Idol (VIP #1)

by Kristen Callihan

  “Oh, Libs,” he says softly. “Look how wet you are. That pretty pussy all puffy and pouting for it.” The tip of his finger slides along those swollen lips. “You hurting here?”

  I shift my hips, heat licking up my thighs and pooling between my legs. “Yeah,” I whisper.

  He nods. “Yeah, you are.” That finger runs back and forth, ghosting over my clit and sliding down to my opening. I moan, spreading my legs wider, and he nudges a rough fingertip in just enough to make me feel it. I rock my hips, trying to take him in. He has mercy and pushes that long finger into me. I moan in gratitude.

  “I’m going to lose my mind when I fit myself in here,” he murmurs in a dark voice. He doesn’t touch any other part of me as he slowly fucks me with his finger. It only serves to draw all attention to the act. Another finger slips in, and he spreads them wide as he pumps. “You like that?”

  I can’t answer, only writhe and stare at the absorbed expression on his face. As if he feels my gaze, his eyes flick up. They gleam black in the dim interior. “Okay, baby doll,” he tells me, “I’ll make it better.”

  His free hand rips at the button of his jeans. And then his cock springs free. I haven’t forgotten how big it is, but seeing it now, engorged and hugely erect, has my insides clenching in anticipation. Killian must feel my reaction because he makes a hungry sound and pushes another finger inside me.

  I’m stretched wide, filled up. But I know his cock will feel like more.

  He slips out of me and pulls a condom from his pocket. “Play with that clit while I do this.”

  My shaking fingers obey, sliding through my slickness. I want to be filled up so badly, my hips push restlessly against the seat as he rolls on the condom.

  Killian’s big palm rests on my hips, his fingers spread wide to hold on to me, his hot-coffee gaze rapt. “Now that’s a pretty sight. Hold yourself open for me, baby.”

  I do as he asks. He makes a sound, low and guttural, almost a whimper but more needy, and all the muscles along his abs visibly clench. His free hand goes to his cock, giving it an idle stroke.

  “Hell, I’m gonna have to get another taste of that.” His breath is a warm sigh before his lips gently press to my swollen sex. It sends a jolt of heat through me. And when he hums his approvals against my pussy, I keen.

  “Killian…” My hand cups the back of his head. I don’t know if I want to push him away or shove him closer. He’s slowly killing me, the way he peppers soft, lingering kisses between my legs, as if he’s kissing my mouth. His tongue is lazy yet greedy, finding every hidden space and sensitive swell.

  “Killian, please. Now.” I tug his ear and he laughs—the fucker—sending more heat skittering between my thighs.

  After a little goodbye flick to my clit with his tongue, he rises and takes a seat next to me. “Come here.” His hands find my hips and he lifts me to straddle him.

  Slouched back, he appears almost relaxed: rock and roll royalty lounging in his limo. But I don’t miss the tension tightening the corners of his eyes, or the way his hand trembles slightly as he brushes a lock of hair back from my face. Between us, his cock lays like a steel bar against his defined abdomen. I want to wrap my hand around its girth and squeeze. I want to sink onto it and forget my name.

  The man is so beautiful, his bold features stark, his eyes bright. My hands run over his smooth skin, hard muscles flexing at my touch. I trace a small, tight nipple, loving the way his nostrils flare in response.

  Killian’s rough fingertips trace my brow. “I want you so fucking much. Feels like I’ve always wanted you.” He pulls me close, kisses my mouth. “It’s taking all I have not to just plow into you, fuck the ever-loving hell out of you.”

  Our breaths hitch in unison, and I kiss him again, sucking his full lower lip. He groans a little, his hands bracketing my jaw. “We’re taking it slow,” he insists, and I half wonder if he’s talking to me or to himself. “Slow. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  The whole time he talks, he slowly rocks his hips, sliding his dick back and forth between my legs. He’s so wide, my sex parts around him.

  My breasts press against his chest as I lean forward and rise up on my knees. “Come into me, Killian.”

