Take Me

by Anna Zaires, Pepper Winters, Skye Warren, Lynda Chance, Pam Godwin, Amber Lin

As his footsteps came closer, she pressed her face into the cushion. Her world narrowed to the smell and feel of leather, to the ache of fear in the pit of her stomach. How much would it hurt? Too much?

  Or even worse, not enough?

  “You went running around the hotel,” he asked, “like this?”

  The way he said like this sounded exactly like completely naked.

  “No one could tell,” she whispered.

  He made a sound of disbelief. “This skirt’s the size of a dish towel.”

  “I crossed my legs.”

  “Jesus,” he muttered, and he sounded angry; he really did. But he also sounded awestruck. Almost grateful, especially when he added, “You really wanted this.” Like he couldn’t believe his luck.

  The first brush of his hand over her ass made her jump. He molded the flesh with a possessive touch, a gentle pinch. Blunt fingers probed inward to her slippery folds. She was ready to take him, slick and swollen just like he’d said. But not dripping. He’d made promises when he had her against the wall, and he owed them to her now.

  A rush of air was her only warning before his palm landed on her ass. Soft enough to be a warm-up, but hard enough to let her know he wouldn’t disappoint. The second came on the other cheek, with slightly more force. He took his time, pulling back and finding a new part of her to abuse. She imagined him watching her skin shudder and turn dark.

  “Your ass looks beautiful likes this,” he said hoarsely.

  Her inner muscles clenched in answer, and as if he heard her, his fingers quested there, searching her out, finding all her secrets. Two fingers circled her clit until she was on the verge of coming. He pulled away. A rush of air, a slap of flesh. There was a rhythm to his madness; of course there was. This rock star who held a stadium of people in his thrall. He could turn anything into music, even the sounds of hurt and longing—especially those.

  Every inch between his hand and her flesh wound her up, drew her tight. Every warm flash of pain let her go. She loosened with each blow, with each turn of his fingers around her clit. He never let up, and she never wanted him to. He was sliding his fingers deep inside her, finding a spot that made her writhe on the slick leather, and she was coming apart.

  She almost didn’t believe the tickle on her leg, how he’d promised her, how he’d delivered. Until he swooped low to lick the trail of arousal, from mid-thigh up to her drenched outer lips, a wet slide along the proof of his words. And at the top he nipped her. She would have shot up then, except for his hand on her lower back.

  “Stay still. I need to fuck you now.”

  He didn’t wait to see if she’d comply. A tear of foil and a rustle came from behind as he slipped on a condom. The broad head of his cock sought her entrance. He pushed inside without delay, demanding and greedy. She felt him part the walls of her sex, felt her muscles clench around him.

  “That’s right. Milk me. Make me spill inside you.”

  Her body tightened helplessly around him. “Lock?”

  He groaned. “Baby.”

  She wasn’t sure what she was asking. All she knew was that they’d almost run out of promises. She’d bent over the couch, and he’d spanked her. He was going to explode, and then what? They were on a speeding train, and she could see the end of the track. Two more days and it would be over. Warm leather caressed her throat as she swallowed.

  He rocked inside her, so careful she knew he was close. All he had to do was let go. All she had to do was close her eyes and pray they’d be okay when it was over. She’d never known that sex could be an act of faith, but now that she was here, beneath him, surrounded by him, she couldn’t imagine any other way.

  He was falling, groaning. He caught himself on the cushion under her, his hand beside her face. His skin glistened in the faint light, sweaty from spanking her, from fucking her. She reached up to grasp his wrist. On a whim, she placed a kiss on the silky skin of his inner arm. He paused behind her, a beat of indecision. A moment of communion.

  Then he was wild, pushing inside her—deeper, harder.

  She held on tight, to the earth beneath her and the wrist in her grasp, sure she could hold it all together. His grunts were tinged with desperation, like he couldn’t get there fast enough. His other hand crushed her hip, holding her down for his invasion.

  He came with a rough sound and short, pulsing thrusts. His body felt rigid, levered off her but connected where it counted. In that moment he was purely carnal, a sexual being who’d found completion. She could almost believe that was all it had meant.

