by Quinn, Cari
Besides, he was quite sure they could make the chain in silver or platinum as well. She’d look good in that with diamonds between her breasts.
His cock hardened at the thought of her wearing his diamond—no, diamonds. Not just one. A string of them around her elegant neck perhaps. But the idea of her wearing his ring took hold and made his heart race.
He’d never thought marriage would ever enter his mind.
It still didn’t quite fit. But if it fit with anyone, it would be Violin Girl. And that was beyond terrifying. More that he was afraid to even entertain the thought. Forevers were for suckers or baby-makers. And that wasn’t him.
He lifted her knee higher on his hip and fit his cock against the wet denim between her thighs. This is what made sense. Touching her, loving her—not diamonds.
Her neck was cool to the touch as he laved his tongue along the sensitive flesh behind her ear. She trembled for him as he felt her pulse speed under his mouth. It was raging fast like his own. Because the stairwell was full of memories of the road?
Or just because they were in each other’s sphere?
She cupped his face and brought his mouth to hers. Just then it didn’t matter. Touching her, tasting her, loving her—that was enough. She writhed against his cock, and each uptilt of her hips made him hungry to get inside her.
He pushed at her shorts, crouching in front of her to yank them down and get her foot free. He wound her leg back around his waist and pushed aside her bikini bottoms with one hand and unzipped his cargos with the other. He swiped the head of his cock over her lips and found her slick with rain and the silky wetness that he craved.
He didn’t pause, didn’t give her a moment to change her mind. He thrust inside her and blew out a breath as she squeezed around him. Her nails dug under his shirt and up his back. He grabbed her hands and lifted them above her head. Their similar heights made it easy to line them up and take her where she needed, where he needed her.
He watched her eyes go wide and opaque as he rolled his hips with each thrust. Her smooth pussy was so wet and felt so goddamn good. He breathed in her spearmint groans, swallowed her cries as he braceleted one hand around her wrists and brought his other hand between them to push her closer to the edge.
He wasn’t sure how long he was going to last and when he felt those little finger-like grips over his dick, he sucked back every urge to groan out her name. Fuck, he just wanted to say it once. But he didn’t. He dove headlong into the void and came hard, jerking against her as he emptied himself into her. She let out little hiccupping breaths against his neck and he sighed in relief.
He’d been almost positive she’d gone before him, but the feel of her clasping and grasping around his shaft had been too much. He pressed his forehead into her shoulder and sucked in deep breaths.
“Are angels singing or something?”
He huffed out a laugh then lifted his head. Not angels, but the rain had stopped and the shoppers were moving around again. Someone had a bell-chime ringer for text messages or something.
Thank freaking God for the distraction, because they scrambled for her shorts and to button his pants just as a mother with three young boys came bounding up the stairs. He pulled Margo out of the stairwell and into the parking garage before he could tell if the woman figured out what they were doing.
He tipped his head back and grabbed his side as they got to the Jeep. He’d barely finished inside her before they’d had to book it for the car. That just wasn’t good to do to a body.
“Thank God, it’s not too long to get to the house.”
He slid into the passenger seat and pulled off his soaked T-shirt. He pulled out the T-shirts he’d just bought, still dry in the bag. He handed her one and pulled another over his head.
She pulled it over her head and looked down at her chest. “Really?”
The T-shirt read: I’m sorry for what I said when I was hungry.
He grinned. He was pretty cranky when he was hungry. Especially since he didn’t get to eat any of his favorite foods lately.
She rolled her eyes and put the Jeep in reverse.
They stopped for groceries and fresh shellfish on the way to the house. The rest of the night included making dinner and watching movies. Margo was on her phone a lot with a secret smile that made him wonder what she was up to.
After a full day, they curled in bed to sleep. It was an odd sensation to wrap around his girl without focusing on getting her naked. But for once, he was content to just hold her through the night.
When the first rays of sun blazed through the stained glass, they came together in a sleepy, soft tangle of limbs and sighs.
The next few days were a mix of the same. Sometimes their loving was desperate and out of control, sometimes it was sweet and soft. He found himself wanting to babble crazy, useless things to her. But nothing seemed to fit a marker board to tell her what he was feeling. For once, he hated being the strong silent type.
He gathered up his dirty laundry. He was officially on his last pair of trunks and his boxer briefs were in the minus column. So it was time to do a load. They still had a few days left on the island and he was frustrated with how slow time was going, and yet how fast it streamed by.
Going back to California meant he had to go back to Dr. Connor. It meant he could actually figure out a timetable on his life. But it also meant he had to finally face exactly what was ahead.
He’d never wanted to run toward and away from something so much in his life.
“Simon?”
He looked over the railing of the loft.
“Kim said I could use her huge washer. Do you want me to do yours too?”
Part of him wanted to push the chore off on Margo and the other part of him felt weird with the domestic flavor of it. He’d always done his own laundry. Living under a laundromat for a few years had taken the mystery out of the act. He found it strangely meditative.
He looked down at her and shook his head.
“Okay. I’ll be back in a little while. I’m going to go do some shopping too.”