  “Fuck,” he whispers, swallowing hard. His eyes hold mine as he reaches between us and guides the wide crown of his cock to my opening. I don’t close my eyes, don’t breathe, as I slowly sink down. The first breach pinches. I hold there as Killian pants, his fingers pressing into my jaw as if he’s struggling to keep still.

  The car goes over a bump, and he thrusts up into me. My breath hitches, my inner walls stretching and grasping. “Holy hell,” I gasp.

  “Babe.” He kisses me, gently working his hips, easing his way farther in. All the time kissing me, like I’m his drug.

  And I feel drunk on him, my senses swimming, my head heavy, and my body hot with pleasure. All I can think is that Killian is in me. He’s part of me now. I feel him in the taut pull of my hips, deep in my body where the head of his cock pushes against some spot that lights me up.

  I move with him now, meeting him thrust for thrust, our lips barely brushing, tongues almost idly touching. I take his air, and he takes mine.

  “So good.” He shivers, surging into me. “You feel so damn good. More. Give me more.”

  I grip his shoulders, bite his upper lip, lick it. Lust has made me feral.

  His hands slide to my butt, gripping me there, and the tip of his finger toys with the entrance to my ass.

  It’s all too much. My forehead rests against his as I pant and ride him, claimed, owned. He has me.

  My orgasm is a long roll, picking up speed and rushing over me with such force that I can only cling to him, cry out, and move against him in a messy, desperate way. I lose sight of everything but that feeling.

  And then his arms are locked around me, crushing me to his chest as he thrusts into me hard, fast, frantic. I love the sounds of his cries, the way he groans like he’s dying and somehow waking up all at once.

  For a long moment, we lie limp—me against him, Killian against the seat. Deep within me, he still pulses, and my body squeezes him in response. Killian chokes out a weak laugh and snuggles me closer. His lips find my cheek; I’m too wrecked to turn my head and kiss him back.

  “Holy hell, woman,” he says against my damp skin. He lets out a shuddering breath. “Holy fucking hell.”

  “I know,” I whisper. It’s never been this way. And I know without doubt that Killian James isn’t just an addiction, or a summer fling. He’s becoming my everything. And that is both exhilarating and terrifying.

  Killian’s place is about what I expected for a rock star who values his privacy. It’s a penthouse in a converted church just south of Washington Square—a mix of sleek modern and old-world style with soaring ceilings, dark wood floors, glass walls, and massive stained-glass windows. The rooms are open and airy, a large terrace taking up the whole back. In his white kitchen, beneath a vaulted and beamed ceiling, he makes us cubanos, a sandwich of roasted pork, ham, swiss cheese, mustard, and dill pickles, grilled until it all gets hot and gooey.

  “Why didn’t I have you cooking for me before?” I muse before taking another huge bite.

  He gives me a satisfied look around a mouthful of sandwich. “And miss out on your cooking? No way. I do make a mean ropa vieja, but that takes time.”

  “This is perfect.”

  We eat and drink icy beers. It’s two in the morning, and everything is quiet and calm. His place is huge, but here with him, it feels cozy.

  “Do your parents still live in New York?” I ask him.

  “From October to December.” Killian takes a swig of his beer. “Right now they’re on their yacht, probably docked in Monaco or Ibiza depending on Mom’s mood and Dad’s business deals. If Mom wants to party, it’s Ibiza. If Dad has a deal, it’ll be Monaco.”

  “Wow. I mean, I’ve read about lifestyles like that but to actually live it...”

  “My dad
grew up with polo ponies. He went to Trinity at Cambridge. His ‘chums’ are royalty. It’s his normal.”

  I can only stare at Killian. His shoulders are tight, his gaze distant. “It’s your normal too.”

  He sets his beer down and meets my eyes. “I was always stuck between worlds. Staying with my abuela, traveling with my parents, the band. To be honest, Libs, I have no fucking idea what normal is. But I want it.”

  The intensity of his stare, the way his voice dips lower, makes me take his hand and squeeze it. I want to give him normal, but I don’t know how. Not when I’ve left my normal behind to be with him.

  I help him load the dishwasher when we’re done. Though he had a quick shower before making dinner, he’s still shirtless and wearing worn jeans that hang low on his slim hips. His bare feet are pale against the ebony floorboards.

