Broken (The Guitar Face Series Book 1)

by Sasha Marshall

“Yes, and we are bonding over the experience. I will take her from you, Jagger Carlyle. She will be mine. She will not be able to resist me once I have become a better guitar player than you, which, let’s be honest, won’t take much,” he says, and I giggle.

  Jag is one of the most amazing guitar players I have ever seen. He has always had a natural ear for music, and Kip knows it.

  “Kip, if you are the only man I ever have to worry about taking her from me, I will have it made,” he says.

  “One day, sir, you will break my sweet Henley’s heart, and I will be there to pick up the pieces.”

  Jagger stills for a second, and the strangest look passes his face. Just as quickly as it appears, it leaves. Maybe I imagined it.

  “I will pick up this guitar, and I will play her a love song to mend her broken heart, and then, my friend, you will only be a fleeting thought. Shit, I should write a song about a fleeting thought; it makes me sound smart and shit.”

  I grin at the thought of Kip writing a song.

  “And then you will wake her the next morning with horrible Euro porn,” Jag says with a laugh.

  “My bumble bee appreciates my porn. Tell him, Henley,” Kip says.

  I laugh and Jag orders Kip out of the room. He closes the door, locks it, and turns his heated eyes on me. Oh, Daddy! He crosses the room and kneels in front of where I sit.

  “You look piping hot with a guitar in your hands. It is all I can do not to rip it away from you and tear your clothes off,” he says.

  I think my breathing has stopped. I almost raise my hand and say, “Oh me, me, me, me. Pick me.”

  He pushes my long blond hair behind my ear and kisses me. The kiss quickly grows into something wild and hungry. I think my clothes just melt off. I run my hands up and down his strong arms, and he runs his down my sides. He gently pushes me down on the couch and climbs on top of me. Then he kisses that spot between my neck and shoulder, and Oh my God! His hands begin to descend my body to the hot zone. Mayday! Mayday! He runs his fingertip along the top of my jeans and teases me.

  Do I have to shove your hands down there? He releases my button and opens my zipper slowly. He kisses me on my mouth again, slowly lapping his tongue against mine. He pulls back a hair, smiles at me, and places both hands on either side of my jeans. He yanks them down, and it startles me. He kisses my stomach and gets almost to that spot. You know that spot, the spot that if shown proper attention can make you see God, the angels, and the heavens above.

  He pulls his body back over mine. What are you doing? Go back, Sparky. In the name of all that is holy, go back! He shoves his hands between my legs and plays on the outside of my honey pot. I moan in his mouth, and he growls in response. Oh, what a marvelous sound. He pushes a finger inside of me and proceeds to play me like his fucking Les Paul.

  Let me pause here, and stress to men out there, the art of fingering does not lie in you sticking a finger or fingers inside of a woman and doing the whole in-and-out thing. No, you see, you can do things with your fingers you can’t do with your dick. You feel for the spot that makes her moan, and you keep massaging it until she comes all over your fucking hand. That makes you the man.

  Where was I? Oh yeah, in heaven with Jagger Carlyle.

  He is breathing heavily in my ear. Obviously, he is as turned on as I am. I arch my back as he hits a spot that almost makes me go blind. Because he is Jag, he instantly takes notice and focuses on that one spot. I have never felt anything this marvelous in my entire twenty-six years on this earth. I think I let out a “Don’t ever stop doing that.” I mean it too. If he stops, I will become temporarily insane, blinded by my love for that finger inside of me. His chest vibrates with silent laughter. Then I moan, and he growls again, and I arch my back more as he strokes my fun hole. Then the sensation hits me; I’m going to piss on myself. No, no, no, not now. I still, and Jagger leans up to see what has stopped my dive over that cliff of ecstasy.

  “I’m going to piss on myself,” I say, a bit embarrassed.

  He laughs. “No, you aren’t. I found your G-spot, love, and you are going to come. You say you aren’t a squirter yet. The situation needs to be rectified.”

  “You are going to make me squirt?” Shouldn’t you tell someone you are doing that to them before it happens?

