My limbs stiffen and then shatter, the ecstasy exploding through my veins, taking me apart and leaving me a wonderful, replete, utterly satisfied wreck.
* * *
“What took you so long?” I ask as we lie in a sweaty heap in the middle of the bed. The comforter is on the floor and the sheets are pulled away from the mattress, but I don’t care. I’m too exhausted to care. I have only enough energy to trail my fingers across his chest.
“Your brother cornered me about a song he’s written. I couldn’t brush him off.”
“Was it crazy down there?” There seemed to be an endless stream of people in and out of Davis’s room.
“There were a lot of folks. Too many. I was glad to escape.” His arm curls, pulling me close enough for him to drop a kiss on the top of my head.
“Do you need to go back down?”
“No. Besides, I can’t. You destroyed me,” he teases.
“That bad?” It’s a joke. I mean it as one, but a kernel of uncertainty creeps in.
“Hardly. This is my smug-as-fuck voice. I knew we would be combustible the moment I laid eyes on you.”
“Yeah?”
Adam runs one of his big palms over my back. He, too, can’t keep his hands to himself. That’s encouraging. “Couldn’t you tell? I stared at you for the last three songs.”
“I didn’t have my glasses on,” I admit with a pleased smile. “I was looking at the stage.”
He slaps his free hand against his chest in a sign of exaggerated hurt. “Don’t tell me that. I thought we were having a moment. I planned to write a song about it.”
I’m glad I can tuck my face into the side of his chest, because the idea of him writing a song about me melts every bone in my body, and I don’t want him to know that his joke is something I’d like way too much.
“Maybe I will anyway,” he murmurs.
“Sure,” I say with burning cheeks.
His body shakes as he chuckles. He knows. God, he knows how I’d like that. Of course he knows. He’s a musician. He’s gotten women into his bed all his life because they love his music, because they want him to immortalize them like John Legend did Chrissy Teigen.
“You know if I write a song about how amazing you are, I’m allowed to do anything I want.”
My smile immediately turns to a frown. I shoot upright. “Like what? Cheating?”
He looks dismayed. “No. No. I meant like leaving my wet towels on the bathroom floor or drinking milk out of the carton.”
“That’s barbaric.” My heart rate slowly returns to normal. “Drinking milk from the carton,” I clarify.
“I know. I was an only child and grew up spoiled rotten.” He sits up and slides an arm around my waist. “I have bad habits.” He rubs his nose against my cheek. “I always like to get my way. I don’t like sharing.” He draws me down to the bed. “I’m not interested in any other women, Landry. Just you. Let me love you.”
I open my arms and my body and let him. I know he doesn’t mean love love. He means sex. Fucking. He’s a musician, after all. They live in the moment. They hook up on tour, because that’s just what they do.
Still, even if I only have him for a short time, it’ll be worth it.
Chapter Twenty-One
Landry
Tour Stop: San Antonio
“How long do we have until the bus leaves today?”
“About an hour,” Adam calls from the bathroom. Through the open door, I can see his tight butt as he uses his towel to scrub water from his hair.
I bite my lip. There’s not enough naked Adam in my life.
“And we get in when?” I tear my eyes away from his ass, pulling my hair back into a ponytail and double-checking for any signs of last night’s activities. I found a couple marks while I was showering: bruises on my hip bones where his fingers held me tight as he thrust inside of me, and a red mark on the inside of my left breast. I’m wearing one of Davis’s old band T-shirts that says “Pluck Me Good” on it, so the likelihood of anyone seeing those marks is low.
Anyone but Adam, that is. But I like our secret.
“We’re supposed to meet there at four.”
That gives me time to catch an Uber and do a little shopping. From the Google results, there’s a mall not too far from the venue. I have plans for tonight. Just because Davis lurks around doesn’t mean Adam and I can’t enjoy ourselves. After last night’s taste, the only thing I want to do is jump him again.
Adam comes out from the bathroom, drops his towel, and bends over to swipe his boxer briefs off the floor. He chucks them onto the bed and grabs his jeans.
“Going commando?” I tease.
He smirks at me over his shoulder. “My dick got a good workout last night. I think he needs to be rewarded with a little freedom today.”
“I’ll remember that.” I wiggle my eyebrows.
He shakes his head in mock dismay. “Haven’t you had enough of me?”
I run my eyes over the strong plane of his back and all the lines and curls of ink that I haven’t even begun to map. “Not even close.”
He throws his shirt over his shoulder like a towel and hooks a hand around my ankle.
“Wait! Stop!” I laugh as he drags me to the edge of the bed.
He sweeps a hand up my outer thigh. “What’re you going to do today?”
“Shopping.”
His hand ducks under the hem of my T-shirt and pushes my panties out of the way. “What’re you planning on buying?”
I fall back on the bed as his fingertips glide against my tender flesh. “It’s a surprise.”
“I’m a big fan of red,” he says. His fingers push inside me.
“Yeah?” I gasp.
“Yup. It makes your freckles stand out.” He bends to place a kiss on my shoulder.
“I don’t have freckles!” I use copious amounts of sunscreen to avoid those spots.
