Rocked

by Taryn Elliott

  “So, I’m a human bore?”

  “Oh, God, this isn’t coming out right.” Annie banged her head on her hands wrapped around the edge of the cart.

  Harper snorted. “Relax, Annie. I know I’m not exactly Miss Social.” Her gaze zeroed in on Deacon again and those shoulders that made her crazy. “I’m not hiding this thing with Deacon, but I’m not shouting it from the rooftops either.”

  “Considering Johnny Cage has gone through about five—that I know of, mind you—girls on the staff, yeah, I don’t blame you.”

  “Deacon’s not like that.”

  “Oh, really?” Interest burned in Annie’s voice.

  Dammit. She’d totally fallen for that one. “We’re having fun. That’s all there is to it.”

  “Put in a good word for me. I want to have fun with Simon.”

  “Bat those big blue eyes at him and you’ll be golden.”

  Annie rolled her eyes. “Oh yeah, the orphan Annie look is totally going to get the hot rock god.”

  “Like you’d say no if he banged you to ‘The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow’.”

  Annie stopped in her tracks, and Harper braced herself on the cart so it wouldn’t wheel back down the incline.

  “What?”

  Annie’s laughter rang out loud enough that Deacon and Nick turned to look at them. Which only made her laugh louder. “I can’t believe you said that.”

  “You were begging for it.”

  Annie sighed. “I so totally would.”

  Harper’s laugh mixed with Annie’s and suddenly the cart was moving a helluva lot easier. Harper looked up, and Deacon’s wide, dimpled grin filled her view. “Hello there.”

  “Hi, yourself. Need a hand?”

  Her lips would not behave. They instantly slid into a goofy smile. “I wouldn’t say no.”

  “You should have texted me, I would have come down to help.”

  “It’s my job to get sweaty, big guy, not yours.”

  His eyes tracked to Annie then back to her and his dimple deepened.

  “Deacon meet Annie.”

  “Pleasure.”

  Annie’s gaze was decidedly lower. In fact, it was centered around his bulging biceps. “Pleasure’s entirely mine.”

  “Head out of the gutter, Annie. Or I’ll make you go back to the tent.”

  “Right.” Her twinkling eyes made it above Deacon’s neck, and they softened immediately. He had that effect on any and all women. Harper included.

  Kind eyes that had an innate warmth that made everyone feel at ease. Pair that with the dimple and the mop of soft hair he was disarming. Today, with the added bonus of rocker wear, he was downright lethal.

  They finally got to the level ground of the pavilion and Deacon rounded the cart to slide his hand around her waist.

  “Working here.” But she didn’t try to pull away. She couldn’t. Not when every touch reminded her that he wanted her. Worse yet, that one of them was going to be her last—far too soon.

  The tips of his fingers had snuck under the ties of her apron, the hem of her shirt, and brushed the dip of her spine, down into her jeans. Long clever fingers that knew just where to touch, even in a room full of people. She wanted to close her eyes and let him pull her inside the cocoon of warmth they created together.

  To let him drag her inside until the energy and passion that swirled between them turned off her brain. A place that only Deacon could create.

  He pushed her back until the cart blocked them from prying eyes. Well, most of her anyway. Her ancient jeans gave way to his wide palm, cupping her ass. He slid one thigh between hers, bringing her tight against him. “Lunch isn’t until one.”

  She shot a look at the cheap watch taped to the cart. “It’s 12:57, smart guy.” There, her voice didn’t even tremble.

  He ground her against his muscled thigh, those damn clever fingers already sliding between her cheeks. She moved restlessly against him, conscious of how sweaty she was from working. He didn’t seem to care.

  In fact, his eyes were glowing with intent behind his amber sunglasses. So thoroughly Deacon and yet not. Just a touch darker. The subtle change in his demeanor started with a stare. Then the scrape of his leather cuff against her ass as he reached a little deeper until the tips of his fingers teased inside her.

  She dragged in a breath. The man made her crazy. He also made her bold. The clench of his jaw as he watched her always revved her up.

