Claiming Atlas (Completely Rocked Book 1)

by Jessalyn Jameson

  “Do you see what you do to me?”

  She nods, her breath coming in quick little huffs.

  “Do you want me to fuck you, Kayla?”

  She sucks in a shaky breath and nods.

  “Say please.” I move my hips, pressing my dick harder against her.

  She whimpers, then leans forward, bringing her lips to mine. She runs her tongue over my bottom lip, then pulls it between her teeth.

  “Unh,” I growl, sliding my hands up to her tits.

  She sucks my bottom lip and I swear she’s sucking my cock the way it responds.

  When she releases my lip, she quickly closes her mouth over mine, and plunges her tongue inside, then she arches her back, taking that fucking pussy away from me. Cold air hits my shaft, emphasizing the loss of her body against mine.

  She pulls back, then looks down into my eyes with a teasing grin. “Say please.”

  I smile and toss her onto her back, then climb on top of her and spread her legs. “Fuck please.”

  She reaches down between us and grabs my dick, then presses it inside her tight pussy. I place my hand on her throat and she rubs her clit, and I pound into her. She makes this little squeak as I fuck her and when her body starts to clench around me, I look down into those big brown eyes and stare into her goddamn soul while I pump her body full of cum. She arches, fucking me harder when I start to slow down, then her hands fly up to my chest and she squeezes my pecs as her legs tighten around my waist and she fucks me so fucking hard that I might come twice in as many seconds because watching her body release for a second time tonight, this time coating my cock with her juices, might be the best thing I’ll ever see in my life.

  I thrust one last time, hard and slow, letting her body milk me of the final drops. She whimpers, but when her eyes come back from that faraway place, she looks up at me and smiles, and fuck me, if post-coital Kayla isn’t the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Kayla

  When my body finally starts to regain feeling again, I roll over onto my side and look at Atlas. He snores quietly, a smile still pulling at his lips.

  I could kick myself for having unprotected sex again, should kick myself, but there’s something about this man that makes me forget everything I’ve ever known.

  He makes me act like a fool, and I both love him and hate him for it.

  I rest my head on my hand and watch him sleep.

  After tonight, it won’t matter. I’ll move back to California, and he’ll jump back on the tour, and we’ll never see each other again.

  All I will have of him are memories of these two nights of mind-blowing sex.

  Mind-altering sex.

  I giggle and he smiles.

  Whoops.

  “What’s so funny. Was I snoring?”

  “Yes. But that’s not why I was laughing.”

  He rolls onto his side and opens his eyes and I want to dive into those chocolatey pools. So much depth hides in those eyes. So much he doesn’t want people to see. “Why were you laughing? Was I drooling?” he asks. But he doesn’t wipe at his mouth, like he knows damn well he wasn’t drooling.

  Guys this sexy probably never drool.

  I, on the other hand...

  “Hey.”

  I meet his gaze.

  “I asked you a question.” Atlas raises one eyebrow. “What are you thinking about?”

  “Drool.”

  He laughs. “Before that.”

  I lick my lips. “Mind-altering sex.”

  His lips twitch. “Mind-altering? Do you mean mind-blowing?”

  I shake my head. “Oh, no, I definitely mean mind-altering.”

  Atlas scoots closer, then runs his hand up my side, stopping just below the bottom curve of my breast. “Are you saying I’ve altered your mind with my skills?”

  I snort. “Yes.” I lean forward and press a quick kiss to his lips. “It certainly wasn’t with your humility.”

  He pushes me gently. “No one will ever say I’m a humble man.”

  I laugh and nuzzle closer to him. “Humility is overrated.”

  He nods. “Plus, I have a big cock.”

  I nearly choke. “Jesus.”

  “No. Close, but not quite saintly enough.” He traces the curve of my breast with his thumb. “Though I have heard ‘oh my God’ a time or two.”

  “Oh my God.” I roll my eyes.

  “Exactly.”

  I laugh and snuggle against him, laying my head in the crook of his arm.

