by Cari Quinn
“What are you— Are you crazy?” she gasped. “Those are La Perla.”
He found the weakness in the lace and yanked until it tore. “I’ll buy you a dozen more. I just need that slick pussy against my fingers.”
She leaned back. “Then ask.”
“I don’t want to ask.” Her face was fierce again, the feral cat who lived inside her on full display. And he wanted all of her gloved over his dick. “You don’t want me to either.”
The leftover lace and elastic snapped across her hips. He started with the chiffon and silk of her dress, but he wanted skin. He dug down into the filmy material and groaned when her ass filled his hands.
He lifted her enough that those glorious tits bounced against his face. He dragged his scruffy face over her cleavage and the little cross at the end of her last chain tickled across his lip.
He tugged it slightly as he looked up at her.
Kneeling on the bench, she loomed over him, shifting to give him access to the heat at the center of her thighs. The little chip of a diamond she wore in her nose tonight winked in the shadows, and then it was just her eyes.
They were boring deep into him.
Watching as if she needed to figure out exactly what they were.
He didn’t want her thinking.
Thinking wasn’t for tonight.
Tomorrow.
The next night.
The next week when his dick reminded him what he’d had tonight—then he could think.
Then he could stew.
Then she could fucking think about it and maybe remember what it felt like to have his dick filling her up.
Because she arched like a woman who needed a good fuck.
She’d rarely been attached to a man who wasn’t in her band. And there was never a hint of romance between her and any of the men surrounding her.
As if she did it on purpose.
And that made him want her soaking his cock even more.
That she chose him.
He wouldn’t allow her to regret it.
His fingers slid over the curve of her ass and her soaking cunt was right there. He dropped her chain from his mouth with a groan. “Sweet Jesus, so fucking wet for me.”
She lowered her hips to grind against his dress pants. “I am wet for you. I told you I needed this.”
“Needed me?”
She lowered her mouth to his. “I need this.”
“Me.” He said it on a growl. Probably too much of one, to be honest, but this wasn’t going to be a nameless fuck even if she wanted it to be.
He dragged his day’s worth of beard over her water-soft breast. “Make no mistake, Molly. It’s me who makes you wet. It’s me who will get you off so many times tonight you’re going to lose count.”
“Is that right?”
He slid his hand forward until his two middle fingers slipped inside of her. She closed her eyes and her head tipped back.
She was fiery satin.
Slick and perfect, she sucked his fingers deeper and clenched around him. Fuck, she was going to feel so damn good.
He pulled out of her and she growled.
He laughed. “I said you were going to come, don’t worry.”
The pads of his fingers sluiced through her swollen pussy to find her clit. He widened her with the palm of his hand and made a merciless path of destruction around her clit.
He ground hard against her ass, his entire hand slick with her arousal. Sea spray misted over her hips and back as the wind whipped her hair around his face.
She wound her arms around his neck and ground against him. Her hips rocked and she bit her lower lip as he found the first combination to her lock.
Her soft purr wasn’t enough.
She shuddered over him, her hips rotating against his rhythm. Instead of throwing them out of sync, it only heightened her release.
Because there was no doubt she had split apart for him. She just did it quietly.
That wasn’t good enough to suit him. He dug under her skirts from the front and replaced the pads of his fingers with a thick knuckle from his other hand. He rubbed fast and hard, his mouth full of her breast. Her chains swung in front of his face as she crowded him.
She pulled him closer.
His fucking forearm was seizing, but he didn’t stop. He held on as she broke again. As her purr became a groan.
Her legs shook and her knees vised around his hips as she tried to push up and away from his touch.
“No.” He nipped her shoulder and her neck, then back to her breast. “No. You take all of it.”
“Too much.”
“Not enough. No pansy-ass orgasms like the last boy to touch you probably gave you.”
Her eyes widened.
It was a guess, but a correct one. Fumbling boys who cared about their pleasure more than hers. Men in their twenties couldn’t be counted on for much, but being a selfish prick in bed was usually a certainty. Hell, he’d been one himself once upon a time.
But then he’d learned that giving was where the power was. And he liked power.
He pushed her back on her feet. Her heels wobbled on the stone pathway that led to the edge of the property.
Good. He liked keeping her off-balance. Unsteady and hungry, just as she made him.
He threw a look over his shoulder to make sure they were still alone before he slipped off the bench to kneel in front of her. “Hold on to me, love.”
Then he dove under her skirts.
NOW AVAILABLE
Perfect Pitch
Have you read all the books in our Found in Oblivion Series? Each book can be read as a standalone, but to enjoy the series the way we intended, this is the reading order.
Bedded Bliss #1
Triple Trouble #2
Dirty Duet #3
Lost Lyric #4
Perfect Pitch #5
Coming November 29, 2017
Raw Rhythm #6
MORE Rockers
Would you like to try MORE rockstars? Try our fun series, WILDER ROCK with our first book, ROCKSTAR DADDY. A title under our other pen name, TARYN QUINN.
Rockstar Daddy
Kellan
Fucking blizzard.
Again.
Why was I even surprised?