  “I can do a lot of damage in three minutes,” he said in the voice that usually followed her into sleep.

  She gripped the front of his shirt. The smooth material was hot to the touch thanks to the sun-strength heat that seemed to pour off the man.

  He pulled her closer until the seam of her jeans bit into the front of her. The sudden friction and the slow pulse of his almost penetration somersaulted her from playful teasing to the freight train collision of an orgasm. His mouth hovered over hers, but didn’t connect.

  Instead, her pussy was detonating with the quickest orgasm of her life, and he was eating her with his eyes.

  “I want inside you so bad,” he whispered into her mouth. His lips were velvet against hers, his breath filling her mouth with mint and chocolate. So close and still not covering her the way she wanted, while the punishing burn of denim and cotton sliced her brain into two. Rational logic ran for the hills as color blasted around the fringes of her vision.

  In the center was Deacon. Her fingernails dug into the impenetrable muscle of shoulder and neck, as she tried to drag him down to her.

  “You’re soaked,” he panted against her mouth. “My cock would slide in so easy.” His ridiculously long fingers could only reach so far. Just a tease.

  Just a fucking tease.

  “Like the cliffs, when I was so deep inside you that we wore Red Rock dust for days. It was etched into my palms from trying to climb inside you.”

  “Deacon,” she said against his mouth. It was all she could manage as memories of that night finished her off. “I can’t—I need.”

  And then he was finally giving her that one thing. His mouth. Sealed around hers, his tongue as invasive and hard as his cock could be. Fuck—if she had her way, the way it would be later.

  He pushed further down until she heard the tear of her ancient seams and her button gave way just enough that he finally got his fingers inside of her. He growled into the kiss and held himself there. She clenched around him, her body strung so tight her muscles shook. He ground her against his thigh, his groan as strangled as hers. Shaking, decimated, appalled, she folded silently into the white noise of her release.

  By the time she realized where she was again she had handfuls of his hair in her fists and she was pretty sure she’d actually blacked out for a second.

  Noises and laughter insinuated themselves into their cocoon. The madness that had switched off rational thought dissipated. Deacon withdrew from her quickly. Off-balance, she grabbed his forearms.

  “Wow.”

  Harper whirled around, backing into Deacon and his steel girder of a fucking hard-on. He twisted his fingers into her belt loop, holding her there.

  Annie was back. She stood frozen with a clipboard pressed to her chest. “Now I know why you disappear. I would, too.”

  “Crap.” Harper pushed her hair out of her face. Deacon was as bad as she was about getting his hands in her hair.

  He cleared his throat and she felt him buttoning his shirt behind her. When he shifted away, she made a circle and sure enough, her clip was on the ground.

  Harper stood and wound her hair back on top of her head. Her gaze clashed with Deacon’s and she saw the heat there and the humor.

  Training, a lifetime of goals, and some untapped well of willpower saved her. She pushed him back. “Go away. You are a troublemaker.”

  He wrapped his long, elegant fingers around her wrists and pulled her forward. It didn’t matter that Annie was right behind them, didn’t matter that she should be professional right now, she went up
on her toes and met him in a quick, hot kiss. She poured all the frustration and thanks into the meeting of mouths. When she dropped back down on her heels, she drowned in his shielded gaze.

  Cripes, he still had his sunglasses on. She thanked whatever karma points she was cashing in that her apron covered her busted button because it felt like she was peeled open and on display.

  For a split second, he was going to ask her to do something stupid. She could see it in his eyes. In the way he looked around. In the tightening of his jaw. Finally, he let her go and took a step back. “Tonight.”

  “Tonight,” she agreed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  September 7, 1:08 PM - Our Strange Little Life

  Deacon climbed onto one of the picnic tables, propping his feet on the bench seat. He pulled his shirttails forward as he braced his elbows on his knees, hunching forward to hide the painful hard-on behind his zipper.

  Watching Harper didn’t help. Her scent clung to his shirt, his hands, his skin. She eased around a large banquet table, where a tray full of perfect salads sat beside a stash of commercial salad dressings along with a gravy boat of something she’d made.