  “Lie back, Henley. Let me make you come.” His voice is covered in honey and his eyes hooded.

  How do you say no to that?

  “It’s going to feel like you have to pee; you won’t though. Just relax through it and let it find you,” he says, and he keeps hitting that glorious spot.

  I’m sure that’s what the “G” stands for. I feel like I have to pee again, and I tense up.

  “Let go, Henley. Come for me.” He leans down closer to my ear. “I want to feel you come all over my hand. I’m going to lick up every last drop when you do.”

  I’m still trying to let go. The talking dirty shit is working, that’s how I like it. I push his shirt up with my hands and dig my fingernails into his back. He moans, and that does it. I come harder than I have ever come in my life. I didn’t even know that was possible. I think I cried out. There is no telling what I said. I see fireworks. They are amazing. I talk to angels and can see the future and crazy shit like that. When my spirit enters my body again, I open my eyes, and Jag is staring at me with the biggest shit-eating grin I’ve ever seen.

  “That is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. We should record that in the name of art. Shit, I almost came on myself just watching you,” he says.

  I’m mute. Words escape me. He must’ve fried my brain. I stutter and can’t make coherent words come out of my mouth. He throws his head back and laughs at me. I don’t care. He lies down on the side of me and brushes my hair away from my face. He looks at me with adoring eyes, and at that very moment, all is right in the world.

  “You squirted,” he says with a proud look on his face.

  I sit up and look around the room for evidence of the event, and after I find nothing, I look back at him with confusion clearly written all over my face. “Where?”

  “Not every woman can projectile squirt across the room. Most of it ended up in my hand. I licked it off. You don’t remember?” he asks.

  “Perhaps I was still in an alternate universe at that moment?” I suggest.

  I can feel his erection on my leg. I guess I should return the favor. I lift my ass, pull my pants up, and straddle him. “Stand up,” I order, and he complies.

  I pop the button on his jeans and slide his zipper down. I yank his pants and boxers down to his ankles, and his dick springs free. Holy mother of God, talk about a work of art.

  “Henley, you don’t have... ,” he begins.

  “Shut up, Jagger,” I order, and he smiles.

  I slide my mouth over his cock and slowly suck. I lick and suck all the way up and down his length. He moans and softly says my name. His dick starts to jump, and I know he is close. The head begins to swell even more, and I cup his balls in my hand and gently massage them.

  “Fuck,” he growls.

  Oh, the power of a blow job.

  “I’m going to come. Just use your hand.”

  Not hardly, Hoss. I keep going.

  “Henley, I’m not kidding,” he manages through gritted teeth.

  I keep going. His dick swells even more, and then the salty goodness shoots into my mouth.

  “Fuck. Jesus Christ. Motherfucker. That’s it. Oh, God. Suck it. Hard. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

  I swallow every last drop, sit back on my knees, and pull his boxers and jeans back up. He stares down at me like I just bought him a fucking Ferrari.

  “You could suck the rust off a bumper,” he finally manages.

  “Thank you. It’s very romantic. You are good at this compliment thing,” I say with hea
vy sarcasm.

  “Oh, that is most definitely one of the best compliments a woman can receive after giving head. Blowjobs aren’t meant to be romantic, love. If you want romance, I will give you romance.”

  This is the second time he called me love. It makes me giddy. Stupid, grade school, giddy.

  “I was being sarcastic, Jag,” I said.

  He pulls me up to him from the floor. He hugs me tightly and smooths my hair down in the back. “Yeah, but you will still get romance.”

  Then he types out a text message and turns back to me. “You have an hour to shower or change or do hair and makeup. We are going on our first date.” He kisses my forehead. “I will be back in an hour to get you.”

  Chapter 11

  I SHOWER AND dress in a pinup style dress. It’s a halter dress in a gorgeous shade of periwinkle blue with a high-waist black belt. I add some cute bracelets, a necklace, and some dangling diamond earrings Koi gave me last Christmas. I step into my black peep-toe Christian Louboutin stilettos with an asymmetrical strap that sweeps across the top of my foot. I do the whole smoky eye thing and straighten my hair. I’m spraying some perfume when Koi knocks and opens the door.