  After a few long moments, he says, “Where’s home?”

  I push up onto my elbows and look at him. “Why?”

  He shrugs. “Curious, I guess. You retired, and you’re moving back home, right?”

  I nod, pulling my lip between my teeth.

  “When?”

  “This week.” Monday.

  He closes his eyes and nods.

  “Your tour’s over soon, right? Where will you go?” I trail my fingers over the compass tattoo on his chest.

  He shrugs, but doesn’t open his eyes.

  “Where’s home, Atlas?”

  He pins me with dark eyes that are somehow even darker than before. “I don’t have one.”

  I take a deep breath and his scent curls around my brain, my heart, emotion thickening in my throat. I don’t know what to say, so I tuck my head back into the crook of his arm.

  I don’t want to say goodbye to him.

  This wasn’t quite the mistake I thought it would be, but my heart already hurts worse than I imagined it would. I figured I’d get a one-night stand and an empty bed in the morning. I assumed he’d ruin my image of him with some rude remark or a blow off. Like, maybe we’d have sex and then he’d call me the wrong name, or have some other girl waiting outside the room for me to leave. At the very least, he’d be lousy in bed, selfish, immature...

  He’s none of those things.

  I sigh.

  “Hey, hey, what’s going on in there now?” Atlas pulls back to look at me, tilting my head up with his thumb on my chin. He searches my gaze.

  I chew on my bottom lip. Should I just be honest? That’s an innovative approach, right? Who’s honest with people they take home from a bar for a one-night stand?

  “Kayla, come on. What is it?”

  With his brows furrowed like that, he almost looks concerned, like, really concerned, like he actually cares.

  Does he?

  I take a deep breath. It doesn’t even matter, since we’re saying goodbye soon anyway. “I thought you’d be different.”

  He winces. “Ouch.”

  “No, oh my God, no, Atlas, that’s not what I meant.”

  He laughs. “I fucking hope not. You’re going to ruin my sky-high confidence after just one weekend with me?”

  I shake my head, laughing at the absurdity of that statement. “I don’t think anyone could ruin your confidence.”

  His expression falls as he holds my gaze for a few long seconds. “You could.”

  I swallow the thickness in my throat. “Atlas...” I shake my head. “Don’t.”

  He sighs and lays his head back on the pillow. “You’re right.” He closes his eyes and I realize there’s no point in saying anything else. I could tell him he far surpassed my expectations of him. I could tell him he’s so much more than just some famous guy in a band. I could tell him he’s so much more than every tabloid story ever written about him. I could tell him that in the short time we’ve spent together, I don’t have to know all of the secrets hidden behind those dark eyes to know that they’re deep, that he’s deep.

  But I lie back on the pillow and stare up at the ceiling while everything I want to say to Atlas gets eclipsed by the fact that nothing I say will matter. Because I can’t have feelings for him and he probably doesn’t have feelings for me, and even if we both had feelings, what difference would that make?

  I’ll never see him again—

  He rolls over quickly, stretching out on top o
f me before I can even finish that thought.

  I laugh as I look up into his eyes. “Well, hello there.”

  Atlas peers down at me and runs his tongue over his teeth. “You don’t want to talk? Fine.” He narrows his eyes and grinds against me. “Then I’m going to fuck you until you’re speechless.”

  I open my mouth on a gasp and he takes that as an invitation. I’d be happy to never speak again if it means his lips are on mine.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Atlas

  A door closes somewhere in the room, pulling me from slumber. Kayla must be in the bathroom. I open my eyes and look at the clock. It’s almost noon. The boys will be in town soon, if they aren’t already. I reach across the bed for my phone on the nightstand. There are three texts from Chris and one from Cade. They’re here.

  I send a group text to the band to tell them I’ll be at the MGM for rehearsal by two o’clock.

  That gives me two full hours to properly say goodbye to Kayla.

  I stretch out in the bed, smiling as I think about all the things we did last night.

  I’d planned on making her speechless, but when she screamed my name repeatedly, I failed.

