Anyone But You

by Jerica MacMillan

  We stare at each other for several long moments, him waiting, me trying to formulate a response. Finally, I clear my throat. “I’ve always known how to say no to you, Mason. If I wanted to be in my room, I would be.”

  The tension leaks out of his body by degrees as the full meaning of my words sinks in. One corner of his mouth lifts in a sexy smirk, and he takes two more steps closer, his hand going to my waist. “Yeah? So what’s with the nerves and acting like you don’t know what I want?” Before I can answer, he dips his head and his lips connect with mine.

  He makes no move to deepen the kiss, and neither do I. My hand lands on his arm, and the warm contact of his lips on mine grounds me. Settles me. The fluttery feeling in my belly changing from sick, drunken butterflies to fizzy excitement.

  When he lifts his head, he gives me a soft smile. “There. That’s better.”

  I nod in agreement, at a loss for words. His free hand cups my jaw, tipping my chin up, and his lips meet mine again. But this time, his tongue slips into my mouth right away, and the hand at my waist goes to my back, pulling me closer for his hungry kiss.

  Clinging to his shoulders, I do my best to keep up with his dizzying pace, content to let him lead. I still have questions that he hasn’t answered, but they seem unimportant now.

  Far less important than the way his tongue curls around mine, the way his hand tilts my hips toward his, the way his chest feels pressed against me.

  A loud knock sounds on the door, and he groans before slowly separating himself from me. “It’s room service,” he whispers after ending the kiss but before letting go of my body.

  “I know,” I answer with a smile.

  He groans again and presses one more hard kiss to my lips before stepping away from me and heading for the door. He stuffs a hand in his pocket and does that funny hitch in his step guys do when they adjust themselves on the go, and it makes me smile.

  A knowing, happy, intrigued smile, because I felt that pressing against me, and the horny part of me really wants to get a closer look at what he’s packing.

  The more cautious part of me thinks I should wait, though. Especially given Mason’s history.

  He’s not known for his longevity in relationships, with nothing having lasted longer than an hour or two at the most since I’ve been with the tour.

  Sure, yes, we’ve spent several evenings in each other’s company now. But what if this is all just some kind of holdover from that first day months ago when he wanted in my pants and I rejected him? A way to get back at me?

  I mean, he did go out of his way to make my life extra difficult on purpose for weeks.

  What if all of this is an elaborate scheme to get what he thinks he’s owed, and he’ll go back to being a jerk as soon as I give it up?

  With those cheerful thoughts swirling in my head, I settle on the couch as the waiter brings in the cart and sets the food on the coffee table in front of me.

  Mason gives me a questioning look over the waiter’s head, and I hitch up the corners of my mouth in what’s meant to be a reassuring smile, but Mason doesn’t seem to buy it.

  But with the waiter still present, he doesn’t say anything to me. After walking the waiter to the door and giving him a tip, he walks slowly back to me, his brow furrowed once again.

  He sits next to me on the couch, ignoring the food in favor of tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingertips trailing along my jaw as he places a soft kiss on my lips. “What’s wrong?” he asks quietly.

  Pulling my chin away from his fingers, I look down, twisting my hands together in my lap. “Nothing, really.”

  He snorts, his disbelief clear. “Bullshit,” he says succinctly, in case I didn’t catch the meaning of his snort.

  Nudging a plate of flash-fried veggies in my direction, he pops one in his mouth and sits back against the couch, clearly waiting for me to give him a real answer.

  With a sigh, I busy myself with picking out a carrot—and oh my god this is delicious—as I try to condense everything in my head into words. Clearly my face is broadcasting my misgivings. Shrugging, I keep my attention on the food in front of me, because I’m a coward. “It’s just … like I said. I don’t know what to expect here. You keep kissing me. Which is great”—I dart a glance in his direction and give him a shy smile—“I really enjoy the kissing.” Another shrug. “But I’ve seen how you operate. So I’m not sure how to calibrate my expectations appropriately given your history and how it meshes—or really doesn’t, actually—with mine.”

