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

by Mimi Strong

  With his fingers now gently pressing against my pulse point through my underwear, I found myself unable to move. I raised my eyebrows, calling him to me with my eyes.

  The corner of his beautiful mouth twitched up in a grin. A pulse of adrenaline shot through me. That was the face Drake made before his fangs popped out and he bit a girl! I gasped again.

  He moved quickly, and his mouth was on my neck, at my throbbing jugular vein.

  I squealed in a mix of terror and delight as he pretended to bite me.

  He let out a throaty growl, while at the same time he did something magical with his fingers between my legs. As he licked and kissed my neck, gently biting me, he kept exploring the elasticity of my underwear, until he had the silky material pushed aside and we were skin on skin, his fingertips on my freshly-waxed cushions of flesh.

  I relaxed against the leather seat, my head back on the head rest, trying not to die from pleasure. Panties pushed aside, his strong fingertips gently stroked me. I moaned and whimpered for him to be less gentle, and he delivered a more vigorous massage. Oh, hell yes. Just like that.

  My breathing sped up, my pulse pounding as he brought me to the precipice of coming, and then eased off, pulling his hand back to rest between my thighs.

  He nibbled on my earlobe, then murmured, “Let’s get naked.”

  “Sure,” I breathed as I set to work locating the buttons of his shirt. I wanted to just rip the shirt off, but it probably cost more than my rent, so I fumbled for buttons like a good girl.

  CHAPTER 4

  I’d gotten two buttons undone, which was a miracle considering the dimness of the light and the trembling of my hands, when Dalton said, “Maybe we shouldn’t get naked in the car, though.”

  “Oh.” I turned to look out the tinted window. There was my front porch, and my potted geraniums—red ones, in terra cotta pots, of course. The car wasn’t moving. How long had we been parked there?

  “Are you going to invite me in?”

  I let out an embarrassing waterfall of giggles before I could dam up my mouth with both hands.

  He gave me side-eye. “What?”

  I whispered, “You asked me to invite you in. Just like Drake Cheshire does on the show.”

  He looked down at our laps, then back up at me with the most innocent expression, his green eyes almost sad. “Let’s just be regular people tonight.”

  “Regular people. Sure.” Now I felt bad for making him feel weird. But I was still turned on, pulsing with anticipation for nakedness, so apparently I didn’t feel that bad!

  I reached for the door handle, pushed it open to the cool night air, and climbed out of the car as gracefully as I could manage.

  It was past midnight, but a few people were still out in the neighborhood, walking their dogs, and my cheeks flushed with embarrassment as people stared our way. Of course they were just looking at the unusual car, but the paranoid part of me was certain they’d seen in through the tinted glass and knew exactly what was going on. Someone had just had his hand in my cookie jar, and I LIKED IT A GREAT DEAL, THANK YOU.

  Dalton stepped out behind me, looking left and right as he did. Something at the edge of my vision moved, and my senses buzzed that someone was watching us surreptitiously.

  “Home sweet home,” I said, gesturing to the old house with my chin. “It’s not much to look at, but it’s cheap.”

  When Shayla and I had moved into the old Craftsman-style home, we’d cooed over its generous porch and lovely wood columns. The house wore a dilapidated coat of peeling mint green paint, with darker, forest green trim. We’d had big plans to give the place a good scraping and re-paint it if the landlord covered the cost of materials, but we didn’t get further than a fresh coat of glossy, mustard yellow paint on the front door and one horrible hour of scraping a section at the back of the house. Painting something as big as a house seems like so much fun when you see it in a movie montage, but the reality is, there’s a reason even lovely old homes have peeling paint. That maintenance stuff is hard work.

  “Cute house,” he said.

  “It’s cheap.”

  “I’m sure it is, but it’s still cute. Take a compliment, will you?”

  Nodding, I fumbled around for my keys in my purse.

  Dalton darted at me quickly and caught me in his arms, whispering, “There’s a photographer behind that tree.”

  I whispered back, “What should I do?”

  “Are those your geraniums?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you water them? Is there a hose at the front of the house?”