  Worth it.

  I’ve always made it a priority to keep my hookups brief and to the point. A good fuck, or a BJ—sometimes both—and then it’s goodbye. Don’t let the door hit you on your ass on the way out. They want to fuck a star, so I give them that. But they don’t get more. Chicks never spend the night unless I’m too fucked up to kick them out of my bed, and in that case, I’m gone before they wake up and Red or one of the guys handles it for me.

  Until now.

  “Kayla?”

  Now I want to keep Kayla in my bed for way more than the two nights we’ve spent together, and this fucking sucks. I’m starting to understand why she might have an aversion to goodbye. I roll over and press my face into her pillow, inhaling deeply, turn my head to the side and try again. “Kayla?”

  When she doesn’t respond, I sit up and look around the room.

  Her stuff is gone. The only thing that remains is what’s left of that black lace thong. At least she left me a souvenir. I jump out of bed and rush to the table where it sits on top of a piece of paper. She better have left her number, or a ‘be right back, I’ve gone for coffee’, or something other than a fucking Dear John goodbye letter.

  I open the piece of paper and shake my head.

  Just call me John.

  Atlas,

  You’re so much more than I ever imagined.

  I’ll never listen to your music the same way again, and

  I’ll never drink champagne without thinking of you.

  Thank you for an amazing weekend.

  Kayla

  xo

  “Fuck!” I crumple the paper and throw it against the wall.

  Running my hand through my hair, I walk over and pick it up off the floor, then flatten it out on the tabletop. I read it again, just to really drive the pain home.

  I’m a masochist if ever there was one.

  I read it again, then crumple it into a tight little ball and toss it into the trashcan.

  It bounces out.

  “Argh!” I stomp over and pick it up, then throw it down into the can again. “Stay there.”

  I pick it up again and throw it down one more time for good measure. And because throwing her bullshit little note feels good.

  I growl. None of this feels good. Fuck Kayla and fuck her for making me feel this way. Fuck her for making me feel, period.

  Not having feelings is so much damn easier.

  I’m adding that to the list of rules I will never break again.

  No chasing tail. I have plenty of women begging for my cock at any given moment; this is the last time I pursue anyone. “I’m Atlas fucking Reynolds!” I yell at my room.

  No tasting the pussy. No matter how good it looks, or smells, or feels, there will be no sampling of the goods.

  No bareback. It felt too damn good to make that connection with Kayla, and it’s got my head all fucked up.

  No coming back for seconds. Atlas Reynolds isn’t a buffet, ladies. Fill your plate once, then it’s time to get the fuck out.

  No falling in love. This one is self-explanatory. Fuck falling in love. Or lust. Or even like. I won’t feel a thing for another girl for as long as I live.

  Okay, that’s probably a stretch, but I’m serious. I fuck for fun, not for feelings, and definitely not for forever.

  I walk into the bathroom and start the shower. I can still smell her on my skin, in this room. Time to wash Kayla Sanders from my life. It was fun, but now I move on.

  I crossed Kincaid Summers off my bucket list. That’s it.

  It only seemed like more than sex because she’s the first chick I fucked who I had a sort of crush on. Am I too old to say crush? Fuck yes I am.

  Moving on.

  I pick up the phone in the bathroom and dial housekeeping.

  “Good morning, Mr. Reynolds. What can we do for you today?”

  I shake my head. The room is under Fred Flintstone for fuck’s sake. “I’m going to be out of the bathroom in twenty minutes. I expect the bed linens changed before then.” I slam the phone back onto the receiver and step into the shower.

  There’s no leggy brunette waiting in my bed when I leave the bathroom twenty minutes later.

  And like a fucking schmuck, I’d hoped she’d be here even after her stupid ass goodbye note.

  At least the bed is made and the sheets are clean, though I swear I can still smell her all over this room.

  I dial the concierge.

  “Hello, sir, how may I help—?”