He gave her a salute and dropped down on the bed with a sigh. Paradise was getting boring. He stuffed the last of his laundry in the netted bag he found and tossed it over the railing. It landed on the rug with a silent thud.
He took a shower and threw in a load of whites. Since that was going to take at least an hour, he stuffed his feet into sneakers to go down the trail of a thousand broken ankles. At least he could walk the beach and kill time. If he was feeling particularly inspired, he might run.
Of course breathing hard was on his list of no-nos. Hmm. Probably should have thought about that when he was laying in a heap last night after round number four with Margo.
When he got to the bottom, a few of the restless snakes uncoiled from his belly. He toed off his sneakers and took them to the deck. He waded into the water, groaning a little when the sun-warmed water teased his ankles.
Maybe paradise had a little more left in her.
He took a leisurely walk down the private shore that Margo’s family owned and into the public one on the cove. When the screaming children took over and one too many curious eyes landed on him, he made his way back.
He frowned when a dune buggy with white shields and a crapton of equipment zipped by him. The beach had been nothing but quiet and unoccupied since they’d been there. He knew the private beach was owned by a few other homeowners, but he’d rarely seen another soul.
A tent was pitched a few yards away from the shoreline, a half dozen people rushing in and out of it with chairs and cushions. A man with long dark hair, no shirt, and jeans was crawling around a stunning African American woman.
Photographer.
Simon couldn’t figure out what the little thing was in the guy’s hand until he got closer. Light meter.
Christ. Photoshoot.
He recognized that set up for sure. As the lead singer of Oblivion, he’d been required to do a hefty amount of photo sessions.
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br /> The woman looked bored. As soon as the photographer backed up to change cameras, she flung her head back. Simon couldn’t tell if she was actually enjoying the sunshine or was simply bearing it for the sake of a job.
Two other women came out of the tent, both pale as milk. They’d be cherry red by the end of the day unless they had a bucket of sunscreen hidden in the tent of glory.
“For fuck’s sake, Ellie, where did you get that guy?”
“From the modeling agency we always use. A few more tweaks and he’ll be perfect. Just give me a minute, will ya?”
Simon frowned. He knew that voice. He moved a little closer and crouched down. It was probably a photographer he’d worked with before. He had to have been in front of a dozen of them in the last year alone.
“Wait!”
Simon looked over his shoulder as a girl wearing oversized cargo shorts, with what had to be a million pockets, chased after a beanpole of a male model. He was skinny-ripped, the kind that was more from starvation than working out. Model boy-man scooped his fingers through his shaggy hair and turned with a far too practiced move.
Douche.
He had douchebag written all over him.
The cute little blond sprinted over to him with a small comb. She tried to neaten up his face and his almost scruff, but ended up just waving him off. The kid trudged down the sand in red jeans with black flames climbing from the edges of his faux-battered boots.
Son of a bitch.
Roman.
He should have recognized the photographer’s hair. He’d worked with Roman back on their first tour. He’d gotten a trunk full of cool leather clothes. A jacket he still wore was at the Hollywood Hills house. He loved that jacket. Made his shoulders look almost as big as Deacon’s.
Roman turned on his heel from the crouched position, his jeans sandy and wet up to his knees. He’d urged the girl into the water while Simon had been distracted by the man-child pretending he was cool. Roman’s head fell forward in exasperation as he stood up.
Simon wasn’t sure when Roman had started doing his own photography. Then again, he wasn’t really surprised. The guy was a control freak of the first order. Of course he’d want to do the actual photos of his clothing line.
Man-child stood in front of Roman with his hip shot out to the side. He had an impressive V above the snakeskin belt. Simon resisted the urge to go over there and steal it.
Not that he really needed a cool belt since he wasn’t on stage. He curled his fingers into fists. No, he definitely wasn’t going to need that cool belt for a while. Looking at Roman’s made-for-a-rockstar clothing was not what he needed right now. He’d just taken a two-mile walk to get out of his damn funk.
“Have you eaten a sandwich since you were thirteen, boy?”
“I had an apple,” the kid said.
Simon rolled his eyes. The apple probably had more IQ points than that kid.
Roman stood and tipped his head back. “God save me from models.”
“So where do you want me?” the man-child asked.
“Over there,” Roman said with a sigh. “Ellie!” he barked.
She peeked out of the tent. “What now?”
“Is that your idea of ready?”
“I can’t magically give him the rest of the hormones necessary to grow a beard, Ro. That’s as good as you’re going to get without me airbrushing it on.”
Simon dropped onto the sand cross-legged. This was better than the Spanish soap operas he found the other day. Roman had always been a bit of a fire-breather. Simon had only worked with him once in the studio. He’d mostly just agreed to wear his first line of leather and denim because it was free. Win-win as far as he was concerned. Especially back then when they’d had very little money.
“Jase! Are you done with that chair yet?”
“You want me to move a freaking three-hundred-pound chair down the beach, you’re going to have to be goddamn patient.”
Simon leaned back on his elbows as the dune buggy came back down the beach. A huge black and red chair was strapped to the back. It had ridiculously cool carvings and looked like it belonged in a throne room. The back was high and had a gothic look to it that made Simon’s fingers itch to own it.
