by Cari Quinn
Jazz stopped walking and he collided with her, letting out a colorful stream of curse words. “Who are you talking to like that?”
Nick ignored her. They were going to screw, not share personal confessions.
Ricki let out a long sigh. Jazz might be shocked by his behavior, but Ricki wasn’t. They’d come out of the womb fighting. “Are you back on that again? I do so support myself. I’m just asking if you could chip in a little to cover the rent for us ’til next month is all. I promise, that’s all we need.”
“Pushing smack isn’t a legal job, just FYI. And no, I can’t ‘chip in’. I live in a freaking basement with two other guys, in case the coke’s finally fried your remaining brain cells and you don’t remember.”
Before she could reply, he depressed the End button and tossed his phone at the closest armchair. He stabbed his fingers into his eyes and waited for the bite of pain to erase the plea echoing in his ears.
The worst part? Despite his big talk, he knew he’d be signing up for extra shifts he didn’t have time for so he could help them out. Again. They never called just because. Of course, neither did he. His days of hoping to bond with his family were dead and buried.
“Who was that?”
He started at Jazz’s soft question. For a second, he’d forgotten she was there. Watching him. She and Gray were alike that way. They could’ve been a pair of owls, unblinkingly observing their environment.
“My sister,” he said finally, dropping into the armchair and glaring at the now flat front of his jeans with disgust. Erection? What erection? Memories of that dank, seedy space he’d called home for way too long would probably act as a non-surgical vasectomy if he focused on them long enough.
“Your sister?” Jazz perched on the arm of his chair and leaned back to play with his hair. He was a little surprised she hadn’t hightailed it out of there yet. And was even more surprised her touch now felt like needles pricking under his skin.
Somehow he managed not to shrug her off. “Even better. My twin.”
“Wow. A twin.” He glanced up at the wistfulness he heard in her voice. It matched the naked want in her eyes—and this time, not for him. “I had a sister once. I always wished I had more siblings, real blood ones. I guess it was better I didn’t have them, considering my situation.”
Without fully being aware of it, he shifted toward her. His insatiable curiosity was a facet of his personality he’d never been good at shutting off. Songwriters were basically emotion funnels. Pain fascinated him, his own or someone else’s. It was the raw material he used to create his lyrics, and lately, his well had been dangerously low. He’d gone numb.
His music had paid the price.
So she’d had a sister once—whatever that meant—and she had trouble in her past. Who didn’t? Still, he was already engaging with her on a different level because of it. He didn’t trust people that were too happy. “What is your situation, Jasmine?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Now I’m suddenly interesting to you?”
The smile came before he could head it off. “I thought it was obvious you were interesting to me outside too.”
“That was different. After a show, you’d probably bone any groupie chick who raised her skirt.”
Deliberately, he let his gaze drop to her skirt, tightly bunched around the tops of her thighs. Her crazy patterned leggings didn’t disguise her curves in the slightest. “Speaking of skirts, I thought you were supposed to lose yours.”
She quirked a brow and lightly trailed one of her nails across the back of his neck. He couldn’t help the shudder that moved though him. “Yep, now I’m back in groupie status. Skirt up, panties down, pussy on your mouth. Isn’t that how it goes?”
Laughing into his fist, he eyed her with new respect. Though she was blushing, she’d gotten the words out and now met his gaze squarely. “Hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but I’m usually not so free with my mouth. For you, though, maybe we can work something out.” He winked and saw her flush deepen in the low light from the single lamp they always left on in the corner. It was practically Simon’s nightlight. He hated turning lights off when he left a room. At least he managed to turn off the stove.
Most of the time.
“I forgot myself for a second. You don’t please the groupies. They’re around to please you.”
Lifting his brows, he gestured to his jeans. “So get to it then.”
Jazz snorted. “Dream on. If there’s no reciprocity going down here, neither am I.”
