“Same goes for you.”
He has to swallow twice before answering. “I thought the objective here was your pleasure.”
That swallow and the flush of color sweeping over his cheekbones has me leaning forward, power and lust swimming through my veins like warm wine. “Thing you should know about me, Rye. If my partner isn’t pleasured, then I’m not going to be either.”
He exhales, and it sounds a lot like “guh.” But then he’s leaning in too, his lids lowering, his hot blue gaze settling on my lips. “If you touch me, hell, if you just look at me like you’re doing now, I’m going to feel good. Really good.”
We’ve drifted back together, not touching but close enough that one shift, one deep breath will bring contact. His voice flows like sticky, hot honey. “I’m so fucking hard for you, it hurts.”
My lids flutter closed, and I swallow down a rush of pure heat. “It can’t happen tonight.”
His gaze snaps to mine. “Why?”
“I have my period.” Damn it all.
He doesn’t move away. “We can do other things.”
I want to do all the things. But I don’t want half-measures anymore. And I know if he touches me, I’ll be left craving more. “When we start,” I tell him. “I want to finish.”
His nod is barely perceptible. Slowly, painfully, he backs off. “Then I’m going to go before I give in to begging and pleading.” His lips quirk. “Maybe crying.”
Despite being horny and turned inside out, a laugh escapes me.
His quick grin is full of wry humor. “I’ll go cry in the privacy of my own home.”
“Yeah, you do that.” I shake my head, smiling despite the sexual tension still bouncing between us.
With a groan, Rye stands. I don’t move. If I do, I might give in and tackle him. When he reaches the doorway, he looks back. “When will you be ready for me?”
So very blunt. I expect nothing less from him. “In three days.”
I can only be thankful I haven’t just started my period, or I’d be tempted to cry as well.
His grip tightens on the doorframe until his knuckles turn white. “Three days, Bren.”
We understand each other perfectly.
A pulse throbs low on my neck. “Three days.”
And then he’s coming for me.
Chapter Eight
Rye
Three days. I wasn’t lying to Brenna. I think I might cry. My dick is definitely weeping, and I’ve already stroked it off too many times since I left Brenna yesterday.
Three days.
I don’t know if I can do it. I’ve never been this wound up in my life. The anticipation and impatience coursing through me hasn’t been this bad since Kill John’s first stadium performance. Even then, I had the guys to suffer alongside me. Now, there’s only me. And my damn hand.
My hands cannot take any more physical strain. I shake them out, grumbling under my breath, and climb the stairs up to the editing studio we booked. Mike Ramsay is our mixing engineer for a few tracks, and Danny Evans is our producer on this album. We’re going for a slightly smoother, more experimental sound this go-round, and there’s been a lot of tinkering on the back end.
While Jax and Killian know their shit, they tend to zone out when it becomes technical or we’re having discussions on the minutiae of sound levels, beat speeds, and the like. So they won’t show up until the final run-through to give their feedback. Whip and I, on the other hand, love music production and are more involved as a result.
Danny greets me with a wave as I walk in. He’s already in the booth, talking to Mike. Danny’s arms are flailing around in agitation, which means he’s in a mood. I’m not exactly keen to go straight in there. I drop my messenger bag to the side and grab a Coke as Whip walks over to me.
“What’s up with Danny?”
Whip fishes a beer out of the mini fridge. “Mike ordered a pizza and brought it into the booth.”
Danny hates it when people eat while they work. Bitches about equipment and keys being greased up. He’s got a point, but it isn’t easy when you’re at it all day long. Some people would rather eat and work to get the job done faster.
“So…we’re staying out here until they finish killing each other, right?”
Whip grins. “Exactly.” He pops the cap off his bottle. “I’ve been meaning to tell you. ShawnE called me the other night. He’s putting together a session next month in Chicago, just for fun, trying new beats out and that sort of shit. He said he’d love if you came along too.”