He’d never coveted furniture before.
The hulking blond that had been driving the buggy jumped out. Three other beefy dudes helped him lift the chair out and they muscled their way down the beach to the water line. Roman was shifting around them barking orders.
Finally, the cool ass chair was placed in the water.
In the goddamn water.
Simon shook his head. Absolute perfection in dark-stained wood and it was going in the ocean. Where was the justice? When Roman started kicking sand around the huge legs, Simon curled onto his side on the beach to watch the show.
The four guys proceeded to dirty up the chair and make it look like it had been found in the sand. Roman whistled to man-child to come over and sit in it.
If Simon had been able to laugh out loud, he would have. The kid was tall enough to not have his feet hanging off the chair like a child, but he filled in about half of the seat itself. No matter how Roman positioned him, he still looked like a preteen playing at the big kids’ table.
“Christ, take fifteen, everyone. I need to think.”
Jase bent at the waist, his hands on his knees. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t,” Roman said pleasantly.
“If you make me move that chair again, I’m gonna kill you.”
“I want Meredith to sit in it with him, but I swear to fuck she’s bigger than that sorry excuse for a male model.” He paused. “Did you bring your paints?”
Jase sighed. “Yeah.”
“Can you add some turquoise or blue to some of the carvings? I like the red, but I think the blue will pop with all the water.”
Jase shrugged. “Can do.”
Roman clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You always can, Jay.”
Simon rolled over onto his back and crossed his arms behind his head as models and assistants scrambled around. Evidently when Roman said break that only meant the model types. He closed his eyes and let the sun bake into his bones.
A few people came up the beach to see what was going on. Simon tipped his hat down and got to his feet. That was enough for him. He really didn’t want to get recognized by anyone.
He tried to sneak around the chair into the water to get to the dock on the other side of the madness. No way would he get up the path of doom without his sneakers.
“Jesus, Ellie, get this dude out of my shot.”
Simon froze. Fifteen minutes sure didn’t mean the same on Roman’s watch.
Ellie jogged over to where he was. “Sir, I’m sorry, we can’t have you on the set.”
Simon held his hand up that he was moving along.
“Wait.” She sloshed through the water to him and tipped his sunglasses down. “Oh, hell no.”
Ellie clamped her hand around his forearm. “You are coming with me.”
Simon pulled back and shook his head.
“C’mon, Simon. We’ve been arguing all morning about this kid trying to be a rockstar and we actually have one right here. What, are you on vacation or something?”
How the hell was he supposed to say without a goddamn voice?
“Okay, don’t say. I don’t care. I just need you for like an hour. Maybe two.”
Simon snatched a hairbrush out of her hip pocket and stopped her when they got to the packed sand.
She turned around and looked at the brush. “Don’t worry, I’ll do the primping for you.”
He held up a finger and crouched down. He scrawled: had vocal surgery—can’t talk in the sand.
“Perfect! A model that can’t talk. Hallelujah.”
He tipped his head and stared her down.
“You got nothin’, babe. I work for Roman. Your stare is child’s play.”
He rolled his eyes and stood.
“Roman!”
“What? I finally have a goddamn decent shot and you’re bugging me?” He looked over his shoulder. “I thought I told you to get rid of him?”
“Roman, come here.”
He sloshed through the water to her. “If you make me lose this shot, I’m making you deal with the overgrown toddler.”
“Ro, shut up and look.” She turned Simon so he was standing in front of Roman.
Roman snatched off his glasses and hat. “Well, fuck me. What the hell are you doing here?”
Simon sighed. Evidently he was going to be modeling.
Seventeen
“Simon?” Margo called out. It wasn’t like he was going to answer her, but he usually popped up so she could see him. Where the hell was he?
She put away the groceries she’d picked up and looked for a note.
None.
He was usually pretty good about at least leaving her a note. Even if it was rude or perverted.
She stopped at the small washer and frowned. The clothes were warm, definitely not freshly washed. She dumped them in the dryer and turned it on. She went upstairs, expecting to see him passed out on their bed.
Nope.
She took out her phone and texted him. When she heard a buzzing on the table, she frowned at his phone. He hadn’t taken the phone so he couldn’t have gone far. She opened the closet and his sneakers were missing.
Maybe he was down at the beach.
She traded out her sandals for her Sketchers and headed outside again. The distant strains of music made her frown. There was no one around for miles. The only other person that was still in this section of the island was Kim and she was pretty sure she didn’t listen to Iggy Azalea and Britney dueting it out.
Margo picked her way down the path. Halfway down, between the trees, she saw a dozen people on the beach and in the water. Three women were on the dock, sunning themselves as a photographer flitted around from one side of the dock to the other.
Her dock.
What the hell?
She got to the end of the path and a blond woman raced by, camera in hand. She handed off the camera to a man with dark hair scraped back into a stubby tail. He definitely wasn’t dressed to be on the beach. Okay, so the top half wasn’t so bad. He was tanned and smooth-chested with a sleeve of skull and flame tattoos down his left arm. A huge SLR camera was draped around his neck and another in his hand.
