by Amanda Rose
“We missed ya at dinner last night—and it was plum delicious, by the way. That daddy of yours sure can cook, can't he?”
“It was catered,” I whisper, turning away from Crispin and staring out my room's bay window into the snow. Honestly, I'm sure if I'm excited to see Crispin Fox, the sexy Southern bassist for Inked Pages, or disappointed.
If he's still here then … so are Aspen and Frost. Blizzards and bastards. That's my life now.
But the bastards part … I think it applies more to my family than the four sexy rock stars staying at my house. They've been nicer to me in the last two days than anyone I share an ounce of DNA with. My cousins—dickheads. My dad—asshole. My siblings—monsters. And don't even get me started on my mother.
“I don't think so, sugar plum,” he says, sitting down on the edge of my bed, smelling like amber and apples and soap. “There ain't no gettin' in or out of here at the moment. Trust me, our manager … well, shoot, she sure as shit been tryin'. I saw your daddy slavin' over the stove for damn near an hour and a half last night. Didn't see any caterers, that's for damn sure.”
I sit up and turn to face Crispin because, like, he's just not the type of person that's easy to ignore—in a good way. He's so excited and friendly and … ripped … and hot as fuck in a pair of tight jeans and a red tee that just barely fits his big, muscular frame. His skin is teased into a warm brown from god only knows what sunshine—probably some city in the south. I think Inked Pages started their tour in Texas or something?
Anyway, as I look over at Crispin, it's easy to see why he's considered the soul of the band. He's got an infectious energy that makes me want to smile, even if I still feel like shit. I took my grandma's money, built the store, and then lost it not six months after her death—I have good reason to feel like crap.
And Hot Reads … it was more than just a store to me, a business, numbers on paper. It was the building I'd painted with the colors my grandma had picked out, it was the light in her eyes when I made her proud, and it was the warmth and acceptance I'd felt when I'd filled those walls to bursting with readers and local authors for signings.
It was a platform, a place for people to connect with the world that wasn't online, a place that was real, with old wood floors I'd sanded myself, and books I'd handpicked, and paintings from local artists. But even in a city as progressive and welcoming to entrepreneurship as San Francisco, California, I hadn't made it …
“Chin up, Cherry Pie,” Crispin whispers, leaning close to me and brushing hair from my forehead with a gentle hand. I have no idea what he's doing in my room, but he doesn't seem to have any doubts about that. “You're crying.”
“I'm not crying,” I say, but when Crispin wipes a small tear off my check, I can see the wetness glistening on his finger. “Well, I'm not sobbing,” I start and he laughs, his brown eyes sparkling as he looks me up and down and then grins.
“A girl as pretty as you? No need to cry. The world is your oyster, sweet thing.”
“Is it?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest and leaning back into the pillows. It occurs to me that with my current mood, being alone with this Southern sexpot in my bedroom probably isn't the best idea, but oh well. I made lots of good decisions for myself and the business, and all that did was leave me heartbroken.
True, I had a somewhat charmed life, but that didn't mean I was happy.Because I wasn't. No, knowing that I'd crawled back to Minnesota with no degree, no business, no trade … nothing … it wasn't an easy pill to swallow.
“Your brothers were talkin' about the hot tub on the back deck?” Crispin asks, sweeping some of his wavy blonde-brown hair from his own forehead. He can't hold back his grin for long. “You want to get into your best winter bikini and meet me out in the snow, Cherry Pie? Have a soak?”
“Is this a game?” I ask him and he narrows his brows at me, all innocent and shit.
I almost buy it.
“A game?” Crispin asks as I check the time on my phone. It's already midday and no doubt my parents are going insane being trapped in the house. But even from here, inside my bedroom with its glowing lights and custom Christmas bedding … I can see that the storm is still raging.
“To see if you all can fuck me?” I turn back to Crispin Fox, and the look of real confusion on his face baffles the shit out of me.
“You shittin' me?” he asks, blinking long lashes, his frown the most genuine expression I've seen on a single human being in a long, long time. “You don't know, do ya, Cherry Pie?”