ShawnE started as a hip-hop artist but is now a huge producer as well. Whip and I are fans and friends of his. Pure, creative excitement surges through me. Kill John is my own heart’s blood. But if I don’t stretch my musical wings now and then, I get stagnant and bored.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say hell yes, when Whip adds, “We’d probably be there for two weeks. We can either stay with Shawn or book a hotel room. I know you like the Langham, but I still think the Peninsula has the edge.”
I roll my eyes with good humor. Some days, I can’t believe how far we’ve come. When we were starting Kill John, we sneered at the luxury hotels our parents favored. We wanted to be “real” and “authentic” and stay at shitty dives. Rich kids trying to fit in with struggling artists. Truth is, we’d never known how it felt to be without. We were all born privileged and it showed. We eventually got our heads out of our asses and realized that we are who we are. Nothing would change that. The only thing we could truly do to make a difference is to help others who were less privileged and, hopefully, inspire people through our music.
Not exactly lofty goals, but I’m happy with who I am and what I’m doing.
Deliberating between staying with a billionaire producer or in a five-star hotel suite isn’t what gives me pause. It’s being gone for two weeks. Two weeks? My dick is about to fall off from need. I can’t be away from Brenna that long. I might…hurt something.
God, I’m whipped. And all I’ve done is kiss her.
“The Langham’s suite has a grand piano,” I say, distracted and resisting the urge to pull out my phone to just…I don’t know, text her. Call her so I can hear her voice. Shit. I’m in so much trouble.
“So, does the Peninsula. And it has an outdoor terrace with a hot tub.”
I shake my head and focus on Whip. “What?”
“The suite? At the Peninsula.”
“Right. We can play ‘What Overpriced Snob Suite Will Rye and Whip Pick?’ later. I’m not sure if I can go. Let me think about it.”
Lines on his forehead appear as he lifts his brow high. “You need to think about it?”
He doesn’t have to say that it’s totally out of character for me to hesitate on something like this. I’m not the type to think things through. I act—or react. I’ve got nothing and no one to hold me back from going wherever I want, whenever I want.
My hands are clammy as I stare at my best friend. Sometimes I think he knows me better than I know myself. Whatever he sees in my expression has him frowning. But he simply shrugs. “Yeah, okay. But you’ll need to let him know sooner than later.”
I nod, and his frown deepens.
“Rye—”
My phone rings, buzzing in my back pocket. I reach for it so fast the damn thing flies out of my hand and up in the air. I fumble for it in some weird slow-mo flail that has the phone bouncing from hand to hand like a juggler’s ball before I finally get a hold of it.
“Yeah,” I practically yell into the phone in my urgency to pick up before the call pushes over to voicemail. Because I saw the name on the caller ID.
Brenna.
“Shout much?” she asks with a laugh.
“Sorry.” I turn away from a sharp-eyed, smirking Whip. “I almost dropped the phone.”
I get up to find a private corner and trip over my bag. “Fuck!”
Whip snickers. “Graceful. Very graceful.”
“What the hell is going on?” Brenna asks, still soundin
g amused.
I glare at my bag and head for an empty sound booth. “I tripped.”
“Okay…” She’s definitely laughing at me.
I can’t blame her. Ordinarily, I’m not clumsy. I don’t know what the hell is going on with my body. It’s too focused on her and ignoring everything else. Scowling, I plop onto one of the overstuffed leather love seats in the dim booth.
“What’s up?” I ask. Aside from my dick, that is. Because he’s already getting perky at the sound of her voice. Which is unsettling. I have better control than this. Usually.
She takes an audible breath. “I heard Whip in the background. Can you…ah…talk?”
Brenna being hesitant means she wants to talk about one thing. My heart rate kicks up.
“Yeah, I’m in an empty sound booth.”
“Oh, right. You’re working on the album.” She sounds oddly fluttery.
“Bren. What’s up?”
“I thought of a few more rules.”
I hate following rules. Hell, I’d been breaking them most of my life. But for this?
