Revenge: The Complete Series (Erotic Rock Star Suspense Romance)

by Mimi Strong

  He carries me to the master bathroom. Candles burn in every corner and the tub is filled with bubbly water. The perfume of fresh roses fills the air.

  He slides me carefully into the large tub. The hot water feels good on my body. He sets a folded towel along the side, for me to rest my bandaged elbow on. Even in the soft candle light, I can see dark bruises on my legs, from falling.

  Dylan kneels next to the tub. He picks up a sponge and rubs my neck.

  With all of his muscles gleaming in the candle light, he reminds me of a warrior. He looks like a fighter, but moves like something else. A poet. That makes sense, because the lyrics he writes are poems.

  He’s my warrior poet.

  He has a light touch. The roughness of the sponge arouses my skin. He moves it down to my breasts, making my nipples stand to attention. He notices and smiles at my reaction. He leans down and sucks on one nipple, his chin dipping into the water. I lean back against the tub, my back arching instinctively.

  Dylan keeps teasing me with his tongue. He moves the sponge across my lower stomach, then down my leg to my knee. He sweeps back up again, along my inner thighs, under the warm water. The sponge touches between my legs, and I giggle at the sensation.

  His eyebrows lift, and he gazes at me with interest. There’s insatiable hunger in his dark brown eyes.

  “Ticklish?” he asks.

  Instead of answering, I lick my lips and stare at his mouth. He lifts his chin in response, but doesn’t kiss me yet.

  He sweeps the sponge up and down until I’m trembling.

  He drops the sponge and moves his bare fingers against my flesh, between my legs. His hand feels the same temperature as the water. He moves slowly, deliberately, finding the right spot to caress.

  I arch more, wanting him to explore deeper. I need him to kiss me, too.

  We’re going at his speed, though. He’s in control. I flutter my eyelids closed and lean my head back against the tub.

  He grabs the sponge again and drags its rough surface up over my body. I lift my chest in response, and feel his mouth on my breast again. He pulls my nipple between his teeth. I moan with pleasure. He reaches down into the water again, between my legs.

  He must like what he feels, because I hear him groan. He pulls away, breathing heavily. I open my eyes and watch as he removes his jeans and underwear.

  He looks so beautiful naked, tall and lean. He steps into the tub carefully, but his movements splash some water onto the nearby cluster of candles. Their flames flicker, but don’t go out.

  We’re facing each other in the tub.

  He places one leg on either side of me, facing me, then leans back, looking content.

  He closes his eyes.

  I frown. That’s it? I want him inside me so badly now, and he’s going to have a nap?

  I stare at him for a moment, and then I let out a big sigh. Fine. Whatever. I’m not going to go cray cray over this.

  He opens one eye and looks at me.

  “What are you scheming?” I demand.

  “Why don’t you come over here and find out?”

  I’m confused.

  He reaches for the folded towel and switches it to the other side of the tub. Now I understand.

  I know what he means, but I play dumb and pretend for a moment that I don’t.

  Finally, he reaches out and pulls me up out of the water. His arm muscles bulge, but he can hold me up easily. He spins me around, so my back is against his chest. He shifts his body down in the water, so that when he brings me back down, he’s between my legs. He’s thick and hard, and with a minor adjustment, he slides right into me. All the way. I cry out. Electricity spirals up my body.

  Dylan moves his hips with mine. He lifts me up in the water, then brings me back down over him. We rise and fall, again and again, as waves of pleasure build and recede.

  With my back against his chest, his hands have full access to my breasts. He cups them and squeezes my nipples. He brings one hand down between my legs, to apply even more delicious pressure.

  He keeps pumping his hips, getting harder inside me. I’m full and yet I still can’t get enough of him. I arch my back, crane my neck, and we kiss. He groans against my lips. His whole body is tense and hard beneath me, moving in urgency.