  I’m barefoot too, and, for some reason, that makes this feel more domestic. As if we both live here.

  I tuck a strand of hair behind my neck as I put the last plate in place and catch him watching me. “What’s that look?” I ask, because his expression isn’t one I’ve seen before. It’s light, and yet something is going on behind those dark eyes.

  He shakes his head, biting his bottom lip. “Nothing. Just missed doing this with you.”

  “This” being the dishes. He always helped me with them when we were at my home. It became a ritual: Killian would watch me cook and keep me entertained with stories and anecdotes, we’d eat, then we’d clean up together.

  “It feels right, you know?” he says, that soft smile still in his eyes.

  Just like that, I need to hug him. I step close and wrap my arms around his waist. My lips press light kisses to his chest, because, really, I can’t be this near and not kiss him.

  Killian immediately melts into me, his arms coming up to squeeze me for a long moment, almost bruising but welcome. I want that strength. I want to feel as if nothing can come between us.

  Long fingers comb through my hair, massaging my scalp. I snuggle in closer, my cheek pressed against him. The beat of his heart is steady and strong.

  “When do we leave New York?” I ask.

  His voice rumbles low in his chest. “Next week. We head north, then west.”

  My hands smooth along the valley of his back, where the flat slabs of muscle frame his spine. His skin is heated satin. “I need to find a place to stay.”

  The muscles beneath my palm bunch, and he pulls back. His dark brows lower on a frown. “You think I coaxed you all this way to send you off to a hotel? You’re staying here, Libs.”

  Here is where I want to be. The idea of leaving him, even for the night, makes my skin cold. “Won’t…” I take a breath and forge on. “Won’t the guys wonder why I’m at your place?”

  That frown grows, but he shakes his head and gives me a quick kiss on the temple. “Nah. I have people stay here all the time. I invited you as my guest, so it would only be right.”

  “Right.” I try to draw away but he won’t let me.

  Instead his lips slowly curl into a smile. “I like that you’re jealous.”

  “Jealousy is not an admirable trait,” I mutter, face flaming.

  “Don’t care.” He rocks me ever so slightly. “Means you consider me yours.”

  He sounds way too smug. I give his side a poke, and he skitters away, giggling— which is way too cute—then cuddles me again.

  “I might have had guests. But no one has ever stayed in my room, baby doll.”

  “Ever?” The question comes more like a snort.

  That annoying smile of his grows. “If I hook up with someone, I take them to a hotel. Learned that lesson when pictures of my old apartment ended up on the Internet, and personal effects had a nasty habit of walking away without my permission.”

  “God, that’s sleazy.” I kiss his chest again. “I’m sorry they did that to you.”

  His fingers continue their massage along the back of my skull. “It should have been expected. They just wanted a piece of the fame or a souvenir. Like bragging rights.”

  He says it so matter-of-factly—as if it’s no big deal to be treated like a thing instead of a person. He might not mind, but my stomach sours at the thought. But was I any better? Back home, I have a Univox Hi-Flier that was played and then subsequently smashed by Kurt Cobain; it’s framed in a glass case in my upstairs office. Dad got it from some friend or another way back in 1989 before Cobain was a legend. A smashed and useless guitar, cherished because a rock idol played it.

  I’d wanted to give it to Killian as a gift. But now I’m not so sure.

  “So no,” Killian goes on, unaware of my inner turmoil. “Only friends and fellow musicians get to stay here.” He pauses. “And girlfriends. They get the full experience.”

  Warm to the core, I smile against his skin. “But you just said no one has stayed in your bed.”

  “No one has,” he answers easily before his voice goes soft. “Until you.”

  Funny how some confessions can stop your heart and steal your breath, send everything spiraling. I close my eyes and hold him. He’s never had a girlfriend? I wouldn’t care if he had. Only here and now matter. But the idea that he’s never let anyone else in sends the weight of responsibility settling heavy on my heart. I need to tread carefully here, keep him well and somehow find my place in this new world of his.

  Killian slowly lets me go but holds my hand. His expression is tender, his eyes tired. “Let’s go to bed.” A quick smile. “I love saying that to you.”

