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

by Olivia Thorne

It was fucking awesome. And news of it basically blew up Twitter and Instagram over the next fifteen minutes.

  Now that was a good memory.

  A not-so-good memory was when Derek asked me what I talked about with Riley on our wild night out.

  After relaying several of the things I’d learned about her, I happened to mention the whole thing about Ryan writing the melodies to the songs.

  Oh boy.

  Derek immediately went cold and angry. There was a palpable temperature drop in the air.

  “Well, that’s a load of bullshit.”

  I tried to clarify. “She wasn’t saying he wrote all the songs – ”

  “I know exactly what she was saying,” Derek seethed, “and she’s wrong. She doesn’t know shit. Ryan and I work on stuff all the time when she’s not around. She’s a fucking drummer, for God’s sake. She doesn’t know shit about songwriting. It doesn’t matter who comes up with – you know what, fuck that, at least half the melodies are mine. I come up with just as much shit as Ryan does. And he doesn’t come up with any of the lyrics, so fuck Riley.”

  Jesus.

  “I think she just meant – ”

  “I don’t give a fuck what she meant. If she wants to be a fucking idiot, then good for her. But I’d be careful what you print from her, because she obviously has her head up her ass.”

  All I thought was, I’m glad I didn’t tell you the part about how you turn into a dick if your ego doesn’t get stroked.

  He even lit into her about it at the next band meeting.

  While he was yelling at her and Ryan was trying to calm him down by agreeing with him that, yes, Derek did write half the melodies, Riley looked over at me.

  Sorry, I mouthed silently, cringing and wincing.

  But she just looked amused and gave me a look like, See? What’d I tell you?

  She’d been right.

  Which scared me even more about some of the other things she’d said.

  To his credit, Derek realized in the next few hours that he’d been a complete douchebag.

  First he apologized to me.

  “I don’t think I’m the one you should be apologizing to,” I said.

  So he sucked it up and tracked them both down separately, and apologized in my presence for being a complete fucking asshole about the whole thing.

  Ryan was nicer than any human being ought to be. “Nothing to apologize for, man.”

  Riley, however… was Riley.

  “SO… you’re saying Ryan actually does write all the tunes, then, Word Boy?”

  There was no apology forthcoming for the fight that happened after that.

  100

  There were some sexual memories that stood out, too.

  Not all of them were good.

  Like the fight we had about oral sex. Specifically blowjobs.

  Fellatio is not my favorite act in the sexual pantheon. I don’t think I’m very good at it, and I always feel like I have a loaded gun in my mouth, ready to shoot a bunch of bad-tasting gunk at my tonsils.

  Blech. I have the heebie-jeebies just thinking about it.

  But I’ve done it for boyfriends in the past. Not often, but I figure if they went down on me, I should reciprocate.

  Derek went down on me several times. The first time he was great – that time he ‘relaxed’ me. But he only did it a couple times after that. As time wore on, it became obvious that his enthusiasm lay elsewhere.

  But I still had the whole guilt thing about him going down on me and I hadn’t returned the favor yet. So there was this running dialogue in my head: Should I go down on him? He did it for me. Should I? Is he expecting it?

  He was, it turned out.

  He kind of forced the issue. We were naked and getting ready to go at it. He was lying on the bed on his back, I was above him like I was getting ready to do ‘Woman On Top,’ and he just grabbed my hair and started pushing my head down towards his crotch.

  “No,” I said before I realized it.

  He kept pushing, ignoring me.

  “NO,” I said, and jerked my head away.

  He stared down at me in shock. “Why not?!”

  Okay… beyond my obvious discomfort with blowjobs, there was another factor specific to Derek:

  I was afraid of catching something.

  Yes, I know he said he was tested regularly.

  Didn’t matter. I still was afraid of catching something.

  And in retrospect, on a subconscious level, I think I was afraid he might be lying to me. Especially after Killian’s little ‘scorpion and the frog’ story.

  I was eventually able to shut off the thought of all the women he’d been with, at least so I could be there emotionally during sex. But I absolutely could not ignore his past when it came to my own health.

  It was why, even though I was on birth control, I’d insisted we use a condom every time, from start to finish. (Well, except for that whole ‘stoned in Joshua Tree episode.’)

  Even a month into the relationship, I’d never told him I was on birth control, because I knew that he would just nag and nag and nag about the condoms, and I didn’t want to get into that. Partly because I was afraid I would give in.

  So I kept it on the down-low. I even had to slip away from the band in one city and get a refill on my NuvaRing prescription without anybody knowing.

  So when he asked me “Why not,” there was a ton of stuff going through my head.

  I didn’t answer for a second.

  “Why not?” he asked, a bit more petulantly – which turned me off even more.

  “I’m… when was the last time you were tested?” I asked.

  He stared at me. “It’s a blowjob.”

  “Yeah, I know. When was the last time you were tested?”

  He started to get angry. “I didn’t ask you to get tested.”

  “Yeah, but I haven’t been with God knows how many guys.”

  As soon as I’d said it, I was afraid – because if he’d said something like that to me, in the tone of voice I’d said it in, I would have punched him in the balls. Or stormed out of the room. Or punched him in the balls and then stormed out of the room.