  We both slide deeper into the warm water. His angle changes as he drives deeper inside. The heat of the water seems to rise like steam from our bodies. Ecstasy explodes within me, deep and powerful. Dylan’s body is electric beneath me, impossibly hard. He lets go with everything but his hands, rocking me against him in rhythm.

  He releases with a sexy moan just as I’m coming down from my peak, extending my pleasure.

  Wow.

  When we finally relax, we move within the water as one. He’s watching the water line carefully, and stops us before my mouth and nose go below the waterline. Which is good. Because I can barely move.

  Chapter Nine

  On Monday morning, I’m at my desk, trying to work. I can’t stop thinking about getting into the tub again with Dylan.

  Having a sex life that’s too good can be very distracting. Especially when you have a ton of paperwork and no assistant.

  My boss, Chet Morris, walks into my glass-walled executive office.

  “You’re here,” he says.

  “Why wouldn’t I be here?”

  “I saw the pictures online. Are you okay?” He takes a seat in my visitor chair and looks pointedly at the bandage on my elbow. “You could sue someone,” he says.

  I reach for the jacket on the back of my chair and slip it on to cover the bandage. It’s cute when Dylan treats me like I’m helpless, but I don’t like it when other people do.

  “Nobody’s going to sue anybody,” I tell my boss.

  “We have a full cadre of lawyers here. They get restless if you don’t keep ‘em busy.”

  I smile and stare into Chet’s emerald green eyes. He has the same eyes as his uncle, the founder of the company. Thankfully, Chet doesn’t seem nearly as evil as Mr. Morris Senior. In fact, Chet is probably too decent to run a multi-million-dollar record label.

  “Do you mean the lawyers who do the contracts?” I ask. “They don’t do personal injury, do they?”

  “We’ve got everything covered.”

  I wave the idea away with one hand. “I’m not going to lawyer up. I just hope my grandmother doesn’t see the pictures of me falling down, or of my bloody elbow.”

  “She worries?”

  “Sort of. She’s always threatening to come here and kick them with her hiking boots.”

  Chet laughs, and I try to mask my worry by joining him. Every network seems to have paid for footage of my fall. The late-night talk show hosts are making fun of me, the clumsy farm girl fiancée of rising rock star Dylan Wolf. They showed my fall over and over, but of course they didn’t show any footage of the person who stole my wedding dress.

  “So, nothing’s broken?” Chet asks.

  “Nothing broken. Just bruised and scraped.”

  “Good.” He leans forward. “Because I need you for something.”

  I lift the stack of album cover designs I’ve been marking up. “I know.”

  “Not that stuff. You’re going to Rome.”

  “Rome? The one in Italy?” My mind is reeling. I’ve never even left America. I do have a passport, and we’ve been planning to travel more, but Dylan’s schedule is so hectic.

  Chet’s emerald green eyes are dancing. “Yes, the Rome that’s in Italy, you goofball. I’ve been trying to work better with our European distributor. It’s impossible to get them on the phone, because of the time zone difference. Well, you know how it’s been the last few months. They have a great infrastructure, but their marketing sucks.” He leans in for the closing. “Jess, I need you. I need you to teach them the magic of your ways.”

  I frown at the stack of work in front of me. I don’t have “magic ways.” I have a lot of “working through lunch” and “staying late,” but that’s har
dly magic.

  Chet has been talking about this trip for weeks, and I keep telling him I’m too busy with work in L.A. He doesn’t know about the wedding, because nobody does.

  “Take the new guy,” I say. “He’s really smart. And I think he speaks Italian.”

  “He’s Dutch.”

  I look around my office for other ideas, other excuses. Dylan wants to take me to Rome some day. I can’t go right now, without him. Plus I have a secret wedding in a few weeks, and I still don’t have a dress.

  I groan and lean forward on my desk, cradling my face in my hands.

  Chet takes this as a sign of agreement from me.

  “Thanks for agreeing,” he says. “This will be great. We’ve got a hotel suite for our home base, and you’ll work from their offices. You can do this. You’ll guide their new marketing campaign and show them how to do a great launch.”