  Meeting his eyes directly at last, I gather up my courage and lay bare the heart of the issue. “I’ve never had a one-night stand. And I’m not really interested in my first one being tonight.”

  His solemn dark eyes study me for several long moments, and I force myself to meet his gaze without flinching. Without hiding. I don’t have frank discussions about sex like, ever. Or I haven’t in a really long time, anyway. So this is rather far outside of my comfort zone.

  But we both deserve to be on the same page here. If all he wants is one night, I’m not sure I’m willing to give that to him, no matter how delicious his kisses are.

  He takes a deep breath and opens his mouth, but stops himself. Leaning forward, his elbows propped on his knees, he studies me again, this time at close range. “Look, I know you think I’m the world’s biggest fuckboy, and honestly, I can’t blame you. But that’s not really me. I want …” He hesitates, drawing out the suspense, and then finally, with a smirk tugging at his lips, completes his sentence. “You. I want you. And not just for tonight.”

  Sucking in a breath, I straighten, unconsciously pulling away from him, resisting the magnetic force that seems to draw me in every time he’s around. That keeps my eyes locked on him any time he’s in the room. “So …”

  He reaches for my hand, tugging me closer. “I want to see where this goes,” he whispers, his breath fanning over my face. “I want to see exactly how explosive we can be.”

  Heat shimmers over my entire body at his words, goosebumps rising in its wake, all the energy gathering low in my center. I clench involuntarily, my heart rate picking up and my breath coming faster. “You do?”

  His only answer is to kiss me again, his arm catching me and pulling me against him, on top of him as he reclines back against the arm of the couch. Both hands slide down to my ass, gripping it, using his hold to move me higher, grinding me against the hard ridge of his dick.

  Soon I’m taking over the movement, and he groans into my mouth. With his hands cupping my face, he ends the kiss, and I still. “If this is all you want to do tonight, I can live with that, but Jesus fuck, don’t stop moving.”

  Without waiting for a response, he brings my face back to his, one hand slipping to the nape of my neck, holding me in place for his hungry kiss, the other gripping my ass again, encouraging me to move.

  Holy hell. I already feel like I might combust just from this, and we’re fully clothed, making out like teenagers.

  How am I going to handle it when I get to his skin? When he gets to mine? When he uses that wicked tongue in other places?

  As though he can read my thoughts, his mouth leaves mine, but it doesn’t leave my body. He kisses a trail along my jaw, nips at my earlobe, then continues on down my neck, his tongue dancing in the hollow of my collarbone.

  His hand leaves the back of my neck, sliding down till he cups my breast, his thumb swiping over my hardened nipple again and again.

  “God, I want to taste you everywhere,” he whispers against my skin.

  “Yes, please,” I answer, the words leaving my mouth as soon as they enter my head. No second thoughts. No second guessing.

  He pulls back, looking me in the eye, gauging my sincerity. “Are you sure?”

  Am I sure?

  I take in his perfect, kiss-swollen lips, imagining what else he could do with them.

  “Yes. I’m sure.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Mason

  “Viola,�
� I whisper against the soft skin of her neck, not quite believing my good fortune.

  When we got to my room, I was afraid she might bolt. She had that cagey, wary look on her face like she felt trapped. It disappeared after I kissed her, but then the food arrived, and it came back with a vengeance.

  I’m still not sure I’ve gotten all the way to the bottom of her concerns, but I seem to have alleviated the bulk of them. For now.

  I’ve been around her long enough to realize that she’ll likely have more questions once she’s had time to think and process. And I’m happy to answer them all.

  But right now I’m even happier she said yes.

  Tugging at the hem of her shirt, I raise it slowly, still kissing her jaw, her cheek, her lips, only stopping so I can pull the garment over her head. And now she’s shirtless in my lap, still grinding on me.

  God, I want inside her. But that’ll have to wait. Maybe for another night.

