by Emme Rollins
He held me fast, slipping another finger between my slick folds. I felt every rough, harsh ridge of the callouses on his fingers—the testament to his calling in life as a bassist—and when he lifted me with his leg, I let him tip my hips forward as he worked his way inside my core.
"Kent," I moaned.
"You'd be a great lay," he said. "I wish we had more time. I'm going to make you come, though. Are you ready?"
His dirty words sent shockwaves of heat through me, and I nodded as best I could from my pinned position.
"Good."
Withdrawing his hand from me, he released my throat before hooking his thumbs into the waistband of my pants. With a swift, strong yank he pulled down my underwear and my jeans.
"Stand," he said. "Brace against the back wall."
Swallowing, I did as I was told. My hands splayed out over cold, vibrating plastic, and the din of the engines drowned out all ambient noise—including the sound of a zipper. When I felt the hot, petal-soft flesh of his cock come to rest between my ass cheeks, I started and tried to twist away.
A hand fisted in my hair. "You only have to say no, and I'll stop," Kent said.
I shook my head as best I could with him holding me immobile. Each strand pulling from my scalp stung, but it was the good sort of pain, the kind that heightens pleasure. "Don't stop," I gasped.
That was enough. Carefully he reached down and put his fingers against my slick flesh again, delving into the dark space between my thighs, parting the lips and revealing the inner core with his index finger and ring finger. His middle finger curled and he placed the calloused pad of it against my clit.
I squirmed at the contact. And empty space was opening inside me. It needed to be filled. If he didn't put his cock in me, I was going to perish.
He didn't put his cock in me, and I somehow lived. What he did instead was slide his hot, thick shaft between my legs. With soft, gentle thrusts, he gathered moisture from my core, lubing up my thighs and crotch, until he glided easily over my skin. Then, with quick, small strokes, he began to fuck my closed thighs. My eyes rolled and my legs shook. Waves of pleasure washed over me, delectable sensations that only intensified with each thrust, and every flick of his finger over my clit made my entire body jump.
He picked up speed, his hips slapping against my ass. I could hear the meeting of our bodies over the roar of the plane. I moaned, writhing around his finger on my clit, my hands scrabbling for purchase inside the tiny cabin, and a climax began to coil deep in my stomach, tight and heavy.
Somewhere far away, my common sense was despairing. What are you doing? it asked me, but I didn't have an answer. All I knew was the attraction was chemical, something in the water, something in the air. I'd spent enough time fucking a terrible bully and a loser over the past four years—at least this time I was actually getting something out of it. I'd never been fucked like this, and I wasn't even getting fucked, technically. My toes curled in my shoes, sending me up on my tiptoes as my calves knotted with the tension of striving to reach my release.
Then my back was covered in warmth as Kent curled over me. The smell of him blotted out everything, the cloying scent of tobacco and rum wrapping around me. "Fuck, Rebecca, your ass is so sweet," he moaned into my ear, yanking my head to the side. His lips found my pulse, and he sucked and bit, his hips hammering against me faster and faster, the finger circling my clit harder and more insistently.
My orgasm built without mercy, something I couldn't escape, even if I wanted to. He felt it in my tensing muscles, in the fluttering of my nether lips over his slippery erection.
"Fuck, come for me, Rebecca. Come for me, now!"
I sobbed, reaching for that release, and when the dam finally burst I shrieked and thrashed against him, my hands finding his hair, tangling and closing in it, holding him tightly against me as shudder after shudder ripped into my body.
My knees buckled and I nearly fell, but his arm around me held me up by my clit. The rough caresses of his calloused musician's fingers strummed over my sensitive flesh, playing my body like an instrument, and the climax he wrung from it was the most intense thing I'd ever known. Everything was his hand in me, his hand in me was my world. The grungy, cramped airplane lavatory melted away, the horrible things he'd said to me and others were wiped from my mind, the desperation of my situation, the power he held over me, my past, his rock star lifestyle—whatever it was—all of it crumpled and imploded beneath the weight of our mutual need.