  By now, he could tell the difference between the efficiently cool Harper that did her job, and this one that oozed pride in her work. She’d done this spread. She’d been chosen by Food Riot because of the quality of her work.

  She was the ultimate professional while on duty, with a seriousness that could melt away into a smile to a co-worker or client. This was what Harper was meant to do.

  The realization of that tightened the muscles of his back and arced into his neck with a lance of unease.

  She was meant for this as surely as he was meant for the stage. And yet, when they overlapped, she was the first person to actually feel like home to him.

  How the hell was he going to walk away from her?

  “Thanks so much for making time in your busy schedule for me, guys. I really appreciate it.”

  Deacon clicked in, more than ready to put the puzzle of Harper in the back of his mind for now. Simon was still flirting with the little redhead that was helping Harper, and Jazz was on her phone.

  Gordo stepped forward, iPad poised, but new guy hopped on the bench of another picnic table making enough noise with his battered cowboy boots that everyone looked up. He went up another level to the tabletop before crouching down. He was lean, dynamic, and wearing head-to-toe black. His hair was pulled back in a tail revealing a stark, long face, and dark assessing eyes.

  A blond, bearded guy came forward to stand beside the table, his arms crossed over his chest. Icy blue eyes stared straight ahead.

  Ponytail guy twirled a ring on his thumb. “I’m not here to bust your ass, or take up your time with bullshit. What I want is to help you build a brand.”

  “I prefer the girl that came in to try to make us over. At least she gave good head,” Nicky remarked.

  Jazz swung her arm out and pounded his chest without a word.

  Nick frowned at her and rubbed his midsection. “What?”

  Deacon sighed and collapsed back onto the table, staring up at the pavilion rafters. Just when he thought they were getting away from the boy band crap.

  “What’s wrong with how we look? We’re not fake. I wear what I want and don’t look like a douchy American Idol reject.”

  Deacon lifted his head, surprised that Simon gave such a good answer. Normally he was eager to wear whatever new stuff was foisted on them.

  Blond guy opened his mouth and Ponytail clamped a hand on his shoulder before hoping down. “I’ll give that a pass since you don’t know who I am.”

  “I’m supposed to be impressed?” Simon snorted.

  A cute blonde girl pushed a wardrobe out into the middle of the aisle. Ponytail smiled at her. “Thanks, Ellie.”

  The scrape of hanger over metal made Deacon lie back down. He was tired of ill-fitting stage clothes. He just wanted to wear his own shit and be his own goddamn man.

  The music was the important part, not the packaging. When the hell was Trident going to realize that? That’s not where the sales were. He’d actually thought they were making some headway. The sales and the shows were proof that the music mattered most.

  “Holy crap.” Jazz lengthened the last word for three beats.

  Bored, but not willing to be rude, Deacon sat up. Jazz had hopped off the bench and was gliding her hand up the distressed jeans Ponytail held. She moved back down the pant leg and froze.

  “You’re Roman.”

  Ponytail grinned. “In the flesh.”

  Jazz spun around. “Guys, this guy isn’t a makeover asshole.” She turned back to Roman, pushing him away from the trunk. “Are they all jeans?”

  Roman laughed. “No, Jasmine. I know you all too well.”

  “Me?” Jazz looked up at him. Her heavily-lined eyes were bright purple today.

  He moved her gently aside and pulled out a pair of delicate leather shorts. They were an insane pink with skulls on the ass cheek pockets. He also unearthed a pair of matching gloves.

  Jazz started bouncing like there were springs in her shoes. She flung her arms around Roman’s neck. “For me? Tell me they’re for me.”

  “I don’t know anyone else here that could wear them.”

  “I bet Simon would look good in them,” Nick snarked.

  “Too bad my cock’s too big to fit,” Simon shot back.

  “All right, all right,” Gordo broke in. “Mr—err,” he stammered.

  “Just Roman.”