He smiled. Hell of a thing, actually liking this chick. He’d been so determined to see her as the enemy, and here she was, looking eminently doable and trading barbs with him from that mouth he craved more with each passing moment. “Hard to call you a groupie when you lasted longer on stage tonight than I did.” The words only burned a little. It was the truth, after all. “Where did you learn to play like that?”
Her quick shrug didn’t hide the wariness that crept into her eyes. She drew her hand away from his neck and loosely linked her fingers in her lap. “Better than getting wasted every night.”
“Can’t argue there.” He grinned. “Though some of us manage to do both.” The lie rolled off his tongue as easy as the liquor he tried not to rely on. He’d seen what alcohol and weed and harder drugs could do to people. He had no desire to become another statistic.
So he smoked now and then. He’d quit at least fifty times. That had to count for something.
“You don’t. You didn’t even take a drink tonight. Not one.”
“How do you know?”
Her mouth tipped upward. “I watched you.”
“Right. Of course you did.” Not liking the spider-under-a-microscope sensation he got from her unrelenting gaze, he reached for his belt. “So we gonna do this or not? The guys might be back soon.”
“God, your sense of romance is killer.” Despite her words, she turned her avid attention to the movements of his fingers. “How soon are we talking about?”
“After a show, usually around sunrise. So an hour or so yet. If we’re lucky.”
Biting her lip, she looked around the cramped, messy living room. The place needed to be shoveled out with a damn backhoe. “Don’t you have a bedroom? With a door?”
“I have a bunk. Deak has the other bunk. Simon has the closest thing to an actual bedroom, and trust me, you don’t want to use his bed unless all your vaccinations are up to date.”
Her ripe laughter made his hand falter on his zipper. Christ, she was pretty. Under all the makeup and the hair dye and sexy clothes, she looked so frigging young. Lipstick bitten off her mouth, mascara smudged, shadows heavy both in and beneath her eyes.
Trouble.
She leaned over him, her hair falling forward from its precarious twist, curls tickling his chin as her lips brushed his. Neither of them closed their eyes. He could’ve used a shower after the show, and he should’ve brushed after the cig. But she had to be just as sweaty and tasted faintly of smoke too, though her grape bubblegum flavor masked most of it.
As for how she smelled? Like sex and strawberries, with a chaser of you-freaking-know-better.
Then her tongue stroked over his and he forgot all about being minty fresh. She sure didn’t seem to mind his taste, judging from the steady diet of moans she was feeding into his mouth.
He tangled his hand in her hair and yanked her down into his lap. She let out a giggle as she wound her arms around his neck and sank right back into another kiss, her butt making enthusiastic circles on his cock. His already halfway-to-hard cock, thank you very much.
Flipping up her skirt, he slid his hand between her thighs, encountering her sleek, curve-hugging leggings. He traveled higher, anticipation searing the back of his throat. Bare, wet skin met his fingers, so hot that he growled. “What the fuck?”
“You didn’t ask if I was wearing panties.” She shrugged at his awestruck look. “The Rhino was a steambath tonight.”
“Your skirt ends about an inch be
low your box.”
“Try two. And I don’t have a box. Unless you want to call your dick Jack.” Amusement danced in eyes that too often edged toward dark. “Could be more like a Jill.” She gave his length a testing wiggle. “Hard to tell yet.”
He returned his hand between her legs. His thumb traced circles high on her inner thighs while he met her challenging gaze. “You piss me off, the less inclined I am to be patient with you.”
“Oh, really?” She flicked her tongue in the corner of her mouth and he leaned forward to bite it. With a squeal, she sucked it back inside, but he contented himself with her plump lower lip. He sunk in his teeth and watched her eyes change from taunting to aroused. When he finally released her abused flesh, her tongue came back out to soothe it. “Bring it on.”
He zeroed in on her hot slit. Then he stopped moving entirely. He growled again and rolled his thumb over the twin little ball studs that seemed to cage in her clit. “Shit, what is that?”