I still thrashed in the grip of my release when his hips stuttered and his rhythm, until now impeccable, became erratic, falling apart. The heavy sac of his testicles, slapping against my closed thighs, hitched high and tight as cum pumped up and through his shaft, and when he thrust hard against me, his enormous cock poked out from between my legs and squirted stream after stream of hot cum against the back of the toilet seat. White cream splattered over the black lid, the physical proof of our transgression.
"Fuck," he growled into my ear, his hands rough and restless on my body, gripping and pulling as if he could somehow crawl inside me. "Fuck, you feel so goddamn good..."
For a moment we stood, barely supporting each other, panting as we came down from the high. Then, abruptly, Kent withdrew. I felt him shifting behind me, but by the time I turned around, he had already stuffed his cock back into his pants. Not wanting to be outdone, I pulled up my own jeans.
I was thoroughly confused by now. Did this guy like me or hate me?
The smell of him was still overwhelming me, filling my head with thoughts of rough sex and long nights full of champagne and roses and whips and chains...
Oh dear. Where had those thoughts come from? It couldn't just be his scent... could it?
Stupid smell, I griped, get out of my head! I ducked my face and zipped up my jeans with shaking hands, struggling to hide my confusion.
To his credit—or rather, to his credit since I didn't peg Kent Hudson to be the sort of person who would bother—Kent grabbed some toilet paper, wiped away the cum from the back of the toilet seat, and flushed it away. Then he straightened and looked down at me.
I could see what was going to happen next. He was going to do the typical rock star manwhore thing. He was going to use me and then throw me away like a Kleenex during a spank session. The good vibes of the half-fuck we'd just had were already melting into anger.
I'm sick of being used, I thought. I'm going to do the using from now on.
I took a deep breath. “Well,” I said, “not bad. Thanks. But your going to have to do a lot more than that to convince me to take the job.”
It was probably the jerkiest thing I'd ever said after sex, and I immediately felt bad as his eyes widened. “I...” he started, then shut his mouth with a snap. His brows twitched, and for a terrible moment I thought I might have hurt his feelings. Then he seemed to get himself under control, and I wasn't sure I'd seen that flash of emotion at all. He gave me a cool nod, turned, and waltzed out of the bathroom.
The buzz of the plane roared around me. What the hell did you just do? I thought furiously at myself. Even if he was going to use me up and throw me away, that didn't mean he didn't also have feelings. I mean... What did I mean? I had no idea. My thoughts were just a jumble, a cluttered amalgamation of confusion, lust, and guilt.
I stood there for a minute, and it was one of the longest minutes I think I've ever had to endure. When I judged enough time had passed, I slipped out the door and, on shaking legs, managed to stumble back to my seat, once again upsetting my businessman seat partner and startling a fart out of the old lady in the middle. I said nothing, only sat down in my seat and watched out the window as the wings bounced and wove their way through a cloudless sky.
Chapter Three
We took a limo to the hotel where Carter Hudson was staying. The whole time we drove, Randy kept chattering away about his time in 'the biz' and all his weird little anecdotes about the people he'd rubbed elbows with. I tried to nod politely while attempting
to strangle him with the power of my mind, but Kent didn't even bother with that facade. He was staring out the window and not meeting my eye. If I hadn't known he was a hot shot bassist who probably banged ten groupies a night, I would have sworn he was sulking.
The ride took us straight to the strip. I should have guessed that Carter was one of those guys who didn't take investing and saving seriously, so I shouldn't have been so shocked when we entered the Bellagio and headed for the penthouse. For all I knew, Carter was able to bill this shit to the record label. Keep the talent happy, keep the money rolling in.