“What’s this then?” he teases, moving downward to tease one taut nipple and then the other.
“So I have a few freckles.” I arch into his caress.
“They’re perfect. You’re perfect.” He moves lower, pressing his lips against my pelvic bone, nuzzling the trimmed hair between my legs, then lower still. All the while, his fingers pet and tease me.
My thighs fall open in anticipation. I wait and—
Ring! Ring!
He falls back onto his heels. “Fuck.” Withdrawing, he wipes his fingers on his discarded boxer briefs and grabs his phone. “What?” he barks into the phone. “No, I’m not in my room. I had to run an errand.”
Our playtime is over. I roll off the bed and grab my clothes. Adam gives me a pained, unhappy look but makes no move to stop me from getting ready.
“I’ll be down in five,” he says with a sigh.
* * *
“You look happy,” Davis comments as he joins me in the back of the bus. “You have some code breakthrough?”
I look up from the measly five lines of code I’d written in the last hour and carefully close my laptop. “Yeah. Something like that.”
He slides into the seat next to me. “Great.”
Uh oh. His flat tone doesn’t match the word. “What’s wrong?”
He tips his head back to stare at the LED fixtures in the ceiling of the bus. “I wrote some lyrics and Ian laid down a sick beat, but I need someone to write the melody.”
“Someone named Adam,” I guess.
“Right on, but he likes the set the way it is. Doesn’t want to mess with it.”
“Your audience does seem to love your music,” I tentatively point out. Sitting with my brother and listening to him complain about the guy I just slept with is highly uncomfortable. I want to be supportive of both.
“Sure, but his argument about turning down the commercial is all about not wanting to get stuck in a rut or be branded with a certain kind of sound before we discover exactly what we all want.”
The emphasis is on all. Wasn’t this what Mike, Threat Alert’s manager, war
ned me of? That Adam liked to do things only one way? He wasn’t that way in the bedroom. He didn’t order me around or dictate how I should act. We responded to each other, perfectly in sync. Perhaps Davis just needs to talk it out with Adam.
I suggest that. “Maybe you should tell Adam how you feel.”
Davis tips his head down to give me a slightly offended look. “You think I haven’t already?”
“I’m guessing that you have and he hasn’t listened.”
Davis makes a fake gun with his thumb and forefinger. “Got it in one.” He blows out a frustrated breath. “I didn’t quit my job to just sing for this damn band. I want to be part of it. Adam’s not letting me.”
I rub the side of my neck and search for something diplomatic to say. “What do the other guys say?”
“None of them will say a word against Adam. We’re on his bus, playing his music, singing his lyrics. He owns us.”
Davis wants more control—over his life, over this band. Any thoughts of sharing the newfound connection I have with Adam are wiped away. Davis would see it as a complete betrayal.
And then what? Would he quit the band? Would he fall back into bad habits? He’s been so good that I’ve stopped watching him like a hawk. Hasn’t he proven, in the months since his jail time, that he’d put the past behind him? I needed to do the same.
“I think you need to bring it up to him again,” I encourage.
Davis isn’t convinced. “Maybe. It’s not as if I don’t get where Adam’s coming from. TA’s audience is dying off and ours is growing, but this commercial could push us places TA can only dream of.”
“And you want to feel a real part of the band, not just an add-on component that can be replaced,” I guess. It comes down to control again. Adam views this as his band and Davis wants it to be their band.
My brother gives me a wry smile. “Exactly.” His smile turns speculative. “Maybe you should talk to him.”
“Me?” I yelp in surprise.
“Yeah, you two seem to be getting along. You went to that golf thing the other night. What’d you talk about?”
I bite my inner cheek hard to keep the embarrassment off my face. A blush would give everything away at this point. “Nothing much. Nothing about the band. We talked about his roommates. They were Marines, you know. His friends are super nice. Did you know that Grace wrote to Noah for almost four years while he was deployed?,” I babble. “Isn’t that romantic? And AnnMarie and Bo have been together for a couple years. They plan to move to Chicago.”
Davis’s eyes begin to glaze over. I rattle off a few more facts I picked up until Davis’s attention is completely gone.
“Is this a private party or can anyone join?”
My heart leaps at the sound of Adam’s voice. “No. Come on in,” I gesture in relief.
Davis is much less welcoming. He doesn’t even move his legs, requiring Adam to climb over them to take the seat opposite.
“We were talking about the song I just wrote,” my brother says. His chin is out and his tone is challenging.
Adam doesn’t take the bait. “I like the lyrics.”
“I’m excited to hear it,” I pipe up.
Adam cocks his head and studies the two of us. “Davis should play it for you.”
There’s an almost audible grinding of teeth before Davis says, “Wish I could but I don’t have the melody.”
Adam shrugs. “It’s there. You should tease it out.”
Davis’s frame stiffens until he’s rigid as a board. “I’m going to get something to eat.” He stomps out, no doubt wishing he could slam the door behind him.
I wait until the door shuts before turning to Adam. “What’s that all about?”
“Davis wrote some lyrics and now it’s time for him to write the music.”
“He’s never written music before. Not real stuff he’s played in public.”
“Then it’s probably time.”
