Rock All Night (The Rock Star's Seduction #2)

by Olivia Thorne

  A wry smile crept across his face. “Do you really hate me?”

  No.

  I’m just afraid of how much you make me feel.

  “…yes,” I said grumpily.

  His smile bloomed into a full-on grin. “You really hate me?”

  Now it was a game.

  Which I didn’t mind as much, because I didn’t have to open up, I didn’t have to tell him how deeply he affected me.

  I didn’t have to be honest – not with him…

  …and not with myself, either.

  “Yes,” I said brattily.

  He pulled me on top of him as he lay on his back. I braced my arms against his chest (his firm, gorgeous, naked chest – sigh…) and kept myself as far away from him as possible.

  “How much do you hate me?” he asked, his voice dropping sexily.

  “A lot.”

  “Do you hate all of me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you hate… this part of me?”

  He shifted his body underneath me, and suddenly his cock – still rock-hard and thick, with the condom still on – slid into the groove of my pussy. I felt the wet pressure kiss my clit, and I shivered.

  “…yes…” I said, entirely unconvincingly.

  “Do you hate it when I do… this?” he whispered, and his hands clutched my ass, the fingertips caressing my wet, exposed lips.

  “Yes,” I said, almost trembling as his fingers traced across against my most sensitive parts.

  “Do you hate it when I do… this?” he asked, and did a crunch, lifting his upper body off the bed so that his mouth could reach my breasts dangling above him.

  His lips took me in, wet and warm, sucking first at one nipple, then the other.

  I shivered, and let myself grind the slightest bit against his long, thick cock.

  “…yes…”

  Without saying anything else, he lifted my t-shirt up over my head. I raised my arms and let him peel it off me, after which he threw it across the room.

  Then he hooked his fingers in my underwear and pulled down. I raised my ass and let him slide off the soaked cloth, then took over and kicked them off to the floor.

  Now I was naked, sitting astride his naked body.

  As he looked me in the eyes the entire time, he took one powerful hand, put it on my waist, and lifted. I rose up off his body – and with his other hand, he took hold of his head and positioned it right between my swollen tips.

  “Do you hate when I do… this?” he growled, and slowly forced me down on that gorgeous cock.

  “Unnnnhhh,” I groaned as he slid inside me, inch by inch.

  “Do you hate it?” he asked again.

  “…yes…” I whispered, as I began to lift myself up and rock back down, slowly, again and again, letting him deeper and deeper inside me.

  “How about this?” he whispered, and pulled my upper body down against his chest. His legs spread out, forcing mine along with his… and then I felt his hands grab my ass cheeks, cupping them hard… and then his fingertips tickled between my legs where they joined my body, sliding over wet skin, until they came to rest between my pussy and my asshole, and he just… clutched at me gently, that soft, delicious pressure massaging a place no one else had ever touched as he pumped his hips slowly and that big, thick cock slid slowly in and out of me. He put his mouth against my ear and breathed out, “Do you hate that?”

  “…yes…” I moaned, my fingernails raking across his rock-hard chest, my hair dangling over his face in a tent, as he moved in and out of me, filling me up, his fingertips toying sensually with that shameful/delightful/unnamable place between my legs.

  “Do you hate it when I fuck you soft and slow?” he whispered in my ear.

  I was arching my body now, grinding myself down on his cock, making it press harder at points where I wanted it, trying to get back that sensation of him rubbing over my g-spot.

  “Yes,” I moaned, my skin heating up as I fucked him back.

  “Do you hate it when I fuck you just a little bit faster?” he whispered, and suddenly he drove his cock into me, surprising me, making me gasp as his hips smacked against my thighs and ass.

  “Yes…”

  “And you hate it when I fuck you deeper?”

  He strained hard against me, and I swear I felt him go deeper than ever before.

  “Yes…”

  “You hate that?”

  He was slipping in and out of me faster, harder, our bodies slapping wetly together.

  “Yes – ”

  “You hate it when I fuck you?”