  He’s going to kill me. They’ll find me lying on the floor, my heart burst wide open, too full of him to stay in my chest.

  He guides me past a living area, a media room, and up a glass-and-steel staircase. We pass two more bedrooms and a reading nook, back-lit by another arched stained-glass window. His room is white, one wall taken up by a massive round stained-glass window. A king-size ebony wood canopy bed on a crimson rug dominates the space, though there’s a sitting area with a black leather loveseat and a modern gas fireplace off to the side.

  At his bedside, he helps me out of my dress with touches so tender, I’m in danger of bawling. My parents took care of me, of course. But this is different. I had boyfriends in high school, one in college. I’ve never felt cared for, as if I could do anything, say anything, and it wouldn’t matter. I could fall apart, and Killian would be here to pick up the pieces and put me back together.

  He kisses me on the shoulder and pulls back the cover so I can get into his luxurious bed. A second later, his jeans are off, and he’s climbing in with me. The covers are cool and crisp, his pillows a cloud of perfection.

  I smile wide. “You did buy my pillows.”

  He gathers me against him, warm skin to warm skin. Heaven. “Told you I was in love.”

  He says it lightly, but his dark eyes hold mine.

  Everything feels both fragile and so much stronger now. I touch his cheek, trace a line along the shell of his ear before leaning in to kiss him. His hands cup my jaw and he kisses me back, lips tender, tongue delving in, tasting me as if I’m delicious.

  The bed creaks as he rolls me over, settling between my spread thighs. The heat of his hardening cock presses against my belly. My hands explore the crests of his shoulders, the taut curves of his arms, and back up to his neck where his skin is baby-smooth and sensitive.

  With a satisfied hum, he rocks his hips, that heavy cock sliding over my growing wetness. He kisses my top lip, the bottom one, angles his head and dips in for another taste. It’s slow, drugging. I melt into the bed, my touches weak but hungry.

  His scent. His skin. The powerful grace of his body. I need it all.

  Killian is a magician. Somehow he’s conjured a condom. Or maybe he had it all along. My mind is too hazy to remember. He leans to the side, exposing his flat abs and thick cock.

  I take the condom from his hand and roll it over his length. I go slow because the weight of his meaty cock in my hand is too good to ignore. He grunts as
I squeeze him, give a little tug. And then he’s settling back over me, his mouth hot on mine. Our kiss loses finesse.

  “Libby,” he whispers. And when he slowly sinks into me, that perfect intrusion of hot flesh, his eyes meet mine. “This is just the beginning,” he says.

  And I know he isn’t talking about sex. He means our life.

  My voice is breathless, tight with excitement. “I can’t wait.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Libby

  I ride to Whip’s apartment with Killian. Michael drives as usual, and I learn that he’s worked for Killian for five years. Today’s car is a sleek silver Mercedes sedan with a cream leather interior that’s butter soft beneath my roving palm. A palm that’s damp. I’d rather the car turn around, but I have to face the rest of Kill John sooner or later.

  “Why the limo yesterday?” I ask because I can’t listen to my running thoughts any more.

  Killian catches my hand and holds it in an easy clasp. If he feels how clammy I am, he’s nice enough not to mention it. “It was your first time in New York, and you were having a Pretty Woman moment. That definitely calls for a limo.”

  “It would be smart not to mention Pretty Woman in that context,” I tell him dryly.

  His cheeks flush. “Shit. Right. You are a powerful, modern woman. If anything, I should be the prostitute here—”

  “Not helping.”

  “Right. Right. No payment for sex of any kind.” He lifts my hand and kisses my knuckles. “But lots of sex is still on the table. Hot, dirty, sweaty—”

  I grab the back of his neck and haul him down to silence him with my mouth. He likes that, and practically climbs on top of me as he kisses me back.

  Making out like teenagers in the backseat, this is what he does to me. We’re both breathless when we pull apart. “If we keep this up,” he murmurs, “I’m going to ask Michael to circle the block.”

  “No,” I squeak out in horror. “He’d totally know what we were doing!”