“Don't know what?” I ask as Crispin chuckles and relaxes back into my pillows, like he owns the damn place. His attitude should annoy me, but it's hard to be annoyed at someone who's smiling like that.
I frown and snuggle back into the pillows, turning to look at him and pillowing my hands underneath my head.
“You're not going to tell me, are you?” I ask, but he just shakes his head and laughs, the sound vibrating the small cushion of air between us, beckoning me closer. That sense of temptation and want is amplified when Crispin puts his hand on his lower belly, his fingers inching toward the waistband of his jeans.
He pauses, tantalizingly close to touching himself, but doesn't seem at all interested in going any further.
“I am,” Crispin says, looking up at my ceiling, at the strange pattern the Christmas lights make with their shadows and shimmers. “I'm just enjoying the moment of suspense first.”
“Asshole,” I say, reaching out and smacking him on the tummy with my palm. It's meant to be a playful move—a totally weird one really, since I don't know this guy for shit—but all it really does is turn me on. Crispin Fox … he has nice abs. Like, rock-fucking-solid. “What? You must've come into my room for a reason, right? Does this secret have something to do with that?”
“Ain't a secret,” he says, sliding a candy cane from his pocket and carefully unwrapping it. Crispin holds it out to me, and I take it, sliding it between my lips as he watches, my pulse picking up in pace, my heart thundering. Who knew sucking on a piece of Christmas candy could be so … erotic.“And I came in here because your door was wide open, and we hadn't seen hide nor hair of you since yesterday. You're hiding in here, Cherry Pie.”
“I am not hiding,” I say, watching Crispin's hand carefully as he teases at the button on his jeans and decidedly does not open it. And I want it open … even if he and his friends do have a bet.
“You can fool a lot of people, sugar plum, but you sure as shit aren't foolin' me. Can't bullshit a bullshitter.” Crispin rolls toward me, pulling another candy cane from his pocket. He unwraps this one, nice and slow, and then sticks the plastic back in his jeans. We stare at each other and suck the hard ends of the peppermint into our mouths, faces so close I wonder if he can see striations in the color of my eyes the way I see it in his.
“Maybe I am hiding,” I say with a small eye roll, resting on a nest of brunette hair and enjoying the peaceful quiet of the storm. It's put a damper on the whole world it seems, a blanket of serenity and stillness that can't be broken, no matter how much my mother wishes she could tear it apart. This blizzard doesn't care about deadlines or clients or bookstores or broken hearts.
It just … is.
That's a nice thought, the severe but stubborn face of nature leering down at man, refusing to be dominated or subjugated, omnipresent but sometimes silent … never subdued.
“But if I'm hiding, it's for a good reason. You've seen my family—they get manic during the holidays. I could deal with that if I were going home afterward, but I'm not. Instead … I'm staying here.”
“Where's home?” Crispin asks, watching me deep-throat the white and red candy, pulling his from his mouth so he can lick his lips and swallow, the bulge in his jeans making it clear that he likes what he sees. I shift, rubbing my thighs together and feeling my swollen sex warm in response. It feels so fucking good.
I just … sort of want to get fucked.
Nothing wrong with that, right?
An
apple a day keeps the doctor away … and a good screw makes the whole experience more palatable. Besides, if I'm going to be trapped in this house—literally trapped—with a wall of ice and snow outside, a perfectionist father and a workaholic mother … I deserve a special present, right? Because Crispin Fox … looks like he'd make for a very merry Christmas.
“San Francisco. I mean, I grew up here, but my grandmother moved to California just after I graduated high school, and I followed her.” I shrug and roll onto my back, making sure Crispin has a nice, uninterrupted view of the candy cane disappearing down my throat. “She helped me open the bookstore of my dreams and encouraged me through four … semi-successful years of running it.” I swallow hard, pulling the candy from my mouth. I'm not quite as turned-on as I was a few moments ago … “She died about six months ago and, well, the store's finances were never great. I just put it up for sale. Hopefully, I get a buyer before the bank takes it all back.”