  Almost, except for the gentle kiss he placed on her temple when he sank back down.

  Chapter Ten

  The ringing in his ears didn’t immediately subside. That orgasm had nearly blown the top of his head off. He’d been wound so tight, every slap vibrating up his arm and down to his balls. Pleasure building and building until he had to unzip his pants and fist his cock—squeeze it hard at the base, just to take the edge off—while he worked her over. While he gave her exactly what she wanted, again and again.

  And God, the sounds. The smack of flesh against flesh. The rhythm of moan and whimper. The keen when he slipped his fingers into all that wetness.

  Lost in those sounds, he’d played her like a song.

  He sat on the floor beside the couch, eyes level with her reddened ass, barely able to hear his own thoughts. Just the song. It was so pretty, the melody, and that ass, marked with his handprints. Branded. He reached up to touch his handiwork but hesitated. It would sting. Wasn’t that the point? To make it hurt?

  Not now. Now he wanted to peel her off the arm of the couch and cradle her. Smooth back her sweat-damp hair. Kiss her temple again. All this sweetness welling up. What was he supposed to do with it?

  He’d smacked some asses before, but never like this. Never with such…purpose. He’d wanted to punish her for all the things she’d made him feel. And now that he’d done it, he was feeling even more. Feelings he couldn’t even name.

  Shit. He shook his head, like that would stop the ringing. If it hurt, so be it.

  But it didn’t hurt, not if he judged by her soft mmmm of pleasure or the way she arched into his touch like a kitten. She’d probably curl up in his lap and sleep if he let her, but they were both too sticky for that.

  “Shower.” He hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but once he did, it felt right. He needed to clean up his mess. And clean up.

  “Oh, okay.” The sigh she made, so forlorn, nearly undid him.

  He stroked over the curve of her calf. “I meant for the both of us. Can you stand?”

  He wasn’t even sure if he could stand.

  “Dunno. I’m not feeling very…connected to my body right now. Except for where you’re touching me.”

  “Then I’ll have to keep touching you.”

  He scooped her up and carried her across the room, over the threshold, into the marble-tiled expanse of the bathroom. She was heavy in his arms, a solid weight, despite how small she seemed. Setting her on the edge of the tub, he flicked the water on full blast.

  “Not too hot.” Her voice was soft, dreamy, disconnected. He didn’t know if he should be worried or proud. He thrust his wrist under the jet to test the temperature. Very warm. Exactly how he felt right now.

  He lifted her again and helped her step over the tub. She stood under the steamy spray, rivulets of water running down the length of her body, and shivered. “Don’t leave.”

  Usually needy pissed him off, but with her it loosened something inside him, untied a knot he didn’t know was tangled. He felt so responsible. “Like I said, this is for both of us.”

  He stepped in behind her and grabbed a bottle of shampoo from the little shelf in the wall and filled his palm. Massaged her scalp with the ginger-scented cream as she leaned into his touch. He worked up a lather, let the soap slide down her neck and over her shoulders. He followed the suds with his hands, trailing fingers over the tips of her nipples, down the curve of her waist and over the rise of
her ass. He couldn’t stop touching her. Wouldn’t. He turned her to face him, letting the water rinse away the last of the soap. Finally she opened her eyes. Clear and bright. “Thank you.”

  Almost a sigh, that thank you, such reverence. It was like a hand around his cock. She grabbed the tiny bottle of shampoo he’d used and soaped up her hands. Her touch was light as she smoothed over his slick skin. Soaped his chest. Her fingernails dragging over his nipples, down the xylophone of his ribs, sending electric bursts of pleasure rocketing under his skin. Jesus, he couldn’t think when she was touching him.

  He pinned her palms flat against his chest. “I need to get ready for the show tonight. You should dry off.”

  The look on her face. Pained. Fuck. Without thinking, incapable of thinking, just wanting to erase that look, he released her hands, pulled her close and kissed her so hard she’d have a different hurt to worry about. When she softened in his arms, he let her go.

  She touched her fingers to her lips and stumbled out of the shower without a word.