  “Send up a bottle of Dom. No, two bottles. And make it quick. I have rehearsal.” I hang up the phone and head to the closet. It’s concert day, which means my outfit is simple as fuck. Black jeans, black t-shirt, black boots. So original.

  Too bad Kayla didn’t leave that long white trench coat here. That would be badass on top of this outfit. Throwin’ a little Bowie in the mix. I pull my jeans on and step into my boots, then head back into the bathroom to do my hair.

  There’s a knock on the door ten minutes later. I finish running my hands through my hair for that just-fucked messy look, pulling my bangs into strands over my eyes, then step away from the mirror.

  They knock again.

  “Fuck, I’m coming.”

  I throw up both my middle fingers and give my best ‘fuck you’ look to my reflection, then pull on my t-shirt as I make my way to the door.

  “That champagne better be damn cold—”

  My words die when I see her.

  “Ice cold, Atlas.”

  I wanted her gone, but now I want to pull her to me and never let go. My heart dies when I register the look on her face and the barely restrained rage in her words. “Kayla, what—?”

  “Just another Banger?” Kayla demands as she pushes past me.

  I look out into the foyer at Red.

  His eyes are wide, like she just scared him into submission. He shakes his head and raises his hands. “Sorry, boss. I couldn’t stop her.”

  Well, I find that hard to believe. Kayla probably weighs as much as one of his legs. But that doesn’t matter, because she’s here, and whatever’s wrong we can fix. I close the bedroom door, then turn around to face her.

  She holds a magazine in her hands. “I couldn’t even get out of the fucking casino before I saw my damn face plastered all over a newsstand.”

  I shrug. “Haven’t you ever been in the news before?” I mean, she’s Kincaid Summers. Isn’t she kinda used to this?

  She laughs, but it’s a sharp sound that makes me stand up taller, like my body instinctively braces itself for what’s next. I frown. Why do I react to her like this? She’s just a chick.

  I take a deep breath and hold her gaze. She’s so clearly not just a chick.

  “Haven’t I ever been in the news before... wow. Yeah, no, Atlas, that would be a no. Not like this.” H
er eyes glisten, but she blinks back the tears.

  Shit. I was right to brace myself. She’s not just pissed, she’s upset. I hate when chicks cry. It’s so much worse when they cry. Fuck me.

  She holds the magazine up and starts to read the article. “‘A source close to the band said that this was one of many in a long line of conquests—”

  “Kayla—”

  “‘You know Atlas,’ the source said, ‘always looking for the next notch in his belt’.” She shakes her head, lip curling as she continues. “The source, who was with Reynolds the night he met Kincaid Summers at TAO Nightclub in Las Vegas, said he spoke to the bassist of Banging Cade the next day and confirmed that the famous Miss Summers was ‘just another Banger’.” She looks up at me, and if looks could kill, I’d be a fucking corpse.

  “Kayla, I never said that.”

  “Someone said it.”

  “Well, it wasn’t me. And I didn’t talk to anyone yesterday but the driver that got me to and from that little shindig of yours last night, and you were with me for one of those rides.”

  She shakes her head and holds up the magazine again, this time so I can see the photo they used. Of course it’s one from the elevator last night when that schmuck accosted us. Her long leg is exposed and her bra peeks out the top of her coat. It was sexy as hell at the time, but in print like that, her outfit makes her look a bit like a...

  I stop before finishing the rest of that thought.

  She turns the tabloid back around and reads from the article again. “‘Kincaid Summers, whose real name is Kayla Sanders, is one of the top paid performers in Las Vegas.’”

  I nod, because this part is true, yeah?

  “‘Until confirmation from another source close to Mr. Reynolds, we could only speculate on her other more lucrative ventures. Another woman, who wishes to remain anonymous in order to protect her privacy, was paid to entertain Reynolds in his suite earlier this week. She has confirmed that she works with Sanders at Exotic Direct, a local escort company.”

  My eyes widen. No wonder she’s pissed.

  She looks up and meets my gaze. “I don’t know what’s worse. Being your fucking prostitute, or just another Banger you’ve brought into your bed.”