Savage: A Rockstar Romance (The Rock Legend Series Book 1)

by L. V. Lewis

  He tips my chin up, raising my head until my eyes meet his. “You should never be afraid to ask your lover for what you want.”

  “Some men are strange. They want The Madonna as their woman, and Mary Magdalene as their mistress.”

  He shakes his head in disbelief. “Is that what Connor wanted?”

  I nod, suddenly shy about actually having this conversation, but Brody doesn’t let me hide for long. He maneuvers until he’s looking into my eyes again, and holds me there.

  His eyes soften and his voice is barely a whisper, “You’re a Catholic girl, aren’t you?”

  I close my eyes as his breath tickles my face. “Yes.”

  He frowns. “That type of guilt will eat you alive. Let that shit go, baby.”

  I laugh sarcastically. “Easier said than done. It’s not an ability most of us are born with. Or after the priest makes that cross on your head as an infant.” I frown.

  He rolls his eyes. “I’ll bet your mother sent you to a Catholic school when you were young, didn’t she?

  “Yep, and when my career started booming and I couldn’t attend, she hired a no-nonsense nun to homeschool me.”

  His eyes light up. “We have religious backgrounds in common—my grandparents did the same thing to me through a protestant church—unfortunately. And, to make matters worse—my dad taught me how to play guitar the same way he was taught by my grandfather—in church. My grandparents only wanted me to use my…” He makes air quotes, “‘Gift’ in the church.”

  My eyes widen in shock. “And you rebelled against that.” A statement more than question.

  “Yep. A few of us from the neighborhood formed an underground rock band. We practiced in the basements of my friends whose parents didn’t have a fundamental problem with rock-and-roll.”

  I place my hand on his shoulder to comfort him. “So, how did your grandparents find out that you were a rocker?” I’m fascinated by his story and want to know more.

  His features darken like they do when he shares any reference to his past. When I think about what he went through as a child, it makes me sad that he had to go through so much as a child—but not sad enough not to be curious.

  He takes a deep breath and continues. “Every year, our high school had a battle-of-the-bands contest where an amateur band is chosen to perform at prom that year. My friends and I were cocky little shits, even as sophomores, so we knew we could take any other band for the title.”

  My eyes become transfixed on his face, as he recounts the story.

  “We competed against these six other bands and won. Part of the winning prize was to have our band, our names, and a group photo splashed across all the local papers, television shows, and radio stations.”

  “Is that how your grandfather found out?” I say with a sigh.

  Brody nods and sits up on the bed, bringing me with him. He holds me in the crook of his arm. “Yeah. My grandfather was furious. He bullied me for a solid hour, trying to get me to quit the band. ‘Come before the church,’ he said. ‘Confess your sins.’ Tell the congregation how you were tempted, but you resisted, and now you have no intentions of playing the devil’s music at that dance.’”

  I roar with laughter. “The devil’s music!”

  He laughs lightly. “You have to understand, my grandparents were part of an uber-conservative denomination. Everything normal teenagers did was ‘of the devil.’ According to my grandfather, the prom was a prime opportunity for young people to sin under the guise of socialization. ‘That dancing you do,’ he would say, ‘is pure fornication with clothes on.’”

  He laughs again, but my throat feels like it’s about to close.

  I thought I’d been served up a healthy dose of Catholic guilt at a young age, but he’d been choked on it by the Protestant variety. I swallow hard, trying to prevent the tears welling up in the corner of my eyes from cascading like a waterfall.

  “After he finished his tirade, I went to my room, packed a bag, grabbed my guitar, and left. My bandmates were great. The ones whose parents were cool with us playing allowed me to couch surf, stay in their guest rooms, or camp out on the floor in their homes until my grandparents reported me missing to social services. But I refused to go home with my grandparents, I took my savings from working at a burger joint that summer and bought a bus ticket to LA.”

  I clear my throat in an attempt to speak without giving my emotions away. “H-how did you survive?”

  “At first, I had enough money to stay at the YMCA. When that ran out, I slept in parks, abandoned buildings, and in cars left open by their owners… basically anywhere I could. I got a job at a restaurant shortly after my money ran out and began to frequent live music bars on the Sunset Strip. Once I played for them, if they had an opening, they’d allow me to play regional gigs with them.”