  But his expression actually softened. “Okay, okay. I guess… like… a month ago?”

  At the time, ‘a month ago’ was a couple of weeks before I’d shown up.

  “So… did you have sex with anybody between the time you got tested and our first time together?”

  His face set, like he was realizing the way the conversation was going to go. “…yes.”

  Although I wasn’t happy to know I was still potentially in danger from conventional sex, I was also relieved: I had an ‘out’ as far as the blowjob thing.

  “That’s why I don’t want to do it.”

  “Nothing’s wrong – I haven’t been – ”

  “I’m not comfortable with it.”

  He paused, and seemed to think. “…what about with a condom?”

  Okay, about the only thing less fun for me than a blowjob would be a blowjob with a condom.

  In theory, anyway. I’d never tried it before. But the one thing I liked about oral was skin on skin – as long as the guy had showered and tasted clean. There were other problems, but that was the one thing I liked.

  And now, we were going to throw that out, too.

  But I felt like I’d backed myself into a corner. If I said, ‘And I don’t like giving blowjobs,’ then that would become the issue… and I knew we would have a fight about it, which I just didn’t the energy for at the moment. And he had already gone down on me three times without ever asking for anything in return (until now)…

  “…okay,” I agreed. Reluctantly.

  So I did it.

  And it was terrible.

  I can understand women who don’t have a problem with the taste actually really enjoying giving blowjobs. It could be an incredible turn-on knowing you’re giving that much pleasure to somebody you love. And if you’re really good at it, I bet there’s a certain
satisfaction in knowing that you’ve got the guy completely at your mercy… that he would do just about anything for you if you just give him what he wants.

  But I can’t imagine anybody enjoying giving a blowjob with a condom on.

  Maybe if it was a mint-flavored condom. Or a chocolate-flavored one… or something.

  But this was an ordinary latex condom.

  At least it didn’t have lube on it; that probably would have been worse. God knows it was bad enough as it was.

  The taste… UGH. The taste was even worse than doing it without one.

  It sucked all the moisture out of my mouth completely. I felt like I’d put some especially nasty-tasting baby powder on my tongue. At least it wasn’t gritty. Thank heaven for small favors.

  And the feel was like covering a banana in plastic and then putting it in your mouth. Not sexy.

  After a couple of minutes of me doing a terrible job, Derek pretty much realized my enthusiasm lay somewhere else completely, so we went back to regular sex.

  The whole blowjob thing had been such a turn-off, though, that it took me forever to get into sex. I eventually did come, but it took a lot longer than usual, and it wasn’t as good as it usually was.

  What disappointed me was he didn’t seem to care that I wasn’t as into the sex. He just kind of kept going at it, never stopping to ask, ‘What’s wrong?’ or ‘Can I do something for you?’

  On the plus side, he never asked me for a blowjob again.

  101

  So, amidst all the hot and heavy memories, there were at least a couple that stood out because they were unpleasant.

  But there was one that was freakin’ awesome. And really, really unusual. And didn’t involve psychedelic mushrooms.

  We were in Salt Lake City at the time. I remember that because ‘the Mormons’ figured prominently in the conversation.

  The day after the performance, Derek and I decided to strike out and go see the Great Salt Lake. After a day of band practice, it was a spur-of-the-moment decision. We left the hotel around 7 o’clock in the evening and drove the Mercedes convertible he’d bought in Irvine.

  The Mercedes had become the bane of Miles’s existence, because it was one more thing to be taken care of. Crew members had to be assigned to drive it behind the tour bus as we moved from city to city, and then park it somewhere safe overnight. You never heard the crew members complain – hey, they got to drive a ‘69 Mercedes – but Miles was always super-pissed.

  “Thank you so fuckin’ much for makin’ me the babysitter for your impulse fuckin’ decisions,” Miles barked one afternoon. “Not that you don’t make my life fuckin’ hard enough already.”

  “What do I pay you 15 percent for?” Derek taunted him. “You certainly don’t do anything else to earn it.”

  Which turned into another memorable confrontation.

  But today I was thankful, because we were tooling around with the top down, the hot sun warming our skin and the wind whipping through our hair. In case you’re wondering, the sun doesn’t set in Salt Lake City in the summertime until around 9:00. Whether it’s a quirk of the altitude or where the city lies in the time zone, it was still plenty bright and plenty warm at 8 o’clock at night.

  On the off chance we actually went swimming in the lake – at up to 25% salt concentrations, you were supposed to be able to float in it like the Dead Sea, which I kind of wanted to try – I made him stop and let me buy a black bikini at Target. I wore it out of the store, underneath my regular blouse and skirt, and we set back off down the road.

  We weren’t near the water yet, but it was pretty damn warm, so I unbuttoned my blouse and let the sunshine and wind play over my skin not covered by the bikini top.

  Derek couldn’t stop looking at me. We’d had a fight the day before, and hadn’t had sex in almost 48 hours – which was a new record. But now he was absolutely enthralled.

  And I was eating it up. It was just me and him, and I was soaking up the attention like it was sunshine after a long, cold winter.