  Still whispering, I said, “Yes. It’s coiled up right behind that hedge.”

  “You go turn on the water, and pretend we’re just admiring the garden.”

  I nodded my agreement to his plan, and stepped over the decorative edging along the sidewalk and onto the lawn. The in-ground sprinklers had run an hour earlier, and the wet grass tickled the sides of my feet through my sandals. With the street lamps, I had no trouble seeing where I was going.

  At a regular talking volume, I said, “And this is the front lawn. We don’t use any herbicides, so I’m out here on my hands and knees pulling weeds a lot.”

  I saw movement along the sides the tree. An elbow, and then a shadowy head and a camera. I expected to hear clicking sounds, but I guess paparazzi with digital cameras turn off the click function to be sneaky.

  I bent down to turn on the water, feeling indignant that someone was taking my photo without my permission. The wedding photographer had been annoying, but this was way beyond that. I turned the metal spout, smiling as cold water surged into the hose.

  Dalton already had the business end of the hose in hand, clutching the sprayer like a pistol, and he crept closer to the big tree.

  “Good evening,” he said to a man walking by with two sleek-bodied whippets.

  “Gardening by moonlight?” the man asked as the dogs stopped for a head pat.

  Dalton laughed with ease and said, “I work long days.”

  And then, if you can believe it, the two of them started having an actual conversation about gardening and whippets.

  Meanwhile, I stood in the wet grass of my lawn feeling like I might implode. My heart was pounding, and I felt so mixed up with emotions after the events of the day, like I was a glass of water being overfilled, everything pouring over my sides. I didn’t know what was going to happen next, but I wanted it to happen. Now.

  The man with the sleek dogs waved goodbye and walked away. Dalton looked over at me on the front lawn, his eyes glinting in the light of the nearby street lamp. He held up the sprayer.

  I gave him a nod. The water was on. Do it.

  He fired one small shot of water at the hedge to test, then ran around to the other side of the tree, the water on full blast.

  The person on the other side of the tree let out a high-pitched shriek and a series of swear words. Extraordinarily bad swear words.

  Now, I’m not a big follower of celebrity gossip, but I do know most paparazzi are men. What jumped out from behind the tree, as mad and wet as a Persian cat in a bath tub, was a woman. She looked twenty-something, with brown hair in a short pixie cut, pretty and obnoxiously tiny, like a tea cup full of buttons.

  Perhaps the worst part, besides realizing I was in fact standing in the mud of the flower bed, squashing the violas, was that Dalton seemed to know this petite spy.

  He stopped blasting the water and yelled, “Alexis! What the hell? Why are you following me?”

  She sputtered and wiped at her face dramatically, her gaze on the sprayer in his hand.

  “Don’t you dare spray me again,” she said.

  “Or what?”

  As she opened her mouth to answer, he fired off a blast of water at her midsection.

  Lights flicked on in my neighbors’ houses, and shadowy forms moved in windows. Mr. Galloway was probably getting a good look at this girl Alexis’s lacy bra, on perfect display in her transparent, soaked shirt. H
er perky bosom heaved fetchingly, and Dalton stared at her the way a lead actor does right before he passionately kisses his love interest. I kicked off my sandals and rubbed my muddy foot off in the wet grass. Was I standing in a pile of logs deposited by Mr. Galloway’s cat? Wow, when things go downhill in my life, they really pick up speed.

  Alexis swore some more, then yelled at Dalton, “You’re such a child! You’re a spoiled rotten baby and you don’t care who gets hurt because you’ll just move on to the next one, and women are in unlimited supply, aren’t we? You’ve got your new girl here, and you probably fed her your stupid lines, didn’t you?”

  “Alexis! Calm down and stop acting crazy. Are you following me? Is this what you do now? You hide in bushes and take photos of people?”

  Growling with sarcasm, she said, “No, I have an amazing career. Six seasons and a movie. I’m a big deal, and I just sell celebrity photos just for giggles.” She raised her camera at him and said, “Huh, it still works.” A red light blinked.