  “Yes – ” I moaned, my eyes closed, as his fingers pressed harder between my legs, and my breasts slid across his sweaty chest, my nipples tickling.

  “You hate it when I fuck you so good?”

  Faster, harder, thicker, deeper –

  “Yes, yes – ”

  I could feel his breathing becoming shallower.

  “Don’t come,” I pleaded, my eyes closed, my voice high and breathy.

  “I’m not going to come,” he whispered back. “Not yet. Are you going to come?”

  “Yes,” I whispered, feeling it building up inside me again, sweet and aching and wanting so badly to be released.

  “Are you going to come for me?”

  “Yes – ”

  “Are you going to come hard for me?”

  My eyes were closed, and I was grinding and bucking hard against him, using every inch of his cock.

  “Yes, yes – ”

  “Are you going to have that gorgeous little pussy come all over me?”

  “Oh fuck – yes – oh God, yes – ”

  The sensations were getting closer, higher, sweeter, more and more –

  “Will you do something for me, Kaitlyn?”

  “Yes – ”

  “Do something for me, ‘cause I want to come with you – ”

  “Yes, anything, yes – ”

  “Are you about to come?”

  “Yes, yes, God yes – ”

  He took one hand and gripped the back of my hair at the nape, forced up my head so he could look me in the eyes, helpless and completely surrendered to him as I felt the surge of pleasure between my legs reach that tipping point where there was no going back.

  “Scream for me when you come,” he whispered.

  Suddenly I was coming, and I screamed, louder than I’d ever screamed before, the pulsing waves of pleasure shooting up from deep inside me, from where I clutched his cock with my pussy, riding it, feeling it deep inside me, the pleasure shooting through my legs and up my spine and into the crown of my head, pulse after pulse of bliss rolling through my skin and body and into the very core of me, and suddenly he was yelling, cursing, grunting, moaning, and I felt him explode inside me, his cock spasming and growing, one-two-three-four, faster and faster, harder and thicker, pressing against me as he rammed inside me, my hips grinding against him as my screams subsided into moans, and then I collapsed on his chest, sweaty and gasping as he held me in his arms and cradled my head against him. I could still feel his cock surging and pulsing with tiny aftershocks, one every three seconds… then every five seconds… then every seven seconds… until he stopped completely, and we just lay there, breathing at the same rate, the sweat from our bodies mingling as our skin slid against each other like wet silk.

  “…I still hate you…” I whispered, mostly playful, but with a tiny core of anger I couldn’t deny.

  “…I know,” he said, and I knew he was grinning from the sound of his voice.

  85

  So the sex was super-hot that once… although it rarely was after that.

  Part of it was me – but part of it was definitely him. He almost seemed to go out of his way to be a dick sometimes. Paying more and more attention to really hot groupies backstage, or flirting more brazenly with attractive women.

  For awhile I thought maybe he was doing it to provoke a reaction in me – maybe stoke the same fires that had fueled our little bout of ‘
hate sex.’

  And it kind of did work that once.

  But you know how it feels really good sometimes to get angry? Just righteously pissed off? Super-fucking mad?

  It’s powerful. Like you have a nuclear-powered engine inside you.

  But the problem is, if you don’t get over it, it starts sapping energy out of you instead of creating it. It takes a lot of fuel to keep anger going, and it starts leeching off of the energy reserves that power everything else.

  And I found myself getting angry, and staying angry, more and more often.

  Angry and jealous and insecure and depressed.

  So if he meant it to provoke me and turn me on, it backfired. I actually stopped being responsive and wanting sex as much because I was just hurting.

  And when we did have sex after that, I noticed it became less and less about foreplay and sensuality, and more just… ‘banging.’ He tended to do a perfunctory warm-up to get me halfway going, then we cut straight to the main act.

  Don’t get me wrong, what we did do was really good… better than the best sex I’d had with anybody else. But that heightened sense of sexual tension back in my dorm room four years ago? The hallucinatory sensuality of the desert? The way he had touched me and seduced me when I was angry at him?