  He continues, “A couple of years later, a few of my bandmates joined me on the road. We quickly made a name for ourselves at the local clubs, and, one night at a Seattle club, a music producer heard us. And, voila, within six months and a few days shy of my eighteenth birthday, we had a contract, a following, and the rest, as they say, is history.”

  I smile warmly at him. “Wow! So, what happened to bring all of that crashing down?”

  His blue eyes become shiny with tears, causing them to have a photoshopped 3D effect. He kisses me then, and I taste the salt of both our tears. I realize the kiss is his way of deflecting, because he isn’t ready to answer my question.

  I realize, sexual attraction aside, I could fall for this guy. Maybe I’m a quarter of the way there already, and not because he’s hot and exceptionally good in bed, but because of everything he is above and beyond that. He’s also kind, sensitive, has a passion for music—which he’s currently quashing for some yet-to-be-divulged reason—and he isn’t intimidate by my mother. I find that one reason alone to be chief among my reasons to elevate him from P.A. and current crush—in my mother’s eyes—to significant other.

  But, I’m getting ahead of myself.

  I mean, it’s not like he’s given me any indication he’s looking for anything lasting. Plus, how crazy is it that I’ve just plunged myself head-first into a casual sexual relationship with my employee? Yikes! What the hell have I done?

  SEVEN

  BRODY

  DAY NINE

  Today has been a very busy day. It’s the day before we fly out to London, and our trusty team has managed to complete all of the tasks required. As a result, Sky has dismissed us all early. In an effort to be discreet, I leave when everyone else does, but return half an hour later as planned.

  Before I can utter a word, Sky pulls me through the door by the bottom edge of my t-shirt and kisses me. Her soft hands roam my scalp as my hands cup her firm, round ass. I certainly appreciate her discipline when it comes to exercise and dancing. It has done wonders for her muscle tone.

  “Mmm… I’ve missed your lips,” she moans. “It was all I could do not to kiss you while everyone else was around.”

  I try desperately to keep myself in check, but Sky is making it hard. She has an uncanny way of making me feel like a little boy in grade school with his first crush on a girl. The sex between us is great—good enough to make me want to whisper sweet and dirty things to her all the time. But acknowledging my true feelings by putting sweet words to my thoughts could prove dangerous.

  I lick my lips. “Is this the appetizer before dinner?” I say, and kiss her, opting for a rather innocent response, stopping myself from giving her any ideas that I can’t back up with action. Honestly, I really do care for her but romancing her right now wouldn’t do either of us any good because we are going to have to part once the tour is over. We both know it.

  She drags her lips away from mine with a bit of reluctance, allowing me to end the waging of an internal war with myself over how to proceed without becoming uncontrollably horny.

  “Actually, Della has that covered. We have about fifteen minutes before dinner is served, then we’ll have
the house to ourselves again.”

  She takes my hand, and we move into the kitchen, where my senses are assaulted by some of the best home cooking I’ve ever smelled. My stomach rumbles.

  “Hi Brody.” Della smiles, flashing sparkling white teeth. She perks up like she didn’t just see me thirty minutes ago.

  “Hi Della,” I say with a grin.

  She averts her eyes. I think this old woman may actually have a slight crush on me. “I’ll set the table in a few minutes,” she says to Sky, then busies herself by putting the final touches on dinner.

  “Why don’t we set the table?” I thoughtfully suggest.

  Sky is all for it, and we get everything together in half the time it would’ve taken Della. By the time we’re done, Della’s ready to bring out the first of many delectable dishes. I sit at the table and have a chilled San Pellegrino while Sky sips white wine.

  Della doesn’t leave immediately this time—even though she has finished serving us. “Sky, I’ll get everything cleaned up before I leave tonight. Don’t forget, I’ll be leaving for Seaside tomorrow.”

  Della’s family lives in that quaint California town, and now that Sky is going away on tour for six weeks, she’s going for an extended visit with her family.