I was the jackass who had grown up on the outskirts of Turnbull, New York, snow capital of the northeast, and had escaped to sunny LA only to return.
Voluntarily.
No one had held a gun to my head or shackled my wrists. Nope, I’d strapped my surfboard to the roof of my SUV and made the trek home to buy property on the very edge of town. Outside of town, truth be told. Because the icy tundra in the city proper—ha ha—wasn’t enough for me. Might as well build a damn shack with my own two hands and surround it with pine trees and solitude.
So much freaking solitude.
True, it was just my vacation home. Cue more laughter. My place to escape from the rigors of being a famous rockstar.
At least the rockstar part was right. In my head if nowhere else. The famous? Working on that. Wilder Mind’s first single was due to drop just after the holidays, and our manager, Lila Crandall, was prepping us for the big time. A lot of that was smoke and mirrors designed to build us up into being the showmen we weren’t quite yet, but under her bluster, there was a kernel of truth.
Wilder Mind was poised to take on the world.
Me? I was poised to chop some wood so I could hole up in my cabin and spend New Year’s Eve soaking up the silence.
No other company. No other voices. Especially no incessant interview questions or even the shrill scream of fans. Not that we’d dealt with much of that yet. Only a taste. A hint of things to come if we were lucky enough to make it big.
In the meantime, it would be just me and my old Taylor acoustic, a roaring fire, and a case of Coors.
Hey, I never said I had highbrow tastes. So sue me.
Blowing out a breath, I heaved the ax through the chilly air, savoring the pleasant burn i
n my muscles. I was chopping way more wood than I’d need for a weekend at the cabin. If I was lucky, I’d make it back to Turnbull a few times over the winter. With the single dropping, we’d be branching out. Spreading out to do shows some distance from LA, which meant all the press that went with that. I’d be talking myself hoarse before I was expected to go up and bleed out onstage for the price of a ticket.
That was my role. My new role. The one I’d craved since I was a kid with a cheap thrift store guitar, a joint in my back pocket, and the requisite amount of teenage angst that made me think I could be a great songwriter.
Now I was getting my shot, and the battered composition notebook I’d been lugging around for years—first in backpacks, then in briefcases during my brief stint working at Ripper Records—was definitely getting a workout.
Just like my arms. I slammed the axe into the snowpack and threw back my head. Shit. The chill seared my lungs, yanking out my breath in icy puffs. And I still wasn’t smart enough to go inside.
Nope, I kept splitting logs, continuing until the overcast afternoon turned into dusk. The foggy dark hung in ribbons of mist around my forest, and I didn’t stop until the distant cry of a lonely coyote made me think maybe it was time for that fire.
We didn’t get a lot of coyotes out this way, but we had some. In this much dense forestation, you got quite the range of creatures. Even the occasional black bear. My mom had told stories about one coming up to the back door and rattling the knob of her folks’ old ramshackle place, but I had to think that was bullshit.
Maybe I just hoped it. If a frigging bear couldn’t just break down a door, fuck the rest of us who rued being so goddamn polite all the time.
Still, much as I lobbied for the rights of bears and coyotes, I wasn’t stupid enough to be whaling on logs after dark. Not when I had a twelve-pack and a hot shower waiting for my sore ass.
“Getting soft,” I muttered after stowing the axe and piling up the wood to haul inside.
I grunted as I made my way around the side of the cabin in the knee-deep snow, part of a cord of wood in my arms. Obviously, I needed to hit the gym harder before Wilder Mind went out on tour. My body freaking hurt. I was covered in sweat. Probably looked like a frigging maniac with snow sticking to my beardy face.
I jumped around night after night onstage in closet-sized clubs and bars, but I wasn’t as hardy as when I’d lived in good old Turnbull full-time. Back when I’d worked on cars and picked up odd construction jobs to get by.
It had been blind luck and a dose of small town friendliness that had even gotten my ass out to LA. Lila’s mom and pop ran the local orchard, and my mom had gotten to talking to Lila’s mother one day about how I didn’t want to be stuck working construction for the rest of my life. One thing led to another and under six months later, I’d been on a place out to LA to meet with Donovan Lewis, the head of the record label Lila worked for. We hit it off and though I didn’t know shit about selling anything that didn’t come in a bucket or wrapped in cellophane, I’d ended up as an account rep.
Representing artists. Me. The guy who’d barely graduated high school but could schmooze a quart a milk out of a cow. Or so my mom had claimed to Lila’s mother.
Because a way with cows surely meant a way with egotistical, often drugged out musicians. Right.
Somehow it had worked though. Lila said I had a knack. Donovan had given me raises. A bunch of them, in short succession. The mogul some jokingly referred to as Lord Lewis didn’t shortchange his talent, and he’d seen something in me. I owed him and Lila a shit-ton of gratitude. First, for hiring me to represent some of their musical acts, and then for trusting me to front a band.
The band part I had more familiarity with. I’d been stroking an acoustic long before I’d stroked my first girl. Let’s just say I’d done my share of touching both, and leave it at that.
One more thing about Turnbull? They had some damn fine women, but it was hard to see them clearly under all the layers of outerwear when it snowed for what felt like half the freaking year. I preferred California women anyway. They seemed more good-natured as a rule. Maybe all the sunshine and hot temperatures put them in a better mood.