  “A launch? How long is this trip?”

  “About five weeks. They should have it down by then. Rome is amazing. Just wait until you see the Trevi fountain.”

  I get up from my desk and close the door to my office. We need privacy. My office isn’t soundproof, but as long as I keep my voice low, the others won’t hear me.

  “Chet, I can’t go. Dylan and I are getting married in less than six weeks. We’re trying to keep it a secret so the press doesn’t ruin it like they ruin everything else.”

  Chet nods slowly.

  “Of course, you’re invited,” I quickly add.

  He gives me a sideways look. “Am I?”

  “We were going to tell people on the morning of the day.”

  He sighs. “I guess I can take the new guy to Rome. He’s not as much fun as you, or half as competent.”

  Chet starts to leave, but I hold up a hand to signal for him to wait.

  I look around again to make sure nobody’s listening.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks.

  “Nick Clark was here on Saturday. In the building. I was stupid and told security to send him up. He told me he wanted to make a truce. Between his mother and me, or maybe all of us.” I shake my head, because the whole thing sounds crazy coming from my mouth.

  “Good ol’ Maggie Clark,” Chet says. “She never could let anything go. She was a great Vice President, at least. I’ll give her that much. Some of the departments are still lost without her.”

  “Nick told me something else. He said that your uncle is… getting divorced again?”

  Chet walks to the door.

  “Good meeting,” he says formally.

  Ouch. Chet does not want to talk about his uncle’s divorce. I should not have mentioned that.

  “Have a good day,” he says.

  “Uh. You, too.”

  He gives me a curt nod, and walks toward the door.

  I struggle to find the right words to apologize for being so blunt about his uncle.

  “Chet?”

  He stops walking, but doesn’t turn to face me. “The Morris family will be fine,” he says. “Don’t worry about what my old man is up to. Don’t even think about it.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry, Jess. Things are great for me here, and soon things will be great in Rome. It’s an incredible city.” With another nod, he walks out the door.

  “You’ll have fun in Rome,” I call after him.

  Chapter Ten

  After a hectic day at work, I’m happy to come home.

  I open the door and hear music. Dylan’s already here, strumming away on his favorite old guitar.

  I drop my purse and find him in the living room. He’s in a vintage designer chair, leaning back. The song sounds new. He’s lost in another world, his eyes closed while he plays. He hears my feet on the floor and gives me a smile and a nod, his eyes still closed.

  He keeps strumming the acoustic guitar. “Working on a progression,” he explains.

  I give him a quick kiss and take a seat on the sofa across from him. I curl my feet up underneath myself and relax, enjoying the private concert.

  He keeps playing, frowning to himself as he plays chord combinations that aren’t right.

  His old guitar looks even more scratched than when we first met. He must have a strong sentimental attachment to the thing, because people keep giving him guitars, and he insists on playing this one.

  People go crazy over that guitar, too. We even got a huge offer from one of the big restaurant chains, but Dylan wouldn’t sell.

  While he plays, I pull out my phone and arrange for dinner. We try to cook together when we can, but I can tell he won’t be torn away from the music tonight.

  Forty minutes later, Riley and Amanda show up with our pizza.

  Dylan opens his eyes and stops strumming. He sniffs the air.

  “That’s right,” I tell him. “From your favorite place by the old firehall.”

  Pizza wins over the guitar this round.

  We have a nice dinner together, and the girls tease me that I never sleep over next door if Dylan’s home.

  “Blame me,” Dylan says, grinning. “I won’t let her out of my sight.”

  “Come over tonight,” Amanda begs. “Caleb got us a bunch of new games, and there’s a cool racing one.”

  “Another time,” I promise them.

  After we’re done with dinner, they return to their place next door, and Dylan and I settle down in the living room.

  The evening is about as perfect as any we’ve had in the house.

  Everything’s so calm and peaceful, until Dylan clicks on the television.

  The first thing we see is footage of me from Saturday, running with the bridal gown box. The late-night show host laughs as they play the shot of me swinging at the photographers.

