Every touch feels multiplied in intensity. My breath’s suddenly hitching. His voice in my ear says, “Are you planning my murder behind those eyelids?”
I open them. “No,” I gasp. “I don’t hate you anymore, I—”
“Then look into my eyes.” His eyes keep holding mine as he lays me on the bed, my hair falling behind me. He flicks open the button of my jeans.
Our gazes remain locked.
My fingers anxiously work at his pants. What starts out slow begins moving faster. I hear the rasp of our zippers. The pound of my heart. Our breaths. My soft gasp when he shoves his long fingers into my panties and cups my sex. His groan when I shove my hand into his briefs and curl my fingers around his erection. I stroke him lightly, finding the tip already wet.
For me.
When he hands me over a condom, I stroke him lovingly while I roll it on his length. He sinks his free hand into my hair and secures the back of my head as he takes my lips with his, roughly, deeply, his tongue darting into my mouth as his finger enters me. A gasp leaves me. His mouth is not apologetic. It never is.
I squeeze his cock and rub the heel of my palm against his balls, wrapping my tongue around his. “Fuck me. Fuck me hard,” I whisper.
And as he lifts me up and centers me on the bed, I curl my legs around his body, and then he pins my hands at my sides, lacing his fingers through mine.
“I said don’t stop looking at me,” he commands.
So I don’t.
♥ ♥ ♥
I WAKE UP to feel him stroking my hair, and for a moment I’m too groggy to wonder what alternate reality this is. A reality where I get to feel a man’s arms holding me close, like he desperately wants me there. His hands in my hair like he’s obsessed with the feel of it. Maybe he wants to send an e-mail to the makers of my shampoo, commending them for leaving my hair with such a pleasant smell. Such silkiness.
I wake up feeling . . . the opposite of angry.
“Hey.” He brushes his lips to mine, then catches my eyes open and he’s smiling. He wiggles his brows to the cart of food in the living room. “Hungry?”
“Whaaa—? Where did that come from?”
“A button I found on this thing here called a phone. It read, Room Service.”
“I didn’t hear them knock.”
“You slept like a log, and I was only too happy to be the one opening the door. I didn’t want anyone getting an eyeful of that tush.”
I look down at my nakedness.
And I gasp when I see my pussy.
“What happ— What the—?”
“You asked me to shave your sweet little pussy.” He grins. “I could never deny you. You look edible, Pink. Now, you’re really pink . . . all over.”
“Ohmigod, give me something to cover up. I feel so bare. I can’t believe what you do to my whoremones. I thought I’d dreamed it, you idiot!”
He tosses me my panties from the floor. “That sweet little pussy’s extra red today because of how long I kissed it for.” He grins as I slip into my panties. When he tosses me his T-shirt, I slide it on.
“At least it wasn’t something permanent, like a tattoo,” I say.
“You were ready for one that said, ‘Kenna Kums on my Kunt.’ ”
“Pfft, you’re such a boy.” I dive into the cereal as he pours us both a coffee and grabs his guitar, strumming a little tune and writing down words. I watch him.
“I feel funny. Down there. Please don’t shave anything else on me, okay?” I warn direly, adding sliced bananas to my cereal bowl.
He lifts his hand in mock innocence. “Babe, you begged me to. I liked your landing strip just fine. But you were being adventurous. Those drinks you had really got to your head. You kept telling me how much I bring out your adventurous side. Asking me how it’d feel to have me tongue you while every part of you was smooth and silky wet.”
I groan, remembering in a haze what we did. How delicious it was. And fun. I remember laughing, squirming as he went. Easy, now, I don’t want to cut you, part your legs and stay still . . .
Okay . . .
Panting. Panting and fighting the urge not to squirm.
Look down and watch me, let it get you wet. The second I soap this up and clean you up, my tongue’s coming next . . .
“You’re a dangerous man, Wolf,” I chide, smiling when he just shoots me a smile and continues writing down some sort of song.
I love this. I love this moment so much. I feel comfortable, relaxed, the atmosphere full of fun memories of last night and naughtiness and lots of this man, playing with me like he plays with his guitar.
