You can’t control crazy so I don’t even try to.
But then there’s Quinlan and shit if she hasn’t gotten to me somehow, broken through the ludicrous bet I made with Vince that I could get her to sleep with me, because now that’s all I want her to do.
Well, obviously I want more than that because I’m blowing off the guys, ignoring the random texts Hunter’s sending my way that are escalating in pissiness, and watching her put makeup on while I kick back on her bed in and out of an oversexed fog. For the first time in forever I’m not thinking about figuring out the next lyric, the next chord, the next number one hit, losing my mother, jail, anything, because Quin’s successfully pulled me into her nice little bubble and held me here willingly.
Shit, she can let Trixie out and hold me here with restraints for a while if she really wants to. And that’s saying a whole helluva lot.
Living the dream, man.
I chuckle, ruining the silence I’m enjoying, which causes her to turn around on the little stool she’s sitting on and angle her head as she meets my eyes. Fuck. My gaze flickers down to where her darkened nipples peak through the yellow tank top, the hickey I gave her last night visible above the fabric. Her tan legs make me want to spread them so my hands can run up their length to her pussy as the prize at the end of their journey. She parts those thighs some and I groan softly at the knowledge of just what it feels like to be nestled between them.
“You know you don’t need any makeup. You’re gorgeous without it.”
She laughs when most others would be flattered by the comment. I must be losing my touch, here.
“Thanks but you’re full of shit.” She rises from her chair, eyeliner in one hand as she walks toward the bed. “A man will say or do anything when he thinks he might get laid.”
“Is that what I’m doing? Trying to get laid here?” I feign innocence as my dick tents unmistakably against the denim of my half-buttoned-up jeans.
“Mm-hmm,” she says, mischief in her eyes and desire reflected in the way she works her bottom lip between her teeth so that one side of her mouth quirks up in a suggestive smirk.
“Anything, huh?”
“Anything,” she says as she crawls onto the bed and sits cross-legged in front of me. Her perfume—clean and not overpowering—fills my nose and makes me recall how she must put it between her cleavage because when my mouth was sliding over her perfect tits that’s when I smelled it the strongest.
My eyes wander down her body, to the panties that are hiding everything I want and over and up her tits to her eyes. “I can think of a few anythings that I assure you I wouldn’t do for sex.”
“That so?” she asks, eyebrows raised, playful smile on her lips. “What about for ice cream?”
I chuckle softly. “Now, that? I’ll do anything for,” I tease in return. “A man’s got to have his vices after all,” I tell her, pursing my lips to fight my own smirk when I see the challenge in her eyes.
“Hm …?” She angles her head, tapping her eyeliner pencil on her knee. “I do seem to have some ice cream in the freezer…. I wonder just what you’d do for it.” She taunts me, with both her words and her body.
“Oh, sweetness, are you trying to tempt me?” Thoughts in my head turn to getting a double fill of both of the things I’m dying to have right now: ice cream and Quinlan. Talk about her being the cookies to my cream. Damn.
She leans forward and studies my face, suddenly making me self-conscious when I never care what others think. “I think you would have been great in an eighties hair band.”
My loud laughter echoes around the room as I try to decipher what in the hell she’s thinking about that made her say that. “Come again?” I ask, confused how we went from sex to ice cream to old eighties rock bands. None of these things are connected—well, maybe later I’ll connect the first two if I get lucky—so what is she getting at?
Her eyes continue to scrutinize me, her nose scrunching up in an adorable way as she concentrates. “I used to love hair bands. Bon Jovi, Van Halen, Def Leppard, White-snake …”
As if I don’t know my hair bands. Did she forget what I do for a living? “Yes …?” I finally say. She’s lost me but as long as I can sit here staring at her nipples through her tank top then I’m good.
“Well, I’m wondering what you’d look like with big hair and guyliner, shirts with the sides cut out of them, and skintight pants.”
I can’t stop the smile that blankets my lips right now because I’m clueless but this is pretty damn funny. “What? Just when I was thinking how you’re the first noncrazy girl I’ve been with in some time, there you go and prove how certifiable you are.”
She takes the dig in jest, how I intended it, and smiles so the action lights up her entire face. “Rocker boy,” she says, scooting in closer, and there’s something about when she calls me that term that makes me smile, makes me feel special to her when I’ve done nothing to deserve it, that I love. “Humor me.” She holds up her eyeliner pencil and raises her eyebrows.
“No way,” I laugh, batting her hands away playfully.
“You did say anything….” She lets the word trail off, desperately trying to hide the victorious smile from spreading on her lips when I realize she just backdoored me into doing this.
Fuck if that’s the kind of backdoor entry I prefer.
“So I let you put guyliner on me and then I get ice cream?” I quip, leaning back on the pillows behind me as I adjust my dick that’s at a constant state of semi-arousal with her around. She nods her head once. “I think I need a little more than that, Trixie,” I challenge back.