  “Thanks, Della,” Sky says. She stands to give the woman, who I guess has been more like a real mother to her than her own, a long hug. Sky tears up. “I’m really going to miss you, Della…and your cooking while I’m on the road.”

  Della laughs heartily. “Oh darling, I’m gonna miss you too.

  Feeling a little awkward, I interject, “Let us help you.” Sky gets up and starts toward the kitchen.

  Della shoos us away with a sound of impatience. “Oh hush you two, you’ll just get underfoot in my kitchen. Now go on Sky, finish entertaining Mr. Kent.”

  She hugs Della again, and I can’t help but think that regardless of how many times I ask her to call me “Brody,” she’s old school and will only address me as Mr. Kent. Gotta love Della. She winks at me, and I wonder if she knows what we’re about to be up to before we leave for London, or if she’s simply rooting for Sky and me to make it as a real-life couple. Either way, it makes me a bit uncomfortable.

  “Okay,” Sky says.

  We leave Della to her tasks and nonchalantly wander to the stairs. Before venturing upstairs, Sky turns to me with that mischievous grin I love and says, “Winner’s choice for whoever gets to the top first.” She then takes off in a mad dash to the top.

  I’m baffled for a few seconds, but quickly spring into action, running after her. My legs are longer, and I could’ve overtaken her at any moment, but I let her win. She laughs when she reaches the landing just one step before me.

  We’re both winded, but not too much to kiss and laugh at ourselves through labored breaths.

  “What did I lose?” I ask with a fake pout.

  She giggles. “Oh I don’t know, just the right to decide what we’re going to do once we get to my bedroom.” She backs up toward the bedroom and I follow, loosely embracing her, our legs entangled and our lips engaged in an intense tango all the way to the door.

  Once inside, we quickly shed our clothing, but slow down once we’re in our underwear. I hoist her up around my waist, and carry her to the bed, where I unceremoniously drop her onto it.

  Fuck! She is so gorgeous lying there, dark hair cascading onto the duvet.

  “So, what’s the winner’s choice?” I tease as I slowly slide her lacy panties down, inch-by-inch. As I reach her ankles, she responds, breathily and hot.

  She licks her lip and my manhood grows. “Oral,” she says.

  I oblige by leaning down, and taking the edge of her panties in my mouth. I rip them off, and they quickly fall to her feet. In the same motion, I spread her legs apart. The glistening perfection before me is the best dessert ever.

  I softly kiss her lower abdomen. “You want me to fuck you with my mouth?”

  Before she can answer, I take my hands and open her silky thighs. I hold them open while I drag my tongue from back-to-front landing on her swollen clit, where I circle it with my tongue. She is so wet, which makes me hungrier. I suck her plump little button, as if I haven’t eaten in days—months—ever. She tastes so good I can barely restrain myself. I feel as hard as a rock. Can she feel it? I hope so.

  She gasps, then whimpers, grasping my hair and yanking it hard. She holds my head like she’s afraid I’ll let go—before she comes. “Brody…” she murmurs, exhaling.

  She tugs my hair, breathes my name, and galvanizes me while I lap her up like her sex is a delicacy. When I dive deep into her warm water ocean, she yanks my hair again, hard. “Oh… that feels good…”

  The raspy tone of her voice makes me feel weak, wild, and uncontrollable. She tugs on my hair and I literally feel it in my balls. I like it rough, too, and I’m glad Sky gets that with no urging from me.

  I tease her slick, wet flesh with a finger, while nibbling at her clit with my lips. I circle her clit with the stiff tip of my tongue again, and she shatters into a million pieces. Her body trembles and shakes, as if I’m detonating a bomb—inside her.

  I lick my lips, tasting her sweet nectar. She yells out my name in a staccato fashion as she simultaneous draws me closer and pushes me away. Orgasms will do that to you sometimes—make you want more even though you know you can’t handle it. A knot of lust begging for release has formed in my stomach, causing my cock to throb and my balls to ache. There’s nothing more I want than to be deep inside of Sky—right now.