  * * *

  By the time she emerged from the bedroom, room service had come and gone. A tray of silver dome caps gleamed by the dining table like some sort of trophy, a reward after very good sex. And seated at the head of the table was the victor, wearing only jeans hanging low on his hips.

  She hesitated at the edge of the plush rug. Its thick pile curled over her toes. How could they keep it so white? The robe she wore was white and plush too, everything cloud-like and insubstantial. An image flashed through her mind, a freeze-frame of Julia Roberts wearing a white robe in a hotel room much like this one. Of a lover she hadn’t exactly chosen but who’d chosen her. That situation was different, completely different, because a contract wasn’t the same as a paycheck. And because there was no fairy-tale ending in her future.

  Lock looked up from a notebook he’d been reading. There was a glint in his eye she didn’t quite recognize. Not the curiosity from the first night or the lust glaze from this morning. This was…cold. Clinical.

  Almost mean.

  “Waiting for something?” he asked, and she didn’t know the answer, couldn’t tell him if she did.

  Whatever warmth he’d given her in the shower had evaporated. He’d opened the curtains, and the sun drew his face in bright streaks, remote as a painting. This was him getting ready for a show. This was him pulling away from her. Should she leave? She didn’t want to leave.

  He raised an eyebrow. “You must be hungry.”

  She took a step back at the frost in his tone. “I already ate.”

  “That was breakfast, three hours ago.”

  Had it really been three hours? She was losing time, losing him. Losing herself, and she wasn’t sure where she’d be found again. Outside this hotel, where food was bought with money instead of room numbers? Back home in her two-bedroom apartment, making mac and cheese for supper? But it didn’t have anything to do with what she ate or even how she paid for it—that was the problem. The change was inside her, and she wouldn’t be able to go back to the way things had been.

  His expression softened. “Come here.”

  She crossed the room, feeling a little silly. It was just a meal. Even rock stars had to eat. Nothing sinister or scary about that. He stood and grabbed a cushion from the sofa. Still not scary. He took her by the hand and led her the rest of the way.

  Kind of sweet, actually.

  But he didn’t pull out a chair for her or even let her go to one. He put the cushion down beside his chair. Beside his chair, and her mind latched on to that like a clue. Like a footprint dried in the mud, and here she was with a magnifying glass to follow the trail.

  The next clue was even more telling—the smoking gun of clues. He slipped the robe off her shoulders, leaving her naked and shivering in the sunlight. He was clothed, wearing a black T-shirt that draped his broad chest. His jeans were also black but faded. Meanwhile she was…naked.

  “Lock?”

  He pulled the sash from her robe and caught her hands behind her back. He tied them there, using the sash like handcuffs.

  Pointing to the cushion, he said, “Kneel.”

  “What are you doing?” she asked, her voice shaking. He’d ordered her around before. Into the elevator and over the sofa. He had even spanked her butt, and she’d never felt fear. But this, the act of kneeling, somehow seemed scary in a way the other things hadn’t been. Maybe because his eyes had burned with lust. And now they were opaque.

  He stepped behind her. She could feel the rough hair of his chest on her back. She could feel the abrasive denim against her ass. He completely covered her from behind, leaving the most vulnerable parts of her exposed.

  “Just let me serve you, okay?” he murmured in her ear. “It’s not going to hurt.”

  She found herself nodding even though she didn’t exactly know what she was agreeing to. He was going to serve her, and his service felt terrifying and sublime. It stripped her to ribbons, but he was at her feet. It left palm-shaped bruises on her ass—but his erection pressed against them, soothing all over again.

  If he’d wanted her to deep throat him, she would have been fine. She would have understood. But service? It reminded her of charity and helping hands. And she thought it might hurt after all.

  With his guidance she knelt on the cushion, her hands resting at the small of her back. He took his seat in the dining room chair, seeming a thousand feet tall, so far above her. But he could reach down, and he did, holding out a strawberry he’d plucked from a bowl. She stared at the succulent red fruit, wondering why her heart beat wildly in her chest. She’d taken his sex and his pain, his spanking and his coldness, but taking nourishment from his hand felt like too much.