  “Right, yes, of course. Roman is here with a serious business proposition. This is a brilliant opportunity that usually takes years to be in the running for, let alone have a private—”

  “Look,” Roman broke in. “I’ve been working with the runway set and I’m fucking bored. What I want to do is work with musicians. My work is suited to it, and when you wear it, I get the bump.”

  “Of course,” Simon said with a bored tone.

  “I don’t want to make fucking matchy outfits that everyone’s seen on the Biebers of the world. Not that I won’t take Bieber’s money, but I sure as fuck won’t make him anything custom.”

  Deacon couldn’t stop a small smile on that one.

  “I want to build a brand that you and I envision together. I’ve studied your sets, videos, and interviews. I think I can put my own spin on your individual styles and make this work.” He unearthed another hanger and held up a soft leather vest with a satin back, similar to the style of clothing that Gray preferred.

  The hand-tooled leather echoed a paisley pattern, but was its own curling mass of flames and filigree.

  Gray slid off his seat and walked to Roman. A touch of wonder lit his storm-cloud eyes. “You made this with us in mind?”

  “This one? With you in mind, Mr. Duffy.” Roman stared at Gray until he took the vest. “I paid a chick to sneak backstage and get some measurements from your steamer trunks after I caught your show in Dallas.” He held up the jeans again. “Simon.”

  Instead of stepping forward, Simon kicked off his battered motorcycle boots and stripped off his black jeans. He walked across the cement in a pair of black boxer briefs and took the leather-adorned jeans.

  Roman didn’t bat an eye.

  Annie’s eyes fell out and rolled around the floor.

  Harper gave Deacon a look that said “seriously?” He grinned back at her and shrugged. He’d lost count how many times he’d seen Simon naked.

  They were lucky he was wearing underwear for a change.

  Simon stepped into the jeans and hopped to get them over his boxers. They fit his lean waist perfectly and the cuffs fell just past his ankles. A tribal flame climbed up the outside of both legs in blood red.

  Roman held out a leather jacket in the same crimson—this time black flames climbed the arms and flowed down the back. It was slightly over the top and so Simon, it was damn well hurtful.

  Simon snatched the jacket and stripped out of his shirt before slid
ing it on.

  “Does he always strip like this?” Annie asked Harper out of the side of her mouth.

  “Yep.”

  Simon shot a grin over at Annie. “Like what you see, helper girl?”

  Instead of playing shy, Annie nodded. “I like the skin better, though.”

  Harper nudged Annie with her arm, but Annie gave an unrepentant grin.

  Deacon shook his head. He was more than used to Simon’s shameless nature, as well as the way women fawned all over him. What did surprise him was how indifferent Harper was to Simon. She was amused by his band on the whole, but she never got offended or star-struck.

  She was even less affected by the headliners on the tour. In fact, her demeanor chilled considerably around Johnny.

  “So, is this free sample day from Project Runway?”

  Deacon winced and zeroed in on Nick with a raised brow.

  Nick shrugged. “Everyone else is getting some. I’m just looking to see what’s in the magic chest in a thirty-thirty-two.”

  Roman smiled wolfishly. He pulled out a motorcycle jacket in a buttery soft charcoal. The cut was flawless, and the leather had been worked until it was soft and worn.

  Nick’s eyes went covetous before he closed off, and his face blanked into its usual bland mask. He sauntered up, let Roman hold it up for him to slide into, and the mask cracked again.

  Every line was made to suit Nick’s swimmer’s body. It bulked up his shoulders and emphasized his whipcord lean waist. His blond hair even looked as if it had been under a helmet.

  Nick glided his palm down the flap of leather that covered the heavy zipper. Roman’s signature design was stitched into the strip of leather using heavy black thread instead of separate pieces like Simon’s.

  Nick’s voice was thick. “It’s mine?”

  “Tailor-made, my friend.”

  Nick nodded, the corner of his mouth kicking up as he held out his hand to Roman. They shook hands, and that was the end of it.

  Harper rolled her eyes and started passing out salad plates. He followed Harper with his eyes.