“So you're moving in here?” Crispin asks, sounding surprised, snapping off the end of the peppermint stick with his pretty white teeth. He chews carefully as he continues to stare at the ceiling, almost like he's lost in thought.
“I feel like an outsider in my own family,” I say, surprised to hear myself confessing to a random stranger. “They don't care about me or what I do … did.Not a single one of them showed up for my grandmother's funeral.” Tears prick my eyes again, but I ignore them. “She worked her whole fucking life to make sure my mom had a good education, a good job, a good life. And what did she get in return? Nothing.”
“I wouldn't say nothin',” Crispin says, turning toward me and pulling the candy cane from my fingers. He leans up on an elbow and tosses them onto the side table. His left hand comes down and cups the side of my face, his brown eyes boring into mine. “She got you, didn't she?” he asks, and my heart stutters … stops … starts thundering. It feels like Crispin is playing me the way he does his bass, digging in and plucking the strings, getting them to sing exactly what it is he wants.
I guess that's what makes him a good musician then because … my lips are parted and I'm ready to make whatever notes he wants.
He leans down to kiss me, and then pauses, his breath teasing my already wet lips, the hardness of his cock pressing into my thigh.
“What I meant to say earlier,” he begins, talking so that his mouth brushes mine. I've closed my eyes without even realizing it, and force myself to open them again, taking in Crispin's heavy half-lidded stare. “Was that … this ain't no game, Cherry Pie. The boys and I … we always date the same woman.”
And with that little nugget of truth, Crispin rolls onto his back and then swings his feet down to the white fur rug on my floor.
“Grab your suit,” he tells me with a grin and a nod. “And meet me on the deck.”
I can't decide if he just dropped a diamond into my metaphorical stocking … or a piece of dusty black coal.
The upstairs deck is home to a pretty fabulous fucking eight person hot tub. In fact, there are two of them, their view of the snow covered woods an unbeatable winter treat, even in the midst of a blizzard.
The wind is howling and admittedly, it's a struggle to even get to the first of the two hot tubs, let alone the second one. I doubt anyone in their right mind wants to spend the time needed to clear four feet of fucking snow off the top to take a dip—especially not when someone already rescued this one.
“Why the two tubs?” Crispin asks as I climb in, enjoying the way his eyes take in my white bikini with the little Christmas bulb pattern all over it. I'm a tad skinny, so the boob cups are a bit large and have a tendency to gape, but I like the way I look in it still. It was better when Grandma was alive and I could actually fill it out, but I've lost a lot of weight since her death.
Shouldn't be hard to gain it all back here though, with—and Crispin was right about this—Dad whipping up holiday treats all day. That's what he's doing to kill time while he waits for the storm to pass, so he can have another fancy party—baking. I snagged three sugar cookies before making my way out here and ate them all. He'd also made brownies with red and green frosting and a Christmas cake decorated with a nativity scene made from modeling chocolate and fondant.
My brothers and sisters were in there helping him, laughing and smiling and sharing family gossip. When I'd walked in, dressed in my robe with my swimsuit underneath, they'd all gone quiet.
“Oh,” Tina said, looking at me with a strained expression on her face, “we didn't think to invite you.”
And that … is why I am not looking forward to moving back in here.
I'm an afterthought to the Fallon family, that extra child my parents never intended to have and decided to go through with at the last minute anyway. Sometimes when they look at me, I wonder if the taste of regret is bitter on the backs of their tongues.
“The two tubs … for my parents' parties,” I say, sinking into the warm water and loving the feel of the heat against my chilled skin. The wind is still threatening to steal every ounce of body heat I have through the top of my head and my exposed face, but the hot tub does a good job of trying to combat that.
The best of both words—scalding water and icy snow.
I love it, the only part of this place that I truly missed after I left with Grandma and moved to San Francisco.