  “Open your mouth,” he muttered.

  He nudged the berry against her lips, and she opened. Sweetness burst on her tongue, and she swallowed thickly, wondering how she could have changed so much, wondering why she felt so at home with a stranger. Did he do this with all the women who signed his contract?

  He carefully cut a syrupy pancake and fed her pieces from his fork. He ripped off pieces of a croissant and pushed the torn pastry between her lips. When she was thirsty, he helped her drink from a glass of orange juice, wiping a drop from the corner of her lips.

  He looked at her, examining. What did he see?

  She swallowed. “Is this what you want?”

  A silly question. Of course he wanted it—that was why he’d directed her this way. But the other times it had felt natural to her too, a wild dance that clashed together. This was more like a procession, with him at the fore and her following behind. There was more dominance in his studied contemplation of her than in the thrust of his cock in her mouth.

  Her body hummed. Her skin flushed hot and her nipples pebbled under his gaze, even though he mostly looked directly into her eyes. She stared at him too, unable to look away. There were words in those looks, but not the kind she could say out loud. These were messages in a bottle, cast out to sea and found years later, when she’d be ready to have them read.

  His erection hadn’t ebbed during the meal. It jutted up beneath his jeans, proud and urgent. Her mouth watered to taste him. To drink him down.

  He laughed softly. “You’re eager, aren’t you? But I have to get ready for my show.”

  It came as a surprise that this wouldn’t end in sex. That was the only reason she let loose such a sound of disappointment. And embarrassment too. Without sex, her nakedness just felt…obscene.

  He knelt in front of her, lifting her chin with two fingers. His eyes studied hers. “You’ll be at the show tonight, won’t you?”

  She didn’t want to go to the show. Didn’t want to see a hundred thousand girls throw their panties at him. Didn’t want to see him pour his heart out to them in song. But the way he had invited her sounded just like the question let me serve you, okay? And though it couldn’t have mattered if she came, though she couldn’t matter to him, she knew he’d be disappointed if she said
no.

  “I’ll be there.”

  His slow smile was satisfied. “Good.”

  He untied her hands and rubbed them briskly until the tingles subsided. She dressed in the bedroom, leaving him tapping his pen over ink-smeared notes and lyrics. She had things to do between now and then anyway, people to question. Puzzles to solve, and not just the question of Chloe’s lover. There were more questions in her mind, multiplying, dividing. Tripping over themselves until she envied Lock’s undivided focus on his notes.

  Only when she had gone downstairs did she realize he hadn’t eaten a thing.

  Chapter Eleven

  Stage fright. He hated it. Hated the sick swirl in his belly. The prickle in his palms. The irrational pound of his pulse. Stupid. He slipped his hand into his pocket, searching by touch for that soothing patch of plastic. His jaw clenched, molars grinding, when he remembered that it wouldn’t be there.

  “Looking for something?” Moe grinned, a flash of orange wedged between his teeth.

  “Give.” He held out his hand, and Moe leaned forward like he was going to spit the damn thing into his outstretched palm. He didn’t care. He’d take it, if it meant having his pick back before the show. He wasn’t superstitious about much, but he’d had that guitar pick in his pocket for every single show since he’d been sober. It had been the only thing left in his possession the morning after rock bottom. The only thing he’d taken with him to rehab. He’d turned it over and over in his fingers during group therapy. During the long, lonely hours when he’d had nothing to do but think about wanting a drink, about never having another drink again, about only not drinking today. There was something about touching it that calmed him, let him step onstage, when for years the only way to get there was to drink half a bottle of Jim Beam. He didn’t want to fuck with that kind of luck.

  “Just kidding. Only candy.” Moe opened his mouth wide for inspection. “Speaking of candy, your girl looks sweet.”

  He turned to follow his bandmate’s leer. And she did look sweet. Standing by the craft services table talking to one of the roadies. Interrogating, probably. She had on a little black dress. Emphasis on little. It stretched tight over her body, revealing every dip and curve. He could just see the outline of her underwear. Can’t have that.