Unwritten

by Jen Frederick

  “They always ordered ham pizza with extra pineapple. Anyway, Paulette Conrad lived there and would mow the lawn wearing a teensy tiny white bikini.” Rudd bites his fist. “Fifteen years later, and I still can’t look at white on a girl without thinking of her big—”

  “Rudd,” Davis threatens.

  “—lawn mower,” Rudd finishes with feigned innocence.

  He winks at Landry, who giggles.

  “And she had a dog?” Landry guesses.

  “Nah, the neighbor did, but Paulette loved that little shit. Only he wasn’t little. He was huge and ugly and wore a studded collar. I practically soiled myself every time I had to get out of the car. I could’ve let some other delivery guy take the order, but—”

  “Then you wouldn’t see Paulette,” she finishes.

  “Exactly. So I’m there, delivering the same ham with extra pine when I hear this growling right behind me. I tell myself that the dog is still tied up and force myself to keep walking. But then I hear it again.” Rudd growls in a bad imitation of the Rottie.

  Landry’s caught up in his story, though. Her elbows are on the table and her eyes are sparkling with humor.

  The shirt she’s wearing has pulled out from her jeans and a small portion of her spine is showing. The jeans slide low and I swear if I lean back I can see the top of a pair of lacy panties. I grab my Shiner Bock and pour it down my throat until the urge to slide my hand inside the back of her jeans is drowned.

  “What happened then?” Davis hasn’t heard the whole story, only the highlights. He embellished a few details up on stage, but Rudd didn’t care. Davis’s ease with the crowd is a major reason why everyone in the club is engaged while we play.

  “My foot is on the bottom step, but instead of going up, I look back. And then I see him. He’s pulled the motherfucking chain out of the ground. It’s trailing behind him like a big silver snake. He jumps forward and I just start running, pizza out in front of me. He’s barking like a rabid dog, chasing after me, that big-ass chain weighing him down. I almost make it to safety when my foot catches on the edge of a sidewalk. The pizza falls to the ground and then I land face-first into the steaming hot pie. A piece of pineapple flew off and burnt me” He points to his upper arm where there’s the tiniest white scar.

  “And the dog? What happened to the dog?”

  Rudd shakes his head mournfully. “That’s the worst part of the story. The Rottie started licking my face, eating the cheese and sauce and ham. I’m lying there with pizza guts all over my face, being straddled by a hundred-pound dog when Paulette strolls out of her house, holding hands with Brent Fuckface.”

  “Love does hurt,” Landry says dryly.

  “I know, right?” They trade high-fives.

  She tilts her head to the side. “Are all your songs so inspired?”

  “Tell her about the slushie one,” Rudd urges.

  But before I can say another word, a group of girls appears at the end of our booth. They’re pretty enough, I suppose. By the expressions on Davis and Rudd’s faces, you’d think they walked off a runway.

  “Want to dance?” a tall, thin brunette asks.

  “Yes,” Rudd says immediately. He pushes at Ian’s shoulder, and our drummer gets up with a sigh. “Come on, Davis. Let’s go.”

  Davis holds up one finger and downs his drink. He gets up and points to Landry. “Coming?”

  “Nah, you go ahead. You don’t want your sister to cramp your style.”

  The girls grab Davis and Rudd and drag them away before anyone else can form an objection. Although, I wasn’t planning on it. In fact, I give Ian a hard look. “I think I hear your wife calling.”

  He snorts. “Doubtful.”

  “Then leave,” I say bluntly.

  “Adam!” Landry protests.

  Ian rises. “Nah. I figure I can leave you two alone since we’re in public. What could you get up to?”

  He wanders off, maybe to call his wife, but more likely to watch the dancers.

  “I feel like that was a challenge,” I say, only halfway joking. I place a hand on her jean-clad thigh because it’s been far too long since I’ve touched her. “You should think about wearing skirts. “

  A hand lands on my leg, not high enough to be in the same zip code as my dick, but her touch is enough to short out all my circuits.

  “Maybe you should,” she teases.