I furrow my brow. “What game are you playing here? You could whip out a melody in a heartbeat. I know you write hit songs.”
“So?”
“So. Write one for Davis.”
“Then it wouldn’t be Davis’s song anymore,” Adam says. “It’d be mine.”
“Why isn’t it the band’s song?”
Adam bends forward, reaching across to grab one of my cold hands in his. “Because that’s not how it works. Davis wrote this song because he wants to hear his music on television, not because it means something to him. If it moved him, he’d hear the melody, too.”
“That’s a pompous thing to say.” I pull my fingers away and tuck them under my legs.
He slowly withdraws. “It’s the truth.”
We sit in complete silence for a long, awkward moment. Finally he says, “Is this going to be a problem? Because for me, the band thing is separate from what you and I are doing.”
I’m too chicken to ask what that is and too weak to tell him that I’m not interested in him any longer.
“No. It’s not a problem,” I say.
I don’t know whether that’s the truth or a lie.
“Good.” He gives me a heart melting smile. “Because last night was the best night of my life. I can’t wait to repeat it.”
I rub my lips together and squeeze my thighs tight. “Me, too.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Adam
“Are you kidding me with that?” I growl under my breath as I follow Landry down the hall.
“I distinctly remember you saying I should wear skirts more,” she teases.
Good Christ, it’s a miracle I can even walk. I avert my gaze from the long legs on full display underneath the way-too-short skirt. My eyes spot a staff-only door. Instantly I come to a halt and grab her arm.
“What is it—” she begins to say.
I jam the door open and pull her into the room. In the next second, I have her up against the closed door, my mouth all over hers, desperate and rough. She reaches between us and tugs her glasses off.
My hands find her ass and hoist her upward. The skirt slides up easily, and my hands tunnel under a scrap of lace to find her wet and hot.
I groan against her mouth. She holds me tight against her, her thighs bracketing my waist, her arms gripping me firmly around the neck. I dip my fingers into her sex.
“This is perfect. You should wear these all the time.”
“I’m confused,” she pants. “You seemed angry when you first saw me.”
I press the heel of my hand against her clit, and she gives an answering moan. “All the blood in my head drained to my dick. That wasn’t anger. It was lust.”
She rotates her hips as I fuck her with my fingers. I’m dying for a taste of her, but I’m afraid if I put my tongue between her legs, I’ll have to fuck her with my cock and I’ve got to be onstage in five minutes.
“You need to come right now,” I tell her.
“Make me,” she demands.
Oh fuck. She’s so damn hot. My dick grows even harder.
“Like this?” I drag my thumb between her ass cheeks until it catches on that perfect, private hole.
Her breath catches, but she doesn’t move away. I push my thumb in past that tight ring of muscles and that’s all she needs. Two fingers in her cunt and one in her asshole. She cries out and turns her face against the door so her moans are muffled against the wood.
I keep stroking her until the shaking subsides into tiny tremors.
“Fuck, baby, that was beautiful.” I lean forward and kiss her neck. Regretfully I pull my fingers out of her body. She shudders again, her nerves so sensitive.
I spot a stack of paper towels on a shelf. I rip open the package and clean myself off. “Don’t sit with Mike during the set, okay? Come stand in front of the stage.”
“I can’t.” She sighs. “Davis will take one look at me and know what I’m thinking.”
“And what’s that?” I fold a towel and place it between her thighs. I don’t give a damn what her brother thi
nks, but she does. Unfortunately.
She catches my hand and presses it to her. “That you’re the hottest man to have ever walked the planet Earth.”
Nothing wrong with that.
“All right,” I say, slightly appeased, “but stay away from any penises. You look deliciously fucked right now and I’m the only one who gets a taste, right?”
“Definitely yes.”
I want to flip up her skirt again, but I know if I do, I won’t get on that stage tonight. I settle for stroking her hair back from her face and kissing her sweaty forehead. I wrench open the door and leave before my already weak resolve disappears.
“Where the hell were you?” Davis shouts when I reach the stage. “I thought I was going to have to send out an all-points bulletin.”
I throw the strap of the guitar over my neck. “Stomach problems,” I lie.
His brows crash together. “Hope it’s nothing serious.”
“Nope.” Nah, just me fucking your sister in some shitty-ass bar storage room.
I swipe my fingers over all six strings, drowning out any further questions because the only answers I have are ones he doesn’t want to hear.
* * *
I play like a god. The riffs fly off my piece. Even though he’s pissed at me, Davis stops singing in the middle of one of our songs and makes a bowing motion in my direction. The crowd is so hyped that the waves of energy never stop crashing the stage.
My eyes are pinned on Landry, who has found a place in the back, away from TA’s manager. Men are sniffing around her, though, like hungry wolves circling a rare piece of meat. I growl into the mic that she’s mine, all mine, that her kissing, her loving, her touching is mine, all mine.
They don’t move off. My play gets harder, more frenetic, and the set break can’t come soon enough.
“I gotta hit the head,” I inform Ian and shove my guitar in his face. He nearly drops it, and I barely care that my two-thousand-dollar instrument almost cracked on the stage floor.
Unwritten Page 17