She laughed throatily as he flipped up her skirt to examine her for himself. “It’s pierced,” she said, rather unnecessarily at that point since he was staring at the tiny pink—naturally—crystals near her clit with a mixture of wonder and shock. “You’ve never seen a VCH before?” She sounded a little breathless.
Since he felt plenty breathless himself, he could relate.
“I probably have.” He’d seen and touched a lot, though he had a feeling he would’ve remembered that. “It had to hurt like a bitch.”
Her teasing smile prodded his cock to swell even more. “Only the hood’s pierced. Not my clit itself. More like a big pinch.” She grabbed his wrist and pushed his clumsy fingers against her. Those little studs had wrecked his head. “And it feels really good when you rub it. So you know, feel free.”
He had to laugh. She stiffened at his first caress, her fingers curling around his arm to either encourage him or steady his touch. His strokes were jerky and overeager, as if he’d never fingered a pussy before. Plus he couldn’t keep from watching his fingers darting over her folds, playing peekaboo with the piercing. She was so wet already, and he realized right away she preferred a harder touch. Her back arched and she spread her legs, giving him more room to work. More room to see how swollen she was, and the slickness clinging to his skin.
“Good?” he asked, his voice thicker than he’d expected it to be.
She nodded, saying nothing. Biting her lip again.
Leaning forward, he buried his face in the crook between her neck and shoulder, inhaling a deep breath of her shampoo while his fingers slid up and down, circling the studs. Flicking them to see how she would respond. She gasped, thrusting her tits up so that he drew back and clamped down on her nipple through her tank. At the same time he pushed a finger into her, rocking slowly then faster, loving the way she squirmed on his lap. Her eyes were shut now and her lips were wide open, leaving him to imagine standing up and sliding his cock in deep. Right to the back of her throat. Hearing the sexy little noises she’d make as she sucked him off.
His dick pulsed and he swallowed a groan. He added another finger and a twist that always worked, especially when he sank in all the way. She moaned, gyrating her hips, following his movements, bearing down so her wet heat squeezed out against his palm.
“Sorry,” she gasped, still rocking. “I get really wet. It’s the piercing—” To shut her up, he clamped his mouth over hers, drawing her tongue between his lips and sucking hard.
Her strangled sound of pleasure and the way she tightened around his fingers gave him enough time to amp up his game, curving to reach the spot deep inside that made women go mental. Her eyes popped open and she ripped her lips away from him to cry out, her body convulsing as he rubbed his calloused fingertips in a tight circle. He knew the roughness of his skin from years of guitar had to be increasing the friction.
She proved it by chanting her pleasure. “Oh, God. So good. Coming. Oh, God.”
He groaned against her neck, lurching forward just from the wild spasms that caught his fingers in their grip. Her pussy twisted again and again and she clung to him, basically saying nonsense stuff and lots of praise to God. He almost grinned until another round of contractions claimed her and she dragged him into her insanity once more.
Then she went limp in his arms, panting like she’d run a mile. Eyes closed, cheeks pale instead of flushed. All the color had leeched away to pool in the red flesh between her thighs. She was still shaking so hard her teeth were chattering.
Now that was an orgasm. He couldn’t decide if he was proud or jealous.
Maybe both.
“You okay?” he asked finally, afraid she’d just slip off his lap and pool bonelessly on the floor. Not before his blowjob, which he’d completely earned in his own modest opinion. Even without giving her a tongue lashing.
Her eyelashes fluttered and she wet her lips. “Yes. Just gimme a minute.”
He shifted, trying not to be too obvious. Just obvious enough. His cock and balls were throbbing. “Counting down the seconds,” he gritted out.
Smiling faintly, she lifted her lids as he removed his fingers and brought them to his mouth. Spreading them, he watched her intently as he dragged his tongue between each, sliding right down to the knuckle. He muffled a groan at her taste, more tart than sweet, and sucked on his own fingers until he’d licked every trace of her away.
She tossed back her hair, the gesture allowing him to see the way her pulse beat fast underneath her jaw. “I think I like the way you work, Nick Crandall.”