  “Move your hand a little higher, baby. I could be convinced.” Hell, I’d work a skirt into the wardrobe if that meant I could have her hands up it anytime we were sitting down. “I’m in a band. I can get away with that shit. So what’s on the table?”

  Her fingers dance a little higher. She leans in, her mouth now barely a hand’s width away. “I heard you have a piercing,” she whispers, almost soundlessly.

  I arch a brow. What did Bo’s and Noah’s girlfriends tell her? I tug on my eyebrow ring. “Like I said, move your hand a little higher.”

  She does. Her thumb swipes across the ridge in my jeans, a touch so light I almost wonder if I imagine it. I reach down and place her finger directly over the ball of the half-moon ring that loops through the head of my cock.

  “You don’t have to be careful,” I tell her, helping her stroke me.

  “It doesn’t hurt?” Her touch is still gentle. I press down, showing her that she can go harder and rougher.

  Her fingers close around me, as best as they can through the denim. Which is not even close to how I want it, but I don’t dare risk unzipping my jeans. While I have few inhibitions, I don’t think Landry’s the type to enjoy so public a display of my affection. Plus her brother’s here, and me throwing Landry on her back and taking her in this booth would not be keeping this thing between us quiet.

  I tuck a strand of loose hair behind her ear, my fingers lingering around the delicate arch. “No. Not anymore. Now it just feels good. More importantly, it’s going to make you feel good.”

  The petting continues. It’s pure, wonderful torture. I flatten my feet on the ground, take a few deep breaths and try to control myself.

  “Will it hurt?” she asks softly.

  “No one’s ever—” I halt. I was going to say no one’s ever complained before, but I don’t want to reference past women. “The brochures say it can help a woman get off.”

  She bursts out laughing. “The brochures say that, do they?”

  I grin back. “That’s what I read in my tattoo artist’s office.”

  She continues to laugh. “That’s sweet, but you don’t have to make up stories for my benefit. I know you’ve had sex before.”

  “Really? I could be a virgin.”

  Her eyes grow wide with shock. “You are?”

  “No.” I can’t lie to her. “But I don’t want to talk about past partners. They aren’t important. I don’t want to hear about your past, either.”

  “I don’t have much of a past. I haven’t had sex in years.”

  “Was everyone at your college dead?”

  “I was in the computer lab a lot.”

  “Jesus.” Their loss, my gain.

  “So back to your dick,” she says.

  Said dick swells to unheard-of girth. “We’d better not,” I choke out.

  She smiles impishly and I brace myself for whatever torture she wants to inflict. Having her hand on me is better than not.

  Unfortunately, Davis returns too soon and Landry immediately pulls her hand away.

  This sucks. I’m going to have to have a sit down with Davis.

  Sooner rather than later.

  Chapter Twenty

  Landry

  I nearly fall asleep waiting for him. In that time, I have second and third thoughts. I wonder if he will show up. If he’s found someone less complicated. With fewer strings and no conditions. I bite down on a nail and message May five times, but given that she’s not responding, I’m guessing she’s out of reach.

  Probably falling in love with one of her guides and getting dicked so hard she can’t ride her pony
, while I’m pacing a hotel room and drinking every minibar bottle. I brush my teeth twice and take off my robe, wearing a little nighty that I bought.

  I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. In the mall, surrounded by a volcano of lace and fake silk, this looked great. Now it looks ridiculous. I take off my glasses, but it’s the clothes, not my frames that are the problem. I shove my glasses back on and wrap the robe around me again. The robe makes me look like a belted marshmallow. That’s the furthest thing from sexy.

  I toss the robe on the bed and decide to get comfortable. Adam wants to have sex with me. My clothes aren’t going to make a difference. If I have to wait, I might as well wait in clothes that don’t make me feel like I’m playing dress-up in a bad porn movie.

  I throw on my sleep shirt with a Grumpy Cat picture on it. As I’m stepping into my boxers, my phone buzzes. I reach for it, forgetting that the boxers are around my ankles.

  “Gah,” I yell as I fall forward. I try to brace myself on the coffee table, but I misjudge the distance. My hand hits the side and slides off. I plow face-first into the carpet, knocking my frames askew. At least I was able to grab my phone.