  This—undressing her, tasting her—is a gift. I’m not about to assume anything as a given.

  I slide my hands up and down her sides, tip her back into my hands, and press a kiss just below her collarbone. Her chest swells against my lips as I move lower, kissing my way along the edge of her plain black cotton bra, still sexy even without lace and satin. My tongue dips into her cleavage, getting a hit of salt and skin and her.

  “Mason,” she sighs, squirming in a way that gives just a tease of friction where I want it the most.

  All of this is the most delicious tease. The way she moves against me. The way she lets me undress her in phases, tasting her skin piece by piece. It’s everything I’ve wanted for far too long, and also not enough. Nowhere even close to enough.

  My index finger traces the closure of her bra.

  “Yes,” she says, answering my unspoken question. “Please. Take it off.”

  With a grin stretching across my face, I sit her back up and make quick work of undoing it. She helps pull the straps down and off her arms, dropping her bra on the floor in front of the couch.

  My hands immediately cover her tits, molding the soft flesh with my palms, loving the hard nub of her nipple in the center of each hand. Plumping one in my hand, I circle the rosy tip with my tongue again and again until she presses her chest against my mouth.

  Yes. This is what I want from her—enthusiastic participation. No more of that nervous, wary nonsense. Hopefully that’s long behind us now.

  Spurred on by her encouragement, I suck her nipple into my mouth, scrubbing it against the roof of my mouth with my tongue. She gasps in shock or delight or both.

  Releasing it, I move to the other side to give it the same treatment. God, I just want to lay her out and feast on her.

  And since there’s no reason not to, I set about doing just that. Pulling one leg under me, I shift her back till her butt touches the cushion, then lean her back till she’s lying on the couch, me between her spread thighs.

  “I could get used to this,” I whisper with a cocky grin.

  She lets out a husky chuckle, her hand smoothing the hair out of my face. “Me too.”

  And with that sentiment between us, I dip my head back to her neck, her chest, lying down between her thighs to worship her tits the way they deserve.

  She arches her back, offering herself up for my lips and teeth and tongue, gasping and whimpering and sighing at the varying sensations.

  Making my way down her body, I swirl my tongue around her bellybutton and place a kiss just below it, right above the waistband of her pants. “Can these come off too?” I ask, my fingertips sliding along the soft fabric.

  Raising her head, she bites her lip as she studies me. “It hardly seems fair for me to be naked and you still fully dressed.”

  My cock twitches as I sit up and yank my shirt over my head. “Better?”

  “Mmm.” Her eyes track down my torso, and I fight the urge to flex in a bid to make myself more impressive. I’m not as cut as Marcus or even Danny. I like pizza and liquor too much, much to the dismay of our trainer and nutritionist. And PR team. They’d all like me to have washboard abs. As it is, my belly is flat, and I have definition when I flex, but not so much just relaxed.

  But if the desire in Viola’s eyes is anything to go by, she doesn’t mind a bit.

  When she bites down on her lower lip again, I lean down and kiss her then capture that lip with my own teeth. “God, you taste good,” I whisper against her lips.

  “So do you,” she whispers back.

  Scooting back down between her thighs, I suck on one nipple, making her arch and gasp again, before picking up where I left off. “Since I’m topless now too, does that mean I can take off your pants?”

  She chuckles, a low, husky, sexy sound. “Sure.” She sounds like she doesn’t care much either way, but she’ll be happy she agreed pretty soon. I’ll make sure of it.

  She lifts her hips for me as I tug the stretchy material down, making sure to catch her underwear with it. While I’d love to see her in sexy lingerie, that’ll have to wait for another night. Right now, any scraps of lacy fabric would just be in my way.

  And as slow as I’m moving right now, I can’t handle dragging out the anticipation any longer.

  Once I tug the fabric off her feet and drop it in a puddle next to my shirt, she brings her knees together, her legs bent and off to the side. That plump pink lip is once again caught between her teeth, and her eyes won’t meet mine.