Kent had banished us to the overstuffed chairs in the lobby before he'd spoken briefly with the woman at the front desk, flashed his ID, then talked to a man obviously high up in the rankings at the hotel, before receiving a key. With a curt gesture, he indicated we should follow him. Randy leaped to his feet, and I stomped behind him, feeling like I'd somehow broken into this palace of opulence and was about to be arrested for contaminating the pretty people at any moment. We slipped down a beautifully decorated hallway to a private elevator. Kent swiped the key and we entered.
The elevator rose like a dream, fancy hydraulics hauling it into the air without all that lurching and shaking that old elevators used to do. Instead, we ascended smoothly, and when we reached the top, Kent swiped the card again, and let us out directly into the penthouse.
At least, I assume it was the penthouse. I'd expected something on the swanky side, and while this place sure had been swanky no more than a few hours ago, something had clearly happened to it to take away its swank cred.
For starters, it looked like a tornado had come through. Two tornadoes. Two tornadoes and they were fighting. Two tornadoes and they were fighting and then they had crazy angry make-up sex. Because that was the only explanation I could think of for the level of destruction that met us.
Clothes were strewn everywhere. On lamp posts, on light fixtures, over the backs of chairs, clustered in a heap near the dining table. The dining table was transformed into a blanket fort, and I could have sworn I heard someone snoring inside it. Glass bottles and small shot glasses peppered every available surface, glittering in the desert sun that was now free to stream in through the windows because someone had ripped the curtains away to fortify the southern side of Fort Blankie. The cushions on the furniture was, to a pillow, completely MIA, someone had tried to play a game of shuffleboard on the marble floor, and an array of dildos in each color of the rainbow had been meticulously lined up on the granite top of the bar. I shuddered to think what was going on in the kitchen.
Behind us, Kent sighed. “All right. Eyes on me.” Dutifully Randy and I turned, and we caught each other's eyes as we did so. I could see in his face a reflection of my own thoughts: what the hell have we gotten ourselves into?
Kent crossed his arms, and I tried not to think about how well his coat hung and displayed his slender hips when he did so. A rush of blood from my head told me I was unsuccessful, and I had to physically pinch myself to drag my attention back to Kent's face.
To my surprise, he looked tired. Worn out. He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger before crossing his arms again. “I have already discussed this with Rebecca,” he said, “but I want to be completely clear with the both of you. As you can see, my younger brother Carter, the band's guitarist and songwriter, likes to live a bit on the wild side. He has gone through a number of personal assistants, first employed by him, and then employed by myself. They have all found him too much to handle, and I can't say I blame them. What I'm looking for in a personal assistant, then, is a babysitter. Someone who can be stern with him and who will keep him from accidentally killing himself. This is a hard thing to do with a child, and harder to do with a grown man. I assure you that you will be well-compensated for your work. I have sat down and added things up. Due to Carter's difficulties in acting like an adult, I expect you to be on-call 24/7, and your pay will reflect that.” He took a deep breath, then quoted a number that made a tiny atom bomb explode in my brain.
Holy shit, I thought. Holy shit. Holy shit.
Holy shit.
That kind of money... I couldn't even comprehend it. It would be a miracle to me. It would change my life.
Suddenly, I found myself not quite so ambivalent about the job as I had been before. My palms began to sweat.
Kent continued: “I will be asking whichever one of you does not get the job to sign a confidentiality agreement, and I will be happy to give you a reference to whomever you choose to apply to in the future. For now, I would like to see how you would perform your duties, which consist of: Keep Carter alive, keep Carter's indiscretions out of the media, curtail his spending to the best of your ability, and do your best to curb his alcohol and drug abuse.”
I laughed out loud at that last one. Kent raised his eyebrows at me. “You think that's funny?” he asked, and there was a hardness to his voice that gave me shivers.
I shrugged, trying to be nonchalant. “I've known a lot of drug addicts,” I said. “It's almost impossible to help them. Rock bottom and all that.”
“Nevertheless,” Kent said. “That would be part of your duties.”