  Head throbbing, I roll over onto my back, resettle my glasses, and read the text.

  Adam: On my way.

  I kick off the boxers and gingerly get to my feet. A quick inventory tells me that nothing’s broken. I stagger over to the dresser and inspect my face in the mirror above it. I have a little rug burn on my cheek.

  Sighing, I take the T-shirt off and rummage through my bag until I find the sexiest pair of panties I own—a fire-engine red thong that’s too uncomfortable to wear for more than a half hour. Hopefully, it comes off before then. I slip the robe on and leave it untied.

  I position myself on the edge of the bed. Then move to the sofa. I toss back my hair and lean back on one arm until I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Ugh. I look like a bad catalog model.

  Finally, there’s a knock on the door. I start to say “Come in” and realize like a dolt that he can’t open the door. It’s locked. I’m in a freaking hotel room. He needs a key.

  Okay, I might be letting my nerves get the best of me.

  Taking a deep breath, I get to my feet, carefully skirt around the coffee table, and make my way to the door. I peek through the peephole to confirm that the knock was from Adam.

  He’s standing there with his hands in his pockets. His dark hair looks wet and he’s wearing a different T-shirt than the one he had on earlier. My heartbeat kicks up. He took the time to clean up for me. Seeing that settles my own nerves a bit.

  I throw open the door.

  “Hey,” I say, giving him a small smile.

  He takes one look at me and kicks the door shut behind him. “I’m sorry,” he says, grabbing the robe ties and pulling until I’m flush against his rock hard frame. With a wave of his hand, my glasses are off and my tongue is being devoured by his as it sweeps inside my mouth. I moan and give myself over to his dominating, possessive kiss.

  My head is full of cotton and clouds. The sexy underwear feels too tight. The plush, thick robe is too heavy and too coarse.

  His leg slips between my thighs, lifting me off the ground. Delicious pressure is placed against my needy core. The barely-there thong protects nothing from the abrasion of his jeans, but even that feels good.

  I curve my fingers around his broad shoulders. God, it’s been a long time and I don’t have much experience, but I don’t remember any guy feeling like this: big, strong, powerful.

  One of his hands tangles in my hair, angling my head into just the right position for his passionate assault on my mouth while the other palms my butt. I let the robe fall off, leaving me in nothing more than the thin scrap of red.

  Adam’s fingers dig into my skin. The pain only heightens my arousal. I grind against him, wishing that his jeans and shirt were gone and we were skin to skin. I can’t do anything about the jeans, so I attack his shirt, pulling it up until his hard chest is exposed, but because I’m hanging on to him and he’s holding me, I can’t get it fully off.

  I pull back and try to wriggle out of his grasp.

  “Oh no, you’re not getting away from me,” he rasps, walking quickly toward the bed.

  “I’m trying to take your clothes off.”

  “Good plan. Poor execution.” He dumps me on the bed. As I bounce lightly on the mattress, Adam reaches behind him with one hand and whips the shirt over his head. He toes off his boots and reaches down to pull off his socks. His jeans finally come off.

  Through the fabric of his boxer briefs, he cups himself. The outline of his dick looks enormous, and I don’t think it’s my fuzzy vision to blame. He really is that big. I lick my lips in anticipation. I can’t wait to feel it inside me.

  “Jesus, baby, you are so beautiful.” His voice is reverent, erasing any ounce of discomfort I had been feeling lying naked under his gaze. He draws a hand down the middle of my sternum, almost as if he’s laying claim to my body.

  He gives me the confidence to crook my finger at him. “I’m in a hurry here. It’s been a long drought.”

  “Want this?” he says cockily as he strokes himself.

  “Yes, definitely.” There’s no point in pretending. I’m splayed on the bed, wearing a very damp thong. I don’t remember ever wanting anything more in my life.

  “Good, because I’m fucking dying for you.” He pushes his boxers off, and his dick sticks straight out from his body, a silver piercing adorning the ruddy head.

  I back up and close my legs. Alarm and arousal shoot through me in dueling forms. Alarm, because I don’t think he’s going to fit—and arousal because, holy hell, what if he does? He’d fill every inch of me.