  Those things virtually disappeared. It was like they receded in the rearview mirror as we drove away, leaving them in the dust. I caught glimpses of them again, but the glimpses were always fleeting – and then it was ‘wham, bam, thank you ma’am’ (even if the ‘wham-bam’ part lasted a good fifteen or twenty minutes).

  But in the end, I don’t think he flirted with other women to provoke me and turn me on.

  He did it because that was what he was, and that was what he did. He sought out female attention and validation, however he could get it. And he wasn’t going to change it for anybody.

  Which, to my mind, was being a dick.

  If you’ve got a woman in front of you who you say is your girlfriend, but you still act like you’re a single guy out to get his next piece of ass?

  You’re a dick.

  I know, I know, I shouldn’t have expected to hook up with one of the most desirable men on the planet and then believe that he would want to settle down.

  Except I kind of did.

  When a guy tells me I’m his girlfriend, I expect him to fucking act like I’m his girlfriend. Not just when he wants a little ooh-la-la.

  Killian’s words kept returning to me. Not the part about Derek lack of maliciousness, or how his actions were just part of his ‘nay-chuh.’ If I’d actually concentrated on those things, then maybe I would have dealt with everything better.

  No, I kept asking myself, Is this Derek being a scorpion?

  And is this me being the frog?

  I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop – to feel that horrible pain when we were halfway across the river, and for the both of us to drown.

  86

  In the midst of all this angst, Glen from Rolling Stone started calling more often.

  At first it was just to check in, with a slight note of urgency. Hey, how’s it going? Are you getting good stuff? When are you coming back?

  But then the conversations began to get more and more charged. More negative. More domineering.

  Look, you need to wrap this up.

  This is going on way too long.

  We’re not spending any more money on this.

  It was the money part that really ticked me off. When he told me that, I hadn’t had my own hotel room for twelve days, and I hadn’t charged a goddamn thing on the Rolling Stone credit card for ten. I ate with Derek, either alone or with the rest of the band, and everything else was essentially free.

  I told him that.

  “I don’t care,” he shot back. “We sent you out there to do a job, not go off on your own little fantasy vacation.”

  Asshole!

  He absolutely had a point: I was here to do a job. And I wasn’t doing it.

  But it was obvious he was just using the money angle to manipulate me.

  It felt like he didn’t give a fuck about me; that all he wanted was the story, and if I was the only way he could get it, fine… but I was just a means to an end. Nothing more.

  He finished up with, “This is verging on the EXTREMELY unprofessional.”

  This from the guy who didn’t care that I slept with the interview subject.

  But… to be fair… I was a nobody with a shot at a Rolling Stone cover article, who wasn’t holding up her end of the bargain.

  So I gritted my teeth and said I would do better.

  Finally, though, there came a conversation that was like a sucker punch to the gut.

  Thank god Derek was there to hear it.

  I was in the hotel room when Glen called. Derek was scribbling out some lyrics on hotel stationary at a big wooden desk in the corner.

  “That’s it, you’re out,” Glen snapped in my ear.

  “…what?” I asked, stunned.

  “This has gone on long enough. Get on the next flight back to New York from wherever the hell you are.”

  “But – but I’m not costing you guys money anymore – ”

  “I don’t give a shit, Kaitlyn. It’s obvious to me that you’re just taking advantage of the magazine.”

  “I’m not taking advantage of you! I’m doing what you asked!”

  “You’re not doing what I asked – you’re not doing anything REMOTELY close to what I asked.”

  “Yes I am! I’m doing interviews with the band members, I’m getting background stories, I’m actually starting to write the article – ”

  “STARTING to write the article?! Jesus Christ! Maybe you forget that you’re on a deadline!”

  “You never gave me a deadline!” I said, my voice rising in panic.

  At this point Derek looked around in curiosity. He could tell I was in fight-or-flight mode, and he frowned as he heard more of my side of the conversation.

