”
No, that’s not how that works. But Cannon’s way ahead of me.
“I’ll check bass and drums, you do guitar on my side and the front mic.” He winks at me, proud of his solution.
“Okay,” I agree, though skeptically. Not only will it be a half-ass check, we’ll just have to do it again when the boys join us. But then it hits me, and my heart threatens to burst; Cannon’s doing this for his buddy, who so obviously wants to show off his new gadgets, full-out running to the sound booth.
Once we’re set up and strapped at our first stations, I lead in a song that’s been brewing in my head (and heart, if I’m honest) since Cannon and I got on “our” page.
Cannon’s whole face beams in recognition. I sing for him, to him, “Wild Horses,” my favorite version by The Sundays, entwining all my emotions into the lyrics, tone, and look in my eyes as I gaze at him. It’s the perfect song because the wildest of horses have no chance of dragging me from Cannon.
When the song’s over, I unstrap the electric and only just have it set down before I’m swallowed up by my man. “I loved it, and ditto, Siren, ditto. I love you so much, you sexy thing,” he says, all while placing kisses on every inch of my face. “Need a nibble,” he murmurs, already buried in my neck, collecting his fix.
“We’ll do one more run to test lead and drums!” he yells out to Sark when he comes up for air.
Sark answers with a thumbs up high in the air, enthusiasm bright on his face.
“My turn?” Cannon asks, his playful brow raised.
“By all means,” I bow and fan out my arm.
“Sing harmony, though, gotta test the mic,” he calls, climbing behind the kit.
He beats out lightly on the heads the part that’s normally a piano in the song—somehow making it seem even more suitable. And then he sings—a tender bass, infiltrating the soul, my soul anyway. I pluck the mic from its stand and t
urn to him as I sing accompaniment. He chose “Have a Little Faith in Me,” which he’s played for me on his iPod, but today he tamps it out, his sultry voice making love to it for me, unambiguously pleading with me to do exactly what the lyrics ask.
Too late—I already do.
***
We grab lunch at a sidewalk café, and he holds my hand on top of the table as we wait for our food. When it arrives, he dishes half of his on my plate and vice versa, without me having to ask—which I was totally planning to.
“So I was thinking,” I throw out absently, looking down at my food.
“Uh huh?”
“Well, maybe I should finally get a house or apartment, somewhere to land when a break seems necessary. I could decorate it, cook in a real kitchen, be crazy and sleep in a real bed…”
“And where were you thinking for location?” he asks, then pops a bite in his mouth, chewing slowly, awaiting my answer with focused, curious eyes.
“I don’t know.” I pop my shoulders in nonchalance, hoping he buys it. “Where are you getting your apartment? N-not that I like w-wanna move next door and stalk you or anything,” I stammer like a crazy person. “Just making conversation.”
“Hey.” He sets down his fork and speaks, his voice mellow. “Give me your hand.” He offers his once again atop the table, upturned to clasp onto mine, which I lay in it willingly. “I know it’s fast—well, not as fast as the hooker movie, we’ve tripled their one week, and living 24/7 in a cramped space together adds at least a month. We already know each other’s annoying habits and that we can live together and be around each other constantly, right?”
I’m still dwelling on the “annoying habits” part, quite sure I have none. In fact, neither does he, really.
“Lizzie, I wanna be where you are. Speaking of stalker tendencies, I took the liberty of mapping the halfway point between your father’s house, for Conner’s visits, and my family. That’s Richmond. Population 36,000, great schools, lots of outdoor parks and activities; all in all a nice town to raise a family.”
Can’t breathe.
Cold sweat.
Throat constricting.
Stomach revolting.
Whose family does he plan on raising?
“Lizzie, no, ma’am, look at me right now. Big one in for me,” he mimics the motion, “and out for you, slow and easy.”
“Not better!” I choke out in panic.
“One more then, in for me,” he simulates again, “and out for you.” His eyes search mine, waiting several minutes to proceed, until apparently he sees what he needed to. “I’m just saying, if you buy a house, it might as well be one you can see fitting your long term needs, right? Moving sucks.” He grasps my hand more snugly, rubbing his thumb back and forth across the rapid pulse in my wrist. “Do you ever want children, Lizzie? Not tomorrow, but ever?”
“Yes, definitely,” I affirm with no hesitation.
“Well then. Why not plan for that?” He raises the right, analytical brow in question.
“It’s sudden, scary,” I mutter, almost inaudibly, knee jackhammering under the table.
“Have you ever felt what you feel for me?” I shake my head no. “Me either. Not for anyone, not even down on one knee for the wrong reasons. My whole life, my heart beat half this fast, no fire in my belly. With you—it’s like an inferno, every part of me burning, alive and excited. I can’t wait to wake up every morning to spend the day with you. Three weeks, three hours—I’ll still feel this way in thirty-three years. I know it like I know stars will always fall and it will always rain, somewhere, every day.”
“But,” I almost don’t say it, feeling like a broken record, “you were engaged not a month ago.”
“I didn’t ask you to marry me. I asked that we try living together, or at least side by side. House, apartment, treehouse, box in an alley, Alaska, New Guinea. I don’t care. Hey,” he snaps, “we could live in a tent and do the ghost stories/shadow thing you went all dreamy about. Anything, baby, for a chance.”
I offer my best placating smile. “I’ll think about it.”