  “Seriously?!” I yell at the TV. “It’s been two days. Haven’t they found someone else’s life to ruin since then?”

  Dylan hits the button to rewind the footage. He presses pause and steps in close to the screen.

  “Is that him?” His voice is shaking with anger. “That guy in the hat. He took the dress.” He punches his fist into his palm.

  I cover my face with my hands. I can’t look at these images anymore. They make me want to crawl under the house and die.

  Dylan growls, “That guy is dead when I get my hands on him.”

  “No, don’t. An assault charge isn’t going to help.” I sit up higher on the couch, as though that’ll help him hear me better. “Retaliation will just make it worse. And we can’t give them any more reasons to hound us.”

  “They can’t stop themselves, so I’ll have to.” Dylan’s fists are squeezed tight and his veins bulge up his arms.

  “What if they already know about the wedding?” My voice is rising higher and higher with my panic. “Nan will be here. They always push and shove. They can’t do that to my grandmother.” My voice is a squeak now. “If they do anything that hurts her, I—”

  Dylan sits next to me. He’s tense, but trying to be calm for me. He takes my hands in his. “She’ll be safe. I’ll make sure.”

  He brings my fingers to his lips and lightly kisses them. “I know you’re worried. I wish I could make you not worry. You know what we should do? Go away for a bit. A holiday.”

  “A holiday? But I’ve got too much to do.” I sigh and lean into him. He holds me while I run my fingers down his chest and abs.

  “We’re both overworked,” he says. “I’ve got recording sessions next week.”

  I nuzzle in closer. “No holiday for us.” I reach for the remote control and click off the television. “But if you could blink your eyes and take us anywhere in the world, where would we go?”

  He chuckles, his voice a comforting rumble in his chest.

  “That’s easy. Rome.”

  I pull away and give him a suspicious look. “Did my boss tell you to say that? Chet’s been trying to get me there for Morris work.”

  “I swear, Rome just popped into my head. I went there after college. A bunch of friends and I trav
eled all around Europe. Backpacks and hostels, and too much to drink.” He chuckles at the memories. “Rome was definitely my favorite.”

  “Lucky guy.” I sigh. “Must have been nice being a rich kid.”

  He snorts. We always tease each other about having different backgrounds.

  He replies, “Must have been nice being a country kid. With a prize steer named Howard.”

  I poke him in the side. “His name was Henry, not Howard. C’mon. Know your Jess Rivera trivia.” I try to tickle him, but he won’t crack.

  He grabs my hands and turns me around so my back’s resting against his chest. He wraps his arms around me and squeezes me.

  “Python attack,” he murmurs.

  I go limp in his arms and pretend to be dead. He chuckles and relaxes his arms.

  We stay cuddled up together on the couch. I could let him hold me like this forever, or at least five more minutes.

  Dylan asks, “Why did Chet ask you to go Rome?”

  I tell him about the new Morris Music European distribution partner and how Chet wants me to help them. Dylan listens patiently, even as I get deeper into technical details. He’s quiet, like when he’s thinking of a new song. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’s ignoring me and thinking about song lyrics.

  I’m resting the back of my head on his shoulder and can’t see his face. His chest is rising and falling steadily.

  “Dylan? Did I put you to sleep?”

  “Not at all. But… you should go to Rome.”

  “But I have to get everything ready for the wedding.”

  “What’s left? I put the deposit on the mansion. It’s all ours.”

  “You’re such a guy,” I say, teasing him. “We haven’t decided on the caterer yet. I have to order the flowers. And my dress… My dress…”

  I sit up and pull away from him. Now that I’m thinking about my beautiful stolen dress, I don’t feel cuddly. I start muttering about the photographers and the things I’d like to have happen to them.

  Dylan sits up straight. “Jess, this is exactly why you should go to Rome. You know what doesn’t matter? The catering. I’ll order pizza for everyone if I have to. Or fried chicken.”