  Dalton stepped toward her, one hand outstretched. “No. Give me that. I’m deleting these photos. You have no right.”

  She backed away, still taking pictures. “Work it, D-man. Gimme that Drake snarl. Oh yeah, action shot.”

  “Talk to me, Alexis. Do you need money? I could help you, as a friend, but you’re not being very friendly.”

  She kept moving away from him, then abruptly changed direction and jumped over the low hedge along the front yard, running straight toward me.

  I reacted the same way I would if a skunk or saber tooth tiger was running at me. I shrieked and held very still, hoping she’d lose interest.

  She grabbed my forearm, her fingers cold and terrifying. “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,” she snarled.

  “Let go of me before I punch you some new freckles!”

  She blinked, speechless. She’d probably never had anyone threaten to punch her some new freckles. In fact, it may have been the first time in human history that phrase had been uttered.

  “Who are you?” she asked, her big eyes open wide.

  “Just a girl named Peaches.”

  “You have great skin.”

  “Why, thank you—”

  Our conversation was interrupted by a man tackling Alexis and throwing her to the ground. The man had his long hair tied back in a ponytail. The driver. Was he also a bodyguard?

  Dalton came to my side, putting one arm across my shoulders.

  “You’re a bit late for heroics,” I said as we watched the two of them tussle on the grass before us.

  The driver pulled away from Alexis, camera in hand. Even though nobody was touching the girl, she continued to scream bloody blue murder with cheese on top. Now all my curious neighbors were out on their porches.

  Mr. Galloway, the edges of his robe not quite covering his boxer shorts on account of how tall the senior citizen is, leaned over his railing and called down, “Peaches Monroe? Shall I call the police?”

  I waved. “No, thanks! We’re good here, I think.”

  He stayed at the railing, motionless. “Is that a bridesmaid dress you’re wearing, or did someone invite you to prom?”

  “Very funny. It’s a bridesmaid dress. My cousin Marita got married today.”

  “Oh, really? Was it a big wedding?”

  “Um…” (You know, some people in the city complain they don’t know their neighbors. I really can’t say the same. My neighbors were born to be neighborly—to spend nine out of ten Sundays digging around in the front yard for little reason other than to be available for chats. If Shayla and I go out in her Rav and don’t luck into a parking spot directly in front of the house, we have to factor in an extra twenty minutes to say hello to everyone on our way to and from doing errands.) I answered Mr. Galloway, “Not too big. Maybe two hundred people.”

  He nodded. “Good weather for it.”

  The petite, muddy woman before us reached her hand up to get some help up, then yanked the driver’s arm and pulled him to the ground again. Throughout all this, Dalton was dumbstruck, just watching. She was reaching for the hem of my dress just as the driver brought her under control, both of them grunting near my feet.

  I felt conflicted, because this woman Alexis was the aggressor, but seeing her get held down by a man struck something in me. A deep, girl-power something. I grabbed the driver and tossed him into a hedge.

  Everyone got really quiet, including Mr. Galloway on his porch.

  Dalton helped extricate his driver from the hedge, Alexis got quietly to her feet, and everyone turned to stare at me.

  “You are one bad ass girl,” Dalton said.

  “Thanks.” I attempted to smooth down my hair and look demure.

  The door of my house opened and my roommate and best friend, Shayla, burst out in a sleeveless T-shirt and boxer shorts. “What the hell are you all doing on my lawn?” She spotted me and her expression became more confused. “Peaches! You look so good in that dress. I don’t know what those other girls were complaining about.”

  Cold water blasted me. I yelped and started running for cover. Everyone was yelling and colliding with me, and I basically ran blindly in a circle until somebody tackled me. We fell to the ground, and the hose-blasting stopped.

  Wiping the water from my eyes, I said, “That was refreshing.”

  The sound of shoes slapping against the pavement echoed through the night air as Alexis made her getaway down the street.

  I couldn’t get up from the muddy lawn, pinned as I was by a body. At least it wasn’t the driver with the ponytail, but Dalton.