  He looks up toward the heavens. “Why does my sister have to be beautiful? Is it too much to ask for an ugly sister?”

  “Does that mean I look stunning?”

  Kip shoves himself between Koi and the door. “Gorgeous, darling. Just gorgeous,” he says in his best aristocratic voice. “Go away, Koi; we need to make mad, passionate love right now.”

  Koi rolls his eyes.

  Cam walks in the room. “And where do you think you are going dressed all sexy? You are not leaving my house dressed like that. Koi, tell her she is grounded,” he says, and we all laugh.

  Cam hugs me. “You look beautiful.”

  “Keep your paws to yourself,” Jag says from the door.

  I spin around to see him dressed in jeans, chucks, a white collared shirt, and a dress jacket. He’s holding a bouquet of flowers. Wow, he really is doing romance.

  “May I take my girlfriend out on a date, or are you three going to stare at her all night?”

  Girlfriend? I like the sound of that.

  I smile, and he hands me the flowers; they smell wonderful. He kisses me on the cheek and turns to offer me his arm. I take it and beam up at him like a fifteen-year-old girl.

  “Have her home by 9:00, dick weed,” Kip says.

  “Its 8:30 now, asshole,” Jagger fires back.

  “Exactly. Any more time and you will deflower my sweet princess,” Kip says.

  “Can we not talk about deflowering my little sister?” Koi asks with a sigh.

  “Kip. Koi. I’m not a virgin,” I say.

  Why am I having this talk again? Do people really think I’m such a prude?

  “You close your mouth, wench,” Kip says. “I refuse to listen to such lies. Shame on you for feeding me such deceit.” He sits on the couch and pats his lap. “Come here, and Daddy can give you a spanking for being a bad girl.”

  “Do you ever shut up?” Jagger asks.

  Kip seems to ponder this for a bit. “Nope. I say what I think,” he says, shit-eating grin in place.

  “You ready, love?” Jagger asks, and I nod with a smile.

  Jagger walks me down the bus, and outside to a limo waiting for us. I have been in limos for most of my life, but I’ve never been in one on a date. I want to jump up and down and squeal like a little girl. I manage to hold it together. It wouldn’t be attractive. He opens the door for me and holds my hand while I climb in. He follows suit, and once he is situated, hands me a glass of wine. I take a quick sniff and know immediately he is handing me Roscato. My smile is so big it hurts.

  He holds his wine glass up for a toast. “To romance.”

  I clink glasses with him and take a sip. He is romancing me. I have never seen this side of him, but I like it. Yes, sir, I do. The ride is short, and once the limo stops, Jag opens the door and holds out his hand for me. I take it once again and climb out after him. He holds my hand and leads me into a restaurant called Chez Fonfon. I’m assuming it is French from the name. The maître d’ is waiting for us at the host stand.

  “Mr. Carlyle, we are pleased to see you. We’ve set up a private table for you in the courtyard at your request. Please follow me.”

  We follow the older gentleman. Jag’s hand remains on the small of my back the entire way. The other diners instantly notice us as we pass through. I hear our names pass as whispers across their lips, gasps, and even a few cell phone cameras taking photos. Something I learned early in this industry is to look straight ahead. I can’t let star-struck diners ruin our first date. Regardless of how famous either one of us is, we are both on our first date. We have these growing feelings between us, and we want to enjoy them as any other human being would.

  We follow the gentleman through a door to a courtyard lit by white Christmas lights. The courtyard is cut out of a massive garden that smells like honeysuckle. It is incredibly beautiful. Jag pulls my chair out for me, then I sit and shoot him a smile. He walks around the square wooden table lit by candles and sits across from me.

  “Ms. Hendrix, would you like for me to pour your wine?” the older gentleman asks.

  “Yes, please.”

  He pours us each a glass, and we thank him before he leaves. We were raised in the South, and dammit, we have manners.

  “I asked the chef to make something off the menu. I know you love duck. He’s making Magret de Canard. You will enjoy it.” Jag seems a bit nervous.