“You do that.” His head droops the tiniest bit as the light burns out of his usually unfailing vibrant eyes.
We finish eating in stiff, uncomfortable silence, him releasing my hand and not taking it again when we walk out.
Chapter 26
Cannon
The Sark Tank is packed; definitely gonna be a profitable night for my buddy. With the mass of bodies, it’s odd that I’m able to look up during “When You’re Gone,” by The Cranberries, which Lizzie kills at singing, like instant too-snug crotch kills, and spot…Ruthie, sitting and playing family with my family. I wrack my brain, wondering if Lizzie knows what any of them look like, a wave of nausea rolling through my gut.
I glance at my Siren, but it does me no good, her expression’s been a mix between tense and dread since our little talk. I’m without a clue on if she knows who they are and that they’re here or it’s just residual.
“Thank you,” she says faintly, half-heartedly, at the end of the song. “This next one is a classic that I don’t have near the voice to pull it off,” she funs, ducking her head but a second before finishing. “Not even sure my boys know it, but Imma sing it anyway. Gotta get it out.”
Her voice begins alone, a cappella and hauntingly vulnerable. “Lying beside you…”
I recognize and lend her a rhythm to “Open Arms” by Journey. I chance a subtle, corner of my eye glance at her and she’s already zoned in on me, her eyes brightening with each word, telling me here what she either just decided or couldn’t manage to confess face to face before.
“Nothing to hide…” Rhett brings in the beat.
“Come to you, with open arms,” Jarrett strums a deep groove, “hoping you’ll see…”
I’m glued to her face, watching every nuance and inflection, praying, elated at what I think she’s telling me.
“Thank you so much, you’ve been a great crowd!” She waits for the raucous noise to settle. “This will be our last of the night, chosen by our own Cannon!”
Oh, she’s putting me on the spot, seeing what I’ll now sing to her in answer. Hmmm, nothing like a little pressure. “This is a newer one; hope we all know it,” I chuckle, “and you all like it. Hold somebody tight. This is ‘All of Me’ by John Legend.”
I sing it as deliberately and sensuously as I can, never breaking my own loving gaze away from hers. It says everything as though I wrote it, for her—”your smart mouth,” “your mystery ride”—perfect, from me to her.
I’ve hardly finished before I’m strolling to her, my Lizzie, distantly hearing my name shrieked above the noise. I’d know it anywhere, a flashing reminder of how much time I’d wasted, beckoning me. Lizzie’s eyes search the crowd for the sound and when they land on the provocatively dressed, boobs-pushed-to-her-chin redhead quickly approaching, I feel her body go rigidly tense from here.
“Ruthie?” she asks under her breath.
“Yeah.” I sigh, running a frustrated hand back through my hair.
“Who are those people she was sitting with?”
“My parents and sister. As soon as I blow her off, I’ll introduce you.”
“No, no, they’re here with her. The girl you were supposed to be with, to marry. Take your time. I gotta help load the bus.” She turns and walks away as fast as she can without all-out running, leaving me stranded to handle Broom Hilda alone.
“Hey, baby.” She sidles up, fakeness dripping from her blood red lips. Lizzie never wears that ugly crap, masking her real taste, getting all over me and my collar. Ugh. I shiver at the thought.
“Hello, Ruthie.” I bend my head to her level. “What are you doing here?” She waves dismissively at me, still wearing her engagement ring. I don’t like it at all. Sure, her father picked it out, brought it to me and told me exactly when and where to propose, but still, she needs to take it off and move on.
“Gorgeous brother of mine!” Sommerlyn bounces up,
leaning across the stage to wrap me in a hug. “I missed you, and boy, were you fantastic up there! The girl kinda made you all look good though,” she jests, but she’s completely correct.
Now my parents approach, tentatively, rounding out the party. For Moms, I jump down, giving her a big hug and smooch on the cheek before shaking hands with my father and giving him a one-armed hug.
“Thank you, guys, for coming out. You didn’t have to.”
“Nonsense! My handsome son’s living adventurously, a rock star. I wouldn’t miss it,” my mother gushes, patronizingly squeezes both my cheeks.
“So,” Ruthie intrudes, “why don’t we all go out to dinner now? I doubt Cannon will want to drive tonight, so we could eat, find a hotel, and all leave in the morning together!” She bounces and falsely glows, like a yippy, nervous show poodle. I can’t decide which part is making me sick and which is causing the pounding in my temple; probably a combination of her totally debilitating, pathetic state.
“Yes,” Sommerlyn shoots her sinister eyes, “I think a private place to discuss things is a great idea.”
My parents look trapped in a grueling tennis match, their eyes flicking back and forth between the cattiness.
“Well, I should probably go help the band,” I explain, already backing away.
“Let’s go help and tell them where we’re going.” Sommerlyn loops her arm through mine. “Wait here, we’ll be right back,” she chirps to our parents, and…
“What are you doing?” I growl under my breath as we walk away, leaving two confused parents with one deranged ex.
“Giving that bitch what for, as soon as possible. Playing all nice with Mom and Dad like she didn’t get a tubal on the DL then dump you on the side of the road. Oh, hell no. You just leave it to your sister, Bubba, I got this. So, are you in love with the precious little lead singer or just wanting in her panties?”
I stop short. “Look at me, Som.” She turns like a whipped pup at my harsh tone. “I’m madly, forever in love with her. Don’t ever speak of her like that again. Okay?”