  “It was IMPLIED that we needed this as quickly as possible!” Glen yelled.

  “You never told me that! You never told me that you needed it by any specific date!”

  “Well I’m telling you NOW! Stop acting like a freshman in college, get the fuck back to New York, and do your goddamn job!”

  At this point tears were welling up in my eyes.

  As soon as Derek saw that, he got up from the desk and held out his hand for the phone.

  Fear bloomed inside me.

  “No,” I said, shaking my head, afraid of what he might say. My relationship with Glen was already dangling by a thread. I could only imagine what the Rock Star Who Despised The Press would do if I gave him the chance.

  Unfortunately, Glen thought I was saying ‘No’ to him.

  “WHAT the fuck did you just say?!”

  “Oh – sorry, Glen, I wasn’t talking to – ”

  “FUCK YOU. You do NOT tell me – ”

  Derek didn’t give me a choice. He just grabbed the phone away from me and hit the ‘Speakerphone’ icon on the screen.

  I went sick to my stomach. I tried to wrest it away from him, but he turned away and kept me at arm’s length.

  Glen was still talking. “ – ‘no,’ I tell YOU ‘no,’ and NOW I’m telling you to leave your fucking entitled bullshit at the door and get back here and act like a professional, for Christ’s sake! I knew this was going to happen – I should have had my fucking head examined for – ”

  “Hey, what’s up!” Derek said loudly, like he was entering a party and announcing himself. But not in a friendly way.

  Glen went silent – but only for a second. “Kaitlyn, are you there?”

  “She’s here, she’s listening in on speakerphone.”

  “Um… I need to talk to Kaitlyn – ”

  “Oh, you can still do that. AFTER you talk to me.”

  “Um… who is this?”

  “This is Derek Kane.”

  Glen’s attitude turned around 180 degrees in a tenth
of a second flat.

  “Derek, hi! This is Glen Smith from Rolling Stone – I’m a big, big fan – you guys are phenomenal – especially you, I personally think you’re quite possibly the most gifted singer/songwriter of your generation – ”

  “Hey, Glen? Take your tongue outta my ass, buddy.”

  Despite how afraid I was, I couldn’t help laughing – and had to stifle it with my hand.

  Glen didn’t take it well. Although he retained a lot more cool-headedness than he’d displayed with me.

  “Hey, there’s no call for that. I’m just being friendly and letting you know – ”

  “‘Friendly’? Really? That’s funny, coming from a guy who was berating my girlfriend just a few seconds ago.”

  My girlfriend.

  My heart thudded in my chest.

  Glen tried to keep up a valiant front. “Oh… uh, look, I can appreciate that she’s special to you, but she has a job to do. I mean, if somebody in your organization wasn’t doing their job, I’m sure you would – ”

  “Glen!” Derek barked. “Why is she here?”

  There was a pause.

  “Um… I thought you knew…”

  “Oh, I know why, I’m just wondering if YOU do. So, tell me – why is she here?”

  “…um… to do a story on you and the band – ”

  “EXACTLY! To do a story on me and the band. And she’s the only reason you’re getting that story, Glen. Do you know why?”

  “Um… well… you’re not a big fan of the press – ”

  “That is one way to put it. That is definitely one way to put it. But more specifically, it’s because I fucking hate little cocksucking weasels like you. Did you know that, Glen? I fucking DESPISE little cocksucking weasels like you. And let me be clear, because you might try to misquote me to make me look bad, which you and your cocksucking weasel friends do all the fucking time. So write this down, Glen, ‘cause I’m going on record: I couldn’t care less if you’re gay. Doesn’t matter to me in the least. But the fact that you’re trying to be my best friend and suck my cock – for a story? Trying to stroke me off so I’ll give you a couple of quotes for your magazine, all while you’re verbally abusing my girlfriend? Fuck you, Glen. FUCK YOU. Why don’t you go and print that?”