  “It’ll fit perfect,” he says, reading my mind. Then he grabs my ankles and drags me down to the edge of the bed.

  He pushes my thighs apart and draws his fingers up my wet channel, spreading my arousal. Then his mouth replaces his fingers and all my fear and apprehension die a quick death under his erotic assault.

  He tongues me deep, making an incredible noise of hunger in the back of his throat as if he’s never had anything so delicious before. I clutch him to me, swiveling my hips upward, wanting more of everything he seems so willing to give.

  “That’s right,” he murmurs, drawing back enough to give me a graphic, dirty command. “Fuck my mouth.”

  He shoves me back and works at me until my toes curl and my thighs tremble. I stuff a fist in my mouth to keep from shouting out as I come in a rush.

  “Goddamn, that was beautiful.” He rises to his feet. His dick looks even bigger, but I want him so bad, I don’t even care that he might split me in two. What a way to go.

  He reaches down and plucks a condom out of his discarded jeans. As he rolls it on, I notice that the piercing is gone.

  “Are you taking the piercing out?” I ask.

  “Yeah, condoms and piercings don’t mix. I’ll tear the condom and then, well, that wouldn’t be good, would it?” He smooths a hand over the latex-sheathed erection, giving himself one last squeeze before climbing between my legs.

  “I have an implant,” I tell him, tapping my arm.

  “Yeah?” His eyes light up.

  “Yeah. And I’ve only ever slept with one guy before. I was tested back when…” I pause, not wanting to bring up any of the details of my past. “Back before.”

  “I’m clean,” Adam says. His eyes are glowing now and his face has taken on an expression of pained anticipation, as if he can’t believe what I’m suggesting. “I get tested after every tat.” He points to his left biceps. “Had this work done before we started planning the tour.”

  I reach between us and pull the latex off. “Go put the piercing back in.”

  His eyes flutter shut for a second, then flip open to reveal intense, vibrant desire. “No. Can’t wait. Next time.”

  He takes himself in hand and guides himself to my opening. The thick head parts my lips. He glides in slowly, let
ting me feel every inch of his thick shaft.

  I gasp at the intrusion. He halts immediately.

  “Too much?”

  I suck my lower lip in between my teeth. “No. It’s…I haven’t had this for so long. I forgot what it felt like.”

  He brushes a shaky hand against my forehead. The control he’s exerting makes his hand tremble. I love that I make him so crazy.

  “I’ll go slow. We’re in no hurry,” he whispers.

  True to his word, his motion is unhurried. He pulls out slowly, his cockhead dragging against my receptive nerves. The deliberate stroke of him inside of me is more erotic than anything I’ve felt before.

  I arch underneath him, pushing my hips upward to feel him deeper, to capture as much contact between his body and mine that I can.

  His mouth finds the bend of my neck, the curve of my shoulder, the hollow above my collarbone. With each kiss, he creates a constellation of pleasure, marking spots on my skin that I didn’t even realize were sensitive.

  “You feel amazing,” he says, his lips caressing my cheek. “Tight. Hot. So wet. Everything I imagined.”

  He grips my hip to pull me up against him. It’s as if we can’t get close enough. There’s no clothes between us. No condom. Nothing, but still our arms and legs and bodies strain for more contact, closer contact.

  I tug on his hair. “Kiss me, Adam.”

  He obeys immediately. His tongue plunges into my mouth, mimicking the action of his cock between my legs. I close my eyes and allow myself to fall into the magic he’s creating.

  And it is magic because I never allow myself to be this open and this exposed—and not just in a physical way. It’s scary and exhilarating, a spellI don’t ever want to end.

  I clench my legs around him. He responds by driving his hips harder, delving his tongue deeper until my body is no longer my own.

  It’s his to command. He pulls from it the strongest, longest, hardest orgasm that it has ever felt. My body shudders. My lips part and a cry—a plea, really—spills out. I don’t know what I say. Whether I scream his name or God’s name or whether I order him to go faster, slower, harder, hotter. It’s all a dark, beautiful blur.