And goddammit, I loved me a woman in a bikini.
When I reached the front of my property and heard the squeal of tires, I didn’t react fast enough. Put the image of a half-naked, tanned woman in the mind of a man who’d nearly frozen his nuts off and who wouldn’t miss a car fishtailing off the road?
Right into my ditch.
Tires spun, spewing up snow and dirt and tiny rocks, and a horn went off about sixteen times. And I stared, my wood in my arms. Shocked as hell that anyone had even come down this practically deserted road in the first place, never mind took the curve way too fast and gone ass up in the ditch.
The chick was now attempting to shimmy her way out of the driver’s side window. Painfully. With no shortage of groans and screeches and noises no adult female should ever make.
Since she was moving—and frantically at that—I had to figure she couldn’t be too badly injured. Still, she could have done harm to herself she’d yet to realize.
With more than a small sigh, I set down the wood on the short set of steps to the cabin, brushed off my hands on the thighs of my jeans, and trudged down the snowy hill to where the squealing damsel’s car was lodged.
She turned her neck and gave me the biggest, brightest smile I’d ever seen. I was a little taken aback, since she was half in and half out of a window and her car was fucked up, if not totaled. It appeared to be an older model under the snow and grime, and an accident like hers could screw up the frame. If that happened, the vehicle was shot.
Not that she seemed worried overmuch.
“Hi!” she called over the rushing wind, her voice as cheerful as her expression. “Thank God for you.”
I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I came around the ditch and eyed her lopsided car. “Yep, well and truly stuck.”
She blinked at me from under the pink fringe of a stocking cap. “It’s just a little fender bender.”
“Oh yeah? Then why are you climbing out of the window?”
She wiggled. “Because the door won’t open.”
“Seems a bit worse than a fender bender to me.” I came around the driver’s side, hooked my hands under her armpits in her heavy down coat, and simply plucked her out of the car.
Only afterward did I think of possible internal injuries. Though what possible injury could’ve allowed her to jump and dance around now that she’d been freed, I did not know.
The other thing I noticed about her right away? She was dressed as if she was in competition with the Michelin man, except her bulk was made out of layers. Many layers. She had earmuffs under her hat to go with her bulky scarf, huge coat, ski pants—likely layered over thermals—and some serious freaking boots with enough snaps and ties to secure a horse.
And yet she was still jumping around, blowing on her gloved fingers, and laughing like a crazy person.
“Whoa, that was nuts. I seriously feared for my life. I saw Jesus and heard angels and all that stuff.” She frowned at her car with its likely bent axel. “I paid extra for the best snow tires. I still skidded. That seems like a warranty violation. Don’t you think?”
What I thought was this chick was going to talk my head off.
“The forecast predicted two feet today. Typical lake effect. Are you not from around here?” Though it was hard to believe someone from a warmer climate would’ve been that well-prepared, but maybe. They did tend to have thinner blood than us hardy northern types.
Though what the hell was I saying? I was a California boy now too.
Happily.
I’d never actually heard someone roll their eyes at me before, but her disgust was palpable. “Hello, look at me. Do I seem unprepared for this weather? If anything, I overprepared. In my trunk, I have a spare battery kit, a First-Aid kit, a tire repair kit and—”
“Lady, I got
it. You’re prepared. You just spun out. It happens.”
She propped her hands on her hips. Or at least where I figured her hips would be. Hard to tell with her coat.
“Very pragmatic of you, buddy, but now what? I’m stuck and I need to get to Mrs. Pringles’ before she goes to New Year’s Eve mass. This is her first year without her husband, and she puts on a brave face, but she and Joe were so in love. It was sweet to see, really. And if I can’t get there before mass, then I’ll have to wait until she gets back, or worse yet, go join her in the church, which would be okay except I kind of got ex-communicated last year.”
I wiped away the flakes collecting on my face. I would’ve hoped my expression coupled with how I looked might’ve intimidated her—big, burly, bearded—but if anything fazed this one, it wasn’t me glaring at her during her endless monologue.
“I’m sure I’ll regret asking this, but why, exactly, do you need to go to grandmother’s house?”
She brushed snow off the arms of her coat. It was coming down faster than she could efficiently whisk it away. “Oh, she’s not my grandmother—”
“That was a joke, Red.” I gestured toward her attire. Red and pink everything, which didn’t go together but somehow seemed to suit her. “You also have a car instead of a basket, but let me mix a metaphor or two.”
“Ah. Big bad wolf, is it then? Sorry, you don’t seem to fit.” She marched toward me and grasped the side of my pants. “Wile E. Coyote sweats aren’t exactly scary, tough guy.”
“Don’t touch,” I growled and that made her step back and cock her head, much like a puppy. Instead of a floppy ear, she had the bouncy pouf on top of her hat. “I can’t just touch you.”
She seemed to think about that. It was getting darker, and the snowflakes falling between us were coming faster and harder. But if I wasn’t mistaken, she was pondering that comment as if I’d just said the most important thing she’d ever heard.