  “You better start watching the road instead of me,” I teased him, “or you’re going to crash.”

  “I’m not going to crash,” he said, though he returned his eyes to the road – for about ten seconds. Then he glanced back over at my boobs.

  We weren’t in much danger. We were on a small local road, not on the interstate. The suburbs and restaurant chains had given way to farmland, with cows and horses and wide-open fields. And there were almost no cars, with none behind or ahead of us, and only one or two going in the opposite direction.

  While keeping his eyes on the road, he reached over and caressed the side of my breast. Let the back of his fingers play over the curve, lightly touching my skin.

  Mmmm.

  But I wasn’t giving it away that easily.

  “Stop,” I said, playfully smacking away his hand. “The Mormons are watching.”

  “I’ll bet they are,” he grinned. “You’re corrupting them as we speak.”

  He reached back over and lightly caressed the front of my bikini top.

  My nipple grew hard beneath the fabric.

  Unnnhhh…

  This time I didn’t bat his hand away.

  He cupped my breast in his palm, then slipped his fingertips beneath the top. Lightly circled the nipple, and squeezed it softly between his fingers.

  Two could play at that game.

  I looked over at his lap, deciding how best to torture him – and got a little surprise. He was already getting hard… except his cock was trapped along the inside of his pants leg. It made a wonderfully enticing bulge stretching a third of the way down his thigh.

  I reached across and put my hand on the leg of his jeans, then started to stroke the outline of his cock. Within seconds he was even harder and thicker, with an even more pronounced outline as it strained against his jeans.

  “Oh, that is so not fair,” he complained as he grabbed my boob a little tighter.

  “You’re touching me.”

  “Yeah, but you’re not at a horrible angle,” he groaned. “My dick feels like it’s going to break off.”

  My fingers moved down to his crotch, and I let my fingernails glide across the cloth. I could feel the vibrations as they played over the natural weave of the denim, tickling his balls beneath.

  “Do you want me to stop?” I purred.

  “No… Jesus, no…” he moaned, his eyes fixed on the road.

  “I don’t think the Mormons would approve of you taking the Lord’s name in vain,” I teased.

  “I don’t think they would approve of what you’re doing, either.”

  “Okay,” I said, and let my hand pull away slowly across his thigh.

  He instantly stopped touching my breast and trapped my hand under his.

  “Don’t stop,” he said huskily.

  I smiled and began rubbing his cock through the leg of his jeans again… putting my thumb and forefinger on either side of his thick shaft, gliding up and down his entire length. I could even feel the ridge of his head through the cloth, he was so hard.

  After another minute of doing that, I noticed that a little wet spot had appeared on the denim over the head of his cock.

  Oh my God, I thought. He’s so turned on, his pre-cum is soaking through his jeans.

  That was nothing compared to how wet my bikini bottom was under my own skirt, though – and I got even more turned on when I noticed his wet spot.

  “You might want to stop for a minute,” he croaked, his voice even lower and more animalistic than normal.

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re about to have an audience.”

  I had been looking at the outline of his cock so intently that I hadn’t even noticed what was going on around us. When I lifted my eyes, I saw that the road was approaching a tiny shack on the horizon.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “The guardhouse, I think.”

  And so it was. I buttoned up my blouse as Derek edged the Merced
es up to the traffic gate.

  A woman came out dressed in a park ranger’s uniform. “Welcome to Antelope Island State Park,” she said brightly. “That’ll be ten dollars.”

  Derek handed over the money, and she gave him a brochure and receipt in exchange. “Be sure to put that on your dash if you leave your car to go hiking.”

  The entire time, I kept wondering two things: would she recognize Derek? And would she notice the rather sizeable bulge in his jeans?

  Apparently she didn’t realize who he was, because she didn’t say anything. And I guess the car door was blocking her view of his lap, because she didn’t do a double-take or linger for a better look, either.

  “The park closes shortly after sundown. If you get caught out there on the island after dark, though, don’t worry, you can just drive back up to the gate. It’ll open automatically. Have a nice visit!”

  And then we were through.

  A long, two-lane road that looked more like a bridge stretched off into the distance – as in, miles into the distance. On either side of the road was a small slope of scrub brush and sand that descended to white salt flats, which stretched for thousands of feet until they finally met water.

  A half-mile away on the right, a reddish-orange mountain rose up from the lake, its reflection like a double image in a mirror. Beyond the mountain, the setting sun was turning the entire sky into a rosy haze.

  The whole place looked like an alien landscape – pretty and serene, but harsh and alien at the same time.

  As soon as the car was about two hundred feet down the bridge, Derek stopped the car and hurriedly unbuckled and unzipped his pants. He was goin’ commando – no boxers.

  “What are you doing?!” I asked.

  I looked around in alarm, but the guardhouse was far enough behind us that the ranger couldn’t see – and there were no cars nearby at all.

  In answer, he tugged down his jeans and extricated his poor cock from its prison. Despite my nervousness at being discovered, I watched greedily as his shaft popped free of the zipper and jutted straight up towards the sky.

  It was slightly red from its ordeal, and more swollen than I’d seen it in a long time.

  And the head was wet and glistening with his own juices.