“Okay, give them to me.”
Maybe I surprised her. I don’t know, but there’s a small stutter in her voice as though she wasn’t expecting my quick agreement. “Ah—right. As of last month, you were STI-free. Have you had sex since then?”
Her directness has me grinning. It isn’t as though any of this is a secret. Since Jax ended up with an STI last year, we all decided to be tested more frequently and announce our results to the group as a sort of united front. Weird? Maybe, but it cheers Jax up, so it’s worth it.
“No sex since then. I’m still in the clear and good to go.”
“Really?” It comes out with a slight squeak of surprise. “You haven’t had sex in a month? You?”
More like six months, but who’s counting?
“Jesus, Bren, you act like I’ve gone without for a year.”
“I’d say a month in Rye time is equivalent to a year for others.”
Snorting, I roll my eyes. Not that she can see it. “I don’t know if I should take that as an insult or a compliment.” Either way, she’s not entirely wrong. I like sex. Scratch that, I love sex. But a man needs a break every now and then. And I haven’t been feeling it lately.
Until her. Now, yes, a month waiting for her would sure as hell feel like a year.
“And you?” I’m compelled to ask, even though I really don’t want to think about her with anyone else. “How long?”
“Long enough,” she says tartly. “I’m cleared and have an IUD. But we’re using condoms.”
“Fine by me. I never go without them.”
“Okay. Good. That’s settled.”
“That’s it? Surely, not. I expected a whole list from you.”
“Right you are,” she says with a smile in her voice. “First off, when we’re doing this, we’re exclusive. No fooling around with other people.”
“That’s a given, Bren. If I catch you with anyone else, it’s over.”
Her laugh is quick and dry. “Yeah, I’m the one to worry about.”
Biting my lower lip to keep in a grin, I answer with due gravitas. “I’m glad we agree.”
“Anyway… Moving on. No spending the night. We do…what we do, and then we go our separate ways.”
“Fine.” It isn’t as though I’m the cuddling type. I like my own bed. I like waking up alone without any expectations of conversation or commitment.
“Also, we meet at a hotel.”
“No.”
“No?” Her voice rises delicately. “What do you mean, no?”
“First off, the chances of me being spotted constantly booking myself into a hotel in New York are way higher than me slipping into your apartment. Secondly, it’s too cold and clinical. I’m fine with us being a secret, but I’m not treating this as some sort of business meeting.”
When she makes a noise of protest, I clench my phone. “Bren, you said you wanted something deeper. Sex with intimacy but without the complication of finding a boyfriend.” Jesus, I want to give her that. I want it so badly, my abs hurt with unreleased need. “That’s not going to happen in a hotel room. I’ll go to your place if you don’t want to come to mine.”
Although, in all honesty, I like the idea of her in my space. She’s barely ever there, and when she is, it’s for our “family” dinner.
“Fine,” she says after a long moment. “My place. One day a week.”
“One day a…” I bolt upright. “Hold on. Back that truck up. No way. We need more than a day.”
“Rye. We’re both extremely busy.”
“I’ll make time.”
“The whole point of me not wanting to search for a real boyfriend is that I don’t have time to drop everything just for him.” An exasperated sound rings through the phone. “Who was I kidding? This isn’t going to work. It’s too complicated and—”
“It’s not complicated. People say they’re busy all the time, but in reality, spend hours doing bullshit. And do not go into a tizzy about that. You know it’s true. Last night you were free. Unable, okay. But you had time, right?”
“Tizzy,” she mutters. “Yes, I was free.”
“Exactly. We’ll meet late. Four days a week.”
That sounded doable. I’d like more, but…
“Four? No. Two.”
“Three.”
“Do you want me to drop it down to one?” she warns.
“Now, Berry, you’ll only regret it if you do. After all, you haven’t sampled what I can do.”