He smirked and laid his wet palm on her thigh, just high enough she could feel the moisture on her bare skin. She jolted just the way he’d hoped. “Oh, do you?”
She opened her legs in obvious invitation, again tempting him with that swollen, soaked seam. Bedazzled just like the rest of her. “Wanna fuck me now?” she asked, her voice a throaty purr.
“Yes.” Somehow he kept his own voice even. “Your mouth.”
Her smile was as wicked and dirty as they came. “Of course you do.” Instead of objecting, she shimmied off his lap and strolled over to the door. She bent at the waist to grab the purse she’d left there, making him curse at the sight of the puffy lips between her thighs, before she rose with a small tube in her hand.
“Don’t need lube,” he muttered. “Saliva works for me.”
Giggling, she rolled the tube over her lips. While he gaped, she capped it and stuck it in her bra. Then she sashayed back over to him, hips working like she was on the Strip, lips so swollen and shiny with gloss that he had to get his zipper down in two point three seconds or risk permanent damage.
She knelt between his legs and peeled down his jeans and boxers to tug him free. “Nice. Definitely not a Jill.” Her smiling mouth slipped over the head of his cock before he could come up with a retort. Before he could even haul in enough air to prepare.
“Jesus,” he gasped, transfixed by the vision of that funnel of pink and purple hair bobbing over his lap so enthusiastically. She didn’t suck him off so much as inhale him, her suction so powerful he swore she’d somehow wrapped her lips around his balls too. Every part of him felt soaked in that hot warmth, and it was already spreading. Over his thighs, up his spine. Tingling in the soles of his feet.
He knotted his fist in her hair, trying to control the intensity. She didn’t let him. With a vicious hum of protest, she jerked her head away then returned, sliding her lips down his shaft until her nose bumped his pelvis. She moved with such enthusiasm he nearly missed the flare of panic in her eyes when he went deeper than she’d expected. From that and her occasional faltering, he’d bet his Taylor that she was covering up inexperience with a lot of effort.
He’d definitely give her an A-plus.
Her hella strong fingers coiled around the base of him. Twisting just right. Working him like she worked the sticks. Adding enough pressure to destroy any moronic ideas he’d had about making this last. Not gonna happen.
With all the tension he’d been carryi
ng around, he needed to come more than he needed to breathe. She seemed to get that and was doing her best to get him off as quickly as possible.
Maybe he’d send her a thank you card. If he lived.
While he breathed through his nose and tried not to beat his old high school backseat records, she reached down and palmed his sac, rubbing her thumb—and her thumb ring—on his sensitive balls. God. He drove his hands into her hair and dug his fingers into her scalp, his need to hold on to her too strong. The vibrations from her moan in response sent his head flying back against the chair.
Shit, he was about to lose it. Less than two minutes into this blowjob, and he had to issue his standard polite warning. “I’m gonna blow,” he choked out.
More sucking. More ball rubbing. No obvious disgust at the idea of him painting her tonsils with his come.
He would’ve smiled if his lips hadn’t frozen in place. Instead he flexed his hips and tightened his ass, grinding into her mouth. She took him with more of those erotic noises, her throat widening to make room for his size. No easy task, since he felt harder than iron. Her slick lips slid up and down his erection while he tried to watch and close his eyes at the same time.
“Christ, baby, don’t stop. Please.” Time to beg. To anyone. Everyone. Even his Great Aunt Martha, God bless her soul. “Please. God.”
She smiled around him even as her eyebrows lifted, presumably at his breathless exhalations. Then she sank down again and added a tongue flutter over the head of his cock that changed his pleas for more into gasps.
There weren’t words. She was a goddess, a pink-and-purple-haired miracle, an angel in patterned leggings—
The door of the apartment banged open, the knob hitting the wall. A burst of familiar laughter cut off, ending in a hushed, “Oh shit,” that made Nick shove his knuckles between his teeth.
He was going to kill Deacon McCoy.
Eight
Simon: Burn