“What sort of parties do your parents have?” a voice murmurs from behind me, and I jump, splashing water in Crispin's face as I glance back and find Vale Kesselring … completely naked. He climbs into the hot tub like it's no big thing at all and makes himself comfy in the corner nearest me, draping his muscular arms over the edge and staring at me with those half-lidded bedroom eyes of his.
“All kinds,” I say, deciding not to worry about his nakedness if he doesn't seem concerned with it. “Whatever lascivious thoughts you might be thinking, they're probably true. No need to be subtle. I know my parents have swinger parties and whatnot.”
Vale raises his blonde brows at me, and smiles … gentle … awful … wicked.
How does a man who looks so … nice smile like a demon?
He reaches up a wet hand and tousles his silver-blonde-blue hair, the tattoos on his fingers finally making sense to me.
Good Time.
That's what he has written across knuckles, the words Good and Time with a hand inked … in pussy. Er, what I mean to say is … he has a tattoo of a pair of cats—one white and one black—sitting facing away, their tails curled together at the tips.
“I just told Cherry Pie here about our arrangement,” Crispin says, leaning his head back against one of the headrests and sighing in pleasure. That sound … it tightens my lower belly, twists it into knots, makes me shiver.
“You didn't tell me anything,” I reply, taking up my own corner of the tub and enjoying the strange darkness above us, the blackness that coats the sky despite how early in the afternoon it is. Big white flakes filter down and swirl in the air around the hot tub, melting in the steam above the water. “You cryptically implied that you and your friends often date the same woman. How is that supposed to surprise me?”
Crispin flicks his eyes open and then glances over at Vale.
“She doesn't get it …” Vale begins, tapping his tattooed fingers against the water. “Or else you didn't explain properly.”
Crispin just laughs and shakes his head, scooting a little closer to me, so close that our knees touch beneath the surface. My breath hitches, but I cross my arms over my chest and lean back, waiting for an explanation.
“A bunch of pop rock musician assholes all dating the same girl, so what?”
“This ain't like that,” he says, and Vale laughs, the sound drifting around me, like it's adhered itself to the hot tub steam and is now caressing every inch of my body.
“Then what is it like?” I ask and hear a scoffing noise from behind me. Yet again, another rockstar sneaking up on me through the snow.
This time, when I turn to look though, it's both Frost and
Aspen.
Uh-oh.
At least they're both wearing swim trunks.
The two men climb in and take up the opposite side of the space, all four of them positioned just-so, all looking my way. And I feel like their gazes … are intense as fuck.
“What's it like?” Frost asks me mockingly, a veritable frigging sex god with raven-dark hair and emerald eyes. His tattoos color his entire chest and arms, a nice contrast against Vale's mostly empty skin. “We don't just gangbang girls together for fun,” he says, narrowing his eyes at me. I sort of want to kick him in the balls, but then … I remember he gave me his number on a napkin … That was cute, wasn't it?
But Christ Almighty, what a dick.
“We don't gangbang anyone,” Aspen says, looking at me with that same intensity I saw in the kitchen yesterday. “We date together.”
“And we also fuck together,” Frost adds which just causes Aspen's face to tense up like he wants to punch his friend in the eye. Instead, he ignores him and takes a deep breath, sucking in the white steam and swimming closer, taking up the seat between me and Vale.
“Cyan, we actually date girls as a group, as in … we're a package deal.”
“I'm sorry … what?” I ask, blinking and tilting my head to one side, brown hair sliding over my shoulder and sitting in the water as I sink low, trying to escape a particularly chilly gust of wind. “You guys are … lovers?”
“Sometimes,” Aspen continues, casting his gaze around the group like he's expecting somebody else to chime in and help him out there. Crispin just grins, Vale smiles, and Frost glares. How nice. What an interesting mix of men Inked Pages is. “But mostly we like women.”
“Women?” I ask, sinking just a bit lower, until the water touches my lips. “Or woman?”
“Look, Cyan, we have a career that takes up a lot of time, and we all … want someone, you know? But we don't want to lose what we have together either, this dynamic we've spent so long building. We're looking for a girl that understands us.”