“Mackenna,” I whisper.
He lifts his head.
It’s in this moment, me watching him work, wearing his T-shirt, I feel that we’re as intimate as we’ve ever been in our lives. It’s the kind of intimacy I’ve never felt. Only with him. So long ago, that too feels like a dream all the time. “I had a good time last night,” I finally admit.
His smile comes in a flash, and it is so adorable, he could be seventeen again. Seventeen and in love with me. Ready to take me away.
“Me too. Just like old times.”
♥ ♥ ♥
THE NEW ORLEANS concert is incredible. Huge crowds, excellent sound, excellent performance. That night, rather than party with the band, Kenna and I go our own separate way onto Frenchmen Street. A thousand smells hit me as we walk down the crowded sidewalks. Bars line up, side by side. People are scattered throughout, drinking, making out, singing. The scent of sea salt, crawfish, beer, and sweat mingle to create a very distinct aroma. “Smells like sin,” Mackenna tells me with a grin.
I think I manage to do the impossible—groan and smile at the same time. “You think about sex all the time.”
He links his fingers with mine and tugs me toward one of the bars. “Want to bar hop?”
I think I’m smiling. Really and truly smiling. Like, ear-to-ear kind of smiling. I feel bubbles in my chest, the kind I haven’t felt in a while.
Happiness.
“Yes!”
“All right, Pink. So take your pick. There’s a jazz bar, a rock bar—”
“I’ve got a rockstar right here, so let’s do the rock bar,” I say.
We step into a different world. Rock music from the ’80s blaring. Guitars on the wall. Images of rock gods everywhere.
But we don’t last two minutes. Even with his aviators, people start doing double takes, and within forty-eight seconds, one screams, “It’s Mackenna Jones from Crack Bikini!”
He groans in my ear but keeps it together and straightens, lifting up his palms to ward them off. “All right, I’m trying to chill out with my girl, guys.”
“Don’t pay attention to him, I’m not his girl. But we are trying to chill out,” I say.
“Sing something for us!” one shouts.
“Not tonight. I’m resting my vocal cords.”
“Sing something!”
A chorus begins as a group gathers around us. “Sing! Sing! Sing! SING!”
He rolls his eyes, laughing at them as he slides out of the booth. He shakes his head and placates them with his hands. “All right, all right. But if I go up there and sing, you leave me to cuddle up to Pandora over here.”
When he jerks his chin in my direction, several dozen eyes stare at me and I mumble, “Thanks, asshole.”
He laughs and leans over to whisper near my ear, “This is so they know how important you are to me.”
“Important enough to dump after a fuck.”
His smile doesn’t falter as he meets my gaze. “Important enough that I write most of my songs about her.”
He pushes through the crowd. He’s taller than most people here. His skull looks so deliciously round today, and I sit in the booth and watch him take the stage. His magnetism takes over every room we’re in. I swear, he was completely deluding himself thinking he wouldn’t be recognized. And so was I.
But the people’s faces? Their expressions? They look beyond thrilled—like this is the best day of their lives. How must it feel for him to have this effect on others? How must it feel to sing a song and make a difference in someone’s life? To make them feel less lonely, feel . . . understood.
He taps the mic and laughs. “Testing, testing,” he says. People roar, and the clown laughs again. He loves it, and despite myself, I’m grinning. God, he’s completely beyond repair, isn’t he?
He starts a song. Not one from Crack Bikini, one I’ve heard on the radio from Secondhand Serenade.
“You really Pandora?” A guy slides next to me and sets a drink before me, nodding to it. “On me.”
“Nah, thanks, I’m good.”
“Really. I’d like to buy you a drink.” He’s looking at me like he might have slipped something into the drink. You can never be too paranoid.
“I’m with him.” I jab my thumb in the direction of Mackenna.
“Yeah, I heard. But you’re not really with him, are you? Are you really Pandora?”
“Damn right she is.”
Mackenna has completely dropped the song and headed over. He’s looming over me and the guy. He plants a threatening hand on the table, then leans forward. “You’re sitting in my spot, at my table, next to my girl, so as you can imagine, I have a bit of a problem with that.”