  Sliding a hand up the outside of her smooth thigh, I lean in for another kiss, needing to soothe her nerves—and mine—with touch. She relaxes under me, uncurling herself, letting me settle in the cradle of her thighs once more.

  And as much as I’m dying to move back down, taste her, feel her come on my fingers, I’m loath to leave the sweet heaven of her mouth.

  What is this woman doing to me? I haven’t spent this long on foreplay in forever. Maybe ever in my life. And I’m not even planning on more than some oral and heavy petting. Not with how cagey and wary of me she is. She deserves to be romanced. At least as much as I’m able, though I’m not sure how romantic champagne and liquor in a private room at a club that she organized or sharing room service she ordered in my hotel room after a show really is. Unconventional dates, for sure. But I haven’t been on a conventional date of dinner and a show since my days at Berklee. And since the show usually consisted of our friends performing somewhere, even that was borderline conventional at best.

  Now, though? We’re touring. Going out requires a level of coordination that’s difficult to manage on my own. The kind of coordination I’d usually ask my assistant to help with. But since she’s the one I want to wine and dine, that doesn’t really work.

  So room service in my hotel room is the best I can do right now. Next time, I’ll make it clear that I’ll be in charge of ordering the food. That she’s not expected to organize our dates.

  I slip one hand down her body, sliding it between her thighs. When I make contact with her wet heat, she lets out another little gasp of pleasure, spreading her thighs more and pushing herself into my hand. Even so, I take my sweet time, running my fingers gently up and down, spreading her arousal all around before slipping my middle finger inside.

  It’s my turn to let out a pleasurable moan. After working one finger in and out a few times, I add another, ending the kiss so I can watch her reactions on her face. Her hands open and close on the fabric of the couch, like she needs something to hold onto, but doesn’t know what.

  “That’s it, V,” I whisper. “Let me make you feel good.”

  She responds by clamping down on my fingers with her inner muscles. When I brush my thumb over her clit, she does it again. Smirking, I shift, pushing one of her legs up and back as I move down, making room for my shoulders between her thighs.

  Her eyes open wide, holding my gaze as I dip my head and swirl the tip of my tongue around her clit.

  “Oh!” she says, her mouth perfectly round.

  I do it again.

  This
time her head falls back, her mouth open on an, “Ah!”

  Licking from where my fingers disappear into her body up to her clit, circling around and back down, I gather her salty sweetness on my tongue. She tastes even better than I imagined, the particular flavor of her surrender even better as she abandons herself to the pleasure.

  Never letting up, I take her to the brink and hold her there for just a moment, just long enough to hear her beg, “Oh god, Mason, please please please,” and fighting back a smug grin, I suck her clit into my mouth and lash it with my tongue until she’s convulsing, her thighs shaking and her inner muscles fluttering around my fingers.

  I take my time gently bringing her down, only withdrawing my fingers once she’s gone completely limp. Reaching for my discarded shirt, I use it to wipe my hand and mouth, no longer bothering to hide my smug grin as Viola lays sprawled and boneless on my hotel couch.

  After a moment, she props herself up on her elbows, no longer shy, her eyes fastened on the obvious bulge in my jeans. “What do you plan to do about that?”

  Scooping her legs up, I sit down and bring them over my lap. “Did you have something in mind?”

  She shrugs, her cheeks turning pinker. Maybe she’s still a little shy after all. “I could return the favor.”

  Part of me wants to take her up on the offer—I always appreciate a blow job, after all. But something about having her blow me doesn’t quite sit right with me. I mistook her for a groupie the first time we met. I don’t want to give her any excuse to think I still think of her that way.

  Before I can respond, though, she pulls her legs off my lap and sits up, moving close to me, pressing her tits against my bare arm. She reaches down and undoes the button and zipper on my jeans. Her hand dips inside, stroking me over the fabric of my boxer briefs.

  She presses a kiss to my cheek. “Let me make you feel good,” she whispers.