I swear I hear her breath hitch. Wishful thinking, maybe. I’m not exactly breathing steadily right now. Not with the memory of her sweet mouth and just how fucking good it felt against mine playing through my head like a song.
“Fine…two…”
“Three days, Bren. Take it or leave it.”
She sputters at that. “Are you seriously throwing down an ultimatum already?”
Yeah, I’m taking a risk. But some things you fight for. “It won’t work the way you want it to if we only see each other two days out of the week.”
“Gah. Fine. Fine!”
I grin wide. “Good. Oh, but if we want to fuck around on an off day, we can.”
“Rye.”
“Bren.”
God, I love teasing her. Always have.
“Ass,” she grumbles. All cute and flustered. “Agreed. But don’t hold your breath.”
Relieved, I sink back into the curve of the couch. “I won’t remind you of that little proclamation later, sweetheart.”
“How magnanimous of you,” she says dryly.
“I thought so too.” Swallowing a laugh as she growls, I glance out of the booth. Danny, Whip, and Mike are now devouring a pizza together. I guess their spat is over. My stomach rumbles, but I ignore it in favor of Bren. “Now that that’s settled, tell me something.”
“What?” She sounds wary.
My voice lowers, heat running down my belly and under my balls. “How do you like to be fucked? Soft and slow? Hard and deep? Both?”
Her breath definitely hitches this time. “You just went right there, huh?”
I shift in my seat, itching to touch her. “Stop stalling. Tell me something you’ve wanted that no one has given you.”
“Isn’t it your job to figure it out?” she asks in a voice gone soft and breathy.
“Believe me, Berry. I’m going to find all your sweet spots.” Hell, I’m sweating. Actually sweating. My foot is tapping out an agitated rhythm. “I’m thinking more along the lines of a fantasy you want acted out.”
“Rye…”
“Come on,” I whisper. “This is part of the fun.”
“Fun is peeling back all my layers for your inspection?”
“Well, yeah.” I bite my lower lip, imagining said inspection. “I’ll tell you one of mine if you tell me one of yours.”
“You first.”
I laugh softly. “As if I thought you’d go first.”
; “So…” she prompts. “What is it? Orgy? Public sex? Another guy?”
“You offering those things?” I ask lightly, knowing she’s messing with me.
“I can only be a part of some of those. I don’t have the equipment for that last one. But, no, none of those are on the table. Except for maybe the other guy thing. I’d totally watch that.”
“I bet you would.” I run my hand down my tense thighs. God, she’s got me worked up. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m a rock star. All of that stuff is old news for me.”
“Is it?” She practically squeaks the question.
“Bren, I feel like I’ve seen and done everything at this point. It’s boring now. Empty.”
A sigh gusts. “Yeah, I know. So what’s left? What’s your fantasy?”
“You.”
There’s a pause.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. I knew you were leading me on…”
“I am completely serious. My fantasy is you.” I close my eyes, and somehow that makes it easier to confess. “It doesn’t even have to be straight-up sex. I have this one scenario…”
“Tell me.” The husky demand cannot be denied.
I lick my lips, my mouth suddenly dry. “We’re on the tour bus. All of us sitting around that side table where we have to cram in close.” Jesus, just saying that much has me panting, and it isn’t even anything dirty. I adjust my grip on the phone, my hand damp with sweat. “You’re pushed up next to me in that tight spot by the corner.”
“Yeah.” She says it like she’s picturing the bus, the way the banquette curves, and how, even surrounded by our friends, we’d be half-hidden there.
“Everyone would be talking. Laughing and drinking. And while you did too, my hand would slide under the table, find your lap.”
I bite my lip and hold back a groan. “You’d have to hold steady, Berry, pretend you didn’t feel me gliding up between your thighs.” My breath hitches. “You’d part them for me, wouldn’t you, Bren? Part those sleek thighs so my hand could squeeze into that tight, hot spot.”
Brenna makes a small noise, and I know she would do it for me. She’d let me in.
Exposed (VIP Book 4) Page 9