  I guess I’m a little nervous myself. The conversation finally starts flowing, both of our nerves a little apparent, but it is interrupted by a handsome gentleman who appears to be in his early forties.

  “Good evening, Mr. Carlyle and Ms. Hendrix. I’m Paul; I own the restaurant and will personally take care of you tonight. Are you two ready for your salads and bread?”

  We nod. He leaves, and our conversation turns to the topic of Kip asking me to teach him to play guitar. I tell him about the lesson and how quickly he learns. We also talk about our parents and how things are back home since I have been in Macon more than he has in the last few years. He speaks about my grandfather; he’s seventy and still walking around with the health of a twenty-year-old. We enjoy our salads and the main course. Most of our conversation revolves around our childhood and the early years in rock-’n’-roll. We have several good laughs at some of the idiocy we were involved with along the way. We drink wine throughout dinner and enjoy sitting in this beautiful courtyard. Thirty minutes after the main course, Jag holds out his hand and asks me to dance.

  We step closer to a pond with a waterfall and dance to a soft French jazz song. The music is beautiful.

  “Thank you for tonight. It is perfect. I never knew you were such a hopeless romantic,” I tease.

  His crystal-blue eyes look back into my dark blues, and he says nothing for a beat.

  “I’ve never had romantic notions about anyone but you. I’ve always wanted to give you everything. When your birthdays came around, I had already thought about the perfect gift for months. It had to be perfect for you. I have listened to everything you ever said, Hen. For you, I would do anything. I would give you anything, all to make you smile and make you happy.”

  “You make me happy, Jagger. Thank you. I had a crush on you too, you know?” I finally just spit it out.

  “No you didn’t,” he exclaims.

  “Oh, yeah. I had it bad. The long-haired, pierced, teenage, bad-boy Jagger Carlyle was the star of my teenage fantasies. You have a lot to live up to.”

  “Don’t toy with my emotions like this,” he says playfully.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t dare. The only time I deviated from you as the star of my fantasies is when I saw you with another
girl. I was green with envy. I punished you. I guess it isn’t really punishment if you didn’t know,” I say.

  “Oh, it is punishment now. The only reason I ever brought the girls around you was to impress you. I thought if you saw how cool they thought I was, you would think I was cool too,” he says with a laugh.

  He spins me around as we continue to dance.

  “I thought you were the coolest guy in the whole world. You had this edge to you. You were mysterious. When you started up the band with Koi, I was excited. I hoped I would get to know you more, but instead, you broke out the guitar, and the girls came out of the woodwork. I was pissed off most of the time I was around you.” I laugh.

  “You want to know how bad I had it for you?” Jag asks, and I nod. “I never saw any of those girls. What I did see, I instantly compared to you. Their eyes weren’t yours. They don’t laugh like you do or have anywhere near the sense of humor you do. Hell, most of them couldn’t stomach Kip, much less love him. They weren’t confident or sure of themselves. They didn’t know shit about my music or music in general. You always got it. There was not one woman in my life that hasn’t been compared to you. Why do you think I’m still single?”

  “That makes two of us. I found a means to an end, companionship for a time I guess you could say. I never wanted it to last. There was always something missing. They weren’t the bad boy of rock-’n’-roll,” I say and look down at his chest, a bit surprised by my revelation.

  I suppose I always compared the other men in my life to Jagger. It wasn’t their fault they didn’t make the cut. I briefly think back to our teenage years when Jagger’s quiet nature and acts of kindness pulled me under his spell. When he became a young man, he shed his shy skin, and the limelight pushed him into being more open and social. That side of Jagger piqued my interest just as much as the mysterious teenager did. Jagger as a man will always be defined by the time he spent with me as I tried to revive my best friend. Sure, he was devastated by Caleb’s death, but his main focus in those long moments of attempted resuscitation was me. I’m not sure how I didn’t see it then, but I do now. He loves me, and he has all along. My fear of rejection prevented me from seeing what was always right in front of my face—always. Better late than never, I suppose.