  I’d wanted to get him on top of me, but not like this. Not in the mud on my front lawn. Or maybe in the mud, sure, but not with all my neighbors watching.

  Dalton got up and helped me to my feet. “I am so sorry about all of this. That Alexis!” He shook his head, and in the dim light, I couldn’t tell if he looked guilty, or embarrassed.

  Shayla stepped down from the porch and stood on the round, cement paving stones, staring at us. Unlike the older generation at the wedding, she knew exactly who Dalton Deangelo was.

  I looked up at his gorgeous face. So much for sneaking him into my place, unnoticed, for the one-night tryst of a lifetime—the type you hint about to your children after a couple of drinks, much to their horror.

  “I apologize for all this,” he said.

  “This kerfuffle?” I looked down at my muddy bridesmaid dress. “So much for wearing this dress again.”

  “I’ll pay to have it cleaned. No, I’ll buy you a new dress. Unfortunately, if you hang out with me, this is the sort of thing that happens.”

  “Your life must be very interesting,” I said.

  He pursed his lips, his eyes twinkling at me. “Let’s trade lives. Give me the keys and I’ll go open the bookstore tomorrow.”

  As I stared up at Dalton, the rest of the world disappeared. I was dimly aware of Mr. Galloway calling his cat and going back into his house, and of the driver apologizing to Shayla and explaining what was happening, but all that chaos was happening outside of a world-dampening bubble surrounding the two of us.

  “You would muck everything up,” I said. “In the bookstore. I have everything just how I like it.”

  He brushed his warm hands along my upper arms, sweeping away the beads of water on my skin. I shivered at his touch.

  “Is that a metaphor?” he murmured. “Are you afraid I’m going to muck up your life?” He kept running his warm hands up and down my arms, heating me up in more ways than one. Apparently getting sprayed with a garden hose doesn’t put you out of the mood for sex, which explains why it rarely works with stray cats.

  He continued, “Is your life too perfect without me?”

  “Thank you for being my date for the wedding, and for the ride in your car.” I bit my lower lip, embarrassed at the memory of him touching me so deliciously in the back seat, just moments earlier.

  “You say that like we’re saying goodbye.” He reached behin
d my back, pressing the chilly, soaked fabric of my bridesmaid dress as he pulled me to him. “If this is goodbye, give me a kiss to remember.”

  He didn’t have to ask twice. I stood up on my tiptoes in the wet grass, mud on my feet, and kissed him with all the pent-up passion I had in me, from all the guys I should have kissed but didn’t. I should have kissed tall, scrawny Adrian Storm in twelfth grade, when we were working on the yearbook together. He owned an obnoxiously loud, gas-guzzling muscle car, and we had the exact opposite taste in movies and music. We seemed to have nothing in common, but he did have a lip ring, and I had an interest in his lips.

  Back then, Adrian’s lip ring clicked against his teeth sometimes, and he’d flick at the metal hoop with his tongue when he was waiting for the slow computers in the library to load up photos. We had little to talk about, and he always looked bored when he talked to me, but I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to kiss him so bad, and I never did, because I wasn’t the fun girl.

  That night after my cousin’s wedding, as I stood in the mud of my front lawn, with a sexy actor, I kissed him with all the passion my lips could handle, and then some. My hands slid up along his chest, feeling the hard muscles just beneath his shirt.

  He broke away just long enough to say, “This doesn’t feel like goodbye.”

  My hands roved down, over the ridges of his lean stomach, then around to his back so I could hold on to him for balance.

  “I can’t invite you in,” I said. “That’s my house, and my life, and—”

  He stopped me with a finger to my lips, while saying, “Shh.”

  Was he actually shushing me?

  CHAPTER 5

  Dalton Deangelo seemed to be shushing me. Which I do not like, not even from someone with a face so handsome you want to crush it up and eat it.

  I continued, around his fingers mashing my lips, “But thanks for the nice evening and the r—”

  “Shush.”

  I shoved his hand away and stepped back. “Don’t shush me. You’re not the boss of me. Feel free to interrupt me, like a regular person, but don’t you dare put your hand on my mouth.”