  Her beauty is enhanced as she comes down from her orgasmic high. She grins at me as I hover over her, then she scrambles to her knees as I reach for her, bringing her up to face me. We kneel on the bed, sharing a passionate kiss that mingles vestiges of her essence between us. I gasp and look down as she frees my rock hard cock from the constraints of my underwear.

  Her soft hand grips the base and squeezes, causing me to hiss my surprise at her aggressiveness. She deliberately slides her palm up and down my shaft, all the while watching, enraptured. She licks her gorgeous lips, and I almost come on the spot. Finally, she flickers her tongue in-and-out, and licks the slit, closing her soft, plump lips around its bulbous head. I am about to explode.

  Jerking involuntarily from contact, I bury my fingers in her long raven hair. She draws me deeper into her hot mouth. Once she gets going—it quickly goes downhill. One minute, I can’t think straight, it’s so damn good, and the next I’m wondering what the hell is going on.

  She fumbles a couple of times, and asks me every second or two how it feels—that’s when it dawns on me that she has severe performance anxiety. What the fuck?

  I stop her mid-blow to get to the bottom of this—cock throbbing for release, blue balls and all.

  God help me.

  “Why do you feel compelled to continuously ask if I like it?” I gently inquire.

  She lowers her head. “It’s just that… I’m afraid I’m doing it all wrong. I guess I’m scared you are going to think I’m horrible at fellatio, but refrain from telling me because you’re afraid you’ll hurt my fragile feelings. Silly, I know. I just don’t want you to be at a party or something without me, and a groupie or two offers to blow you… and, you’re like, ‘Sure, why not?’ Because your fuckbuddy-slash-boss sucks at giving head.” She winces after her spontaneous outburst, and then takes a deep breath. I try to stifle my laughter, but it doesn’t work. I laugh and she looks at me with hurt, puppy dog eyes. She’s so damn cute.

  I guess I should’ve told her so to reassure her, but before I can open my mouth to do so, Sky leaps off the bed, and runs into the bathroom in tears. She slams the bathroom door so hard, the picture on the wall shifts positions.

  Fuck!

  I should have taken her fears more seriously, now I guess she’s hurt and probably super pissed at me. I jump off the bed and walk up to the bathroom door and knock.

  “Don’t come in here, Brody,” she yells.

  I crack
open the door and find her curled up by the toilet. She’s crying profusely and her hair is a mess. Not sure what to do, I back out of the room, and gently close the door. I wait for her to come out for twenty minutes or so, but she doesn’t emerge, so I get dressed to leave. I’m almost to my car, when I change my mind. Leaving things like this will probably make it as awkward as fuck on the plane tomorrow. Not good.

  I walk back into the house and enter her bedroom. I knock on the bathroom door again and listen for her voice. There is no answer so I try to open it but it’s locked. I find something to jimmy the lock and go in anyway. I tell myself, Fuck, she’ll just have to fire me if I’m out of line.

  She’s in the shower so I pull back the curtain and find her huddled in the corner, still crying. I jump in the shower—clothes and all, crouch down and put my arms around her.

  She looks at me with red-rimmed eyes and smudged eyeliner. I help her up and dry her off with a nearby towel. I then lead her back to the bedroom. I hold her close until her tears abate, and we sit together on her bed and she tells me about country Connor Weatherby, her ex-boyfriend. I guess I should’ve Googled his ass after her mother mentioned him, but I didn’t think it was my place since I hadn’t told her everything about my tainted past.

  Unsure what else to do, I lay her on the bed and hold her close. We’re getting her bedding as wet as fuck, but she needs me, and I need to know what the hell is going on.

  Once she calms down a little, I ask her, “What did that bastard do to you?”

  She shakes her head, as if the memory is too painful to bear. “He was caught on tape having sex in a pool with two groupies,” she cries. “And when I confronted him about it, he said I could really blow on stage, but in bed, I couldn’t blow my way out of a paper bag. He was so cruel.” She put her head in her hands, and wails, thoroughly dejected even at the memory of her ex’s harsh words.

  Man! If I wasn’t so mad at that stupid fucker for undermining her confidence in that way, I’d laugh at how cliché it all sounds. I bristle at the thought of how he’d decimated her self-esteem.