The impossible job from hell, I thought. That explained why the money was so good...
Kent took a deep breath and appeared to compose himself. “All right, turn around and look around you. Pretend you are Carter's handler. He's escaped from you. You arrive here. This is what you see. What would you do in this situation?”
Both of us were silent, surveying the destruction. Unfortunately, I didn't think put a match to it and watch that motherfucker burn was an acceptable answer.
Randy cleared his throat. “Well, first I would call you and ask you for instructions on how you wanted me to handle a situation as dire as this—”
Even I winced at that answer.
“No,” Kent said, cutting him off. “If you think this situation is dire, then you might as well turn around and leave. This situation is par for the course, and I don't need you calling me every twelve hours asking what you should do. Try again.”
Kent began to sweat, working his hands at his sides as though he could grab the correct answer from his ass. “Er... I guess I would first call housekeeping...”
Kent gave an exasperated sigh, and he sounded exactly like my father did whenever one of us kids managed to get our dumb asses into trouble again. “No,” he snapped. “Rebecca?”
I looked around the penthouse. What would I do, if I wanted to keep this under wraps?
“Um... I think first I would go find Carter. No, wait. First I'd make sure nothing's on fire, then I'd find Carter.”
Behind me, Kent was silent for a second, then he grunted. “Fine. That answer is acceptable. Both of you, go.”
Randy, clearly hoping to show that he wasn't as useless as he had already demonstrated, darted forward like a shot, rounding the bar to peer into the kitchen. I left him to it and began to pick my way across the floor. It was littered with glass and was sticky in places. A few used condoms stuffed in unlikely places made me shudder, but nothing seemed to be actively burning down. I made a beeline for the blanket fort and lifted one side of it, peering into the dimness.
A pretty young woman with long blonde hair and wearing nothing but a bustier lay on a mound of pillows, fast asleep, her legs indecently spread and a scattering of condoms littering the pillows around her.
My stomach turned. Grabbing one of the blankets from the fort, I gently covered her, my mind already racing with the implications. What if she'd been raped? What if Carter's DNA was in one of those condoms. I didn't want to hide that, at all. That was the sort of thing that should reach the media.
Kent appeared at my shoulder, crouching down next to me. It was totally inappropriate, but I felt a heady rush of desire at the whiff of his scent that wafted my way. I clenched my jaw as Kent shook his head. “Showgirl,” he said. “I'll get her to a new room, see if I can't find her clothes.”
; “What if she was raped?” I said.
He went still next to me, then sighed. “I'll leave my number with her. But I doubt it was rape. If we can find her clothes I bet you'll find a fat wad of bills stuffed inside her purse.”
Ugh. Maybe it was true, but maybe it wasn't. I felt ill at the thought of leaving a rape victim alone in a strange room, but I didn't know what to do. Should I trust Kent? Would he really leave his number with her? I stole a glance at him from the corner of my eye and saw that the tired look on his face was even more pronounced. “Go find Carter,” he said.
I supposed I really had no choice but to trust him at this point, since there was no way to slip her my own number and be assured that it would get to her. I stood up and rounded the rest of the room, taking meticulous stock of the damage that had been done. It continued to be breathtaking. When I was done, Randy had already finished his survey of the kitchen and lingered in front of the bedroom. I walked over to him, and together we entered it.
The bedroom suite seemed to have fared slightly better than the living room, but the sheets and comforters were still all thrown off the bed, and a pair of fuzzy purple handcuffs dangled from the headboard. A huge dog, approximately the size of a tiger, curled up in the mess of bedclothes, watching us with one dark, blood-shot eye, while apparently grabbing it's light afternoon snooze with the other. I grabbed Randy's hand and edged around it, toward the bathroom. Randy inhaled sharply at the sight of such an enormous predator so close to him, but the shock was quickly supplanted by something else.
“Oh god,” he said. “What the hell is that smell?”