Crazy Love

by Madelynne Ellis

  “Then we’d best just keeping knocking heads.”

  “I know what I’d like to do with your head.” She wets her lower lip with her tongue and then grazes her teeth over the moist surface.

  Fuck! I’m stupidly horny, and I don’t care if I explode right now.

  We spiral out of control together as we hit the crescendo of this musical outpouring and abruptly bring it to a close. We’re both breathless at the end. Loveday’s eyes are shining, the blue of them is almost electric.

  “Fucking brilliant,” she gasps.

  Damn right.

  I raise my right hand and we slap palms together, but then instead of parting contact our fingers somehow interlock. I lean in, and at the same time so does she. Her lips meet mine. Fuck knows how that happens, but it does, and it’s addictive. A jolt of electricity runs straight through my spine connecting all my pleasure centres and making the hair across my body stand on end. What we’re doing isn’t just dangerous, it’s fucking insane. We’re going to unleash an absolute shit storm if another member of Bitch Slap or Paradise Kiss walks in right now. But neither of us pulls away.

  She tastes so damn sweet that I’m hooked on her within seconds. Knox can keep his smokes. I’ve found my drug of choice, and there’s no tearing away from her. I refuse to give her up, even at the sound of guitar strings sliding against one another. She’s worth a scratch or two on my favourite instrument.

  She’s the one to stop things, albeit only long enough for us to remove the wooden barriers between us so that we can truly get up close. Her fingers tangle in my hair, while my hands slide down her back and over her arse, pulling her tight against me, giving the monster in my pants some well-earned loving. He’s literally desperate to get out of the trap he’s wedged into and bury himself somewhere wet and warm.

  “Are you always this easy, Mr. Darke?”

  Cheek—because if I’m easy, then so is she.

  “I think you’re mistaking me with my brother.”

  “Not bloody likely given all I’ve heard about him from Jessie. In any case, I’m not sure he’d have been nearly as appreciative of my talents.”

  “What talents are those?”

  She purses her lips, then smiles and slides her tongue over her lower lip again. “My musical ones, obviously.” She looks me in the eyes, daring me to challenge her.

  “You mean you can play an instrument.”

  “I can play your instrument.” She flashes a glance at my Gretsch, and I can’t deny she certainly made her sing. Then her gaze falls to the pronounced bulge in my pants. “The pink oboe’s always been a favourite too. Want a demo?”

  Fuck! Jesus fucking fuck!

  Want—of course I want, but this can’t happen, not while Paradise Kiss’s future hangs in the balance, not when I’m supposed to be composing this generation’s anthem. I need to back off, and keep my dick in my pants, and yet when her hand strays towards my fly, I don’t stop her. She unzips me, touches me with her string-roughened finger tips, and I know she sees exactly what affect it has on me, because I’m the proverbial open book right now. I can’t hide anything—not from her. I don’t want to hide from her. I want her hands on me, her lips wrapped around me. I want my tongue in her mouth and her luscious tits pressed against my chest. Actually, I just need to see them.

  I wrench up her top, exposing her bra. Loveday raises her arms, and I pull the whole thing over her head and cast it aside. I trace the blue lace around the top of one satiny cup, then circle her tightly steepled nipples with my thumbs. Her breath escapes as a hiss.

  This is it, time to stop pretending. Balance hangs by a thread, we can still choose to walk away, but we don’t. Holy fuck, we don’t.

  “Another Darke with a breast fetish?” she remarks.

  When the breasts in question are as full and round as hers, you damn well bet.

  “May I?” I reach for the back fastening, not bothering to wait for a nod. If she wasn’t up for this, she wouldn’t have her hand wrapped around my shaft and be torturing me with little rhythmic squeezes.

  I chuck the rigid wire and lace contraption. Pretty as it is, what it was concealing is far more entrancing. Her breasts are heavy. They fill my hands. The nipples are a pretty rose colour, huge even when erect, and they’re like towers without the need for me tweaking them. Naturally I tweak them anyway, because I’m male and some things I just can’t resist. Fingers aren’t enough though. They are only the start. I lower my mouth—suck. The noise she makes gives me as much of a thrill as the taste of her.

  “Seriously, are you gonna fuck my tits?”

  “Idea of a pearl necklace turn you on?”

  I expect a retort, but instead she swallows slowly and her hold on my cock becomes feathery, losing its precision metronome perfection of sliding downwards and then pulling up so that her thumb swirls over the sensitive head. Yeah, I think Loveday Trevaskis is made crazily horny by the notion of me using her cleavage and painting my spunk all over her. I don’t know if this is mutual respect, love, admiration or what we’re feeling. I’m not sure it actually matters, only that there’s a pressing need that’s gripped us both and has to be satisfied. Hell, I don’t care if it turns out to be a method of point scoring and nothing else if it means I get to spend a few minutes with my cock cradled in her cleavage.

  “Thought I was demonstrating my musical talents.”

  I’m pretty sure she’s already done that, but if she really wants to put her lips where I think she does, then I’m not complaining. “Don’t let me stop you.”

  She falls onto her knees and pulls my jeans and trunks down to my thighs. She circles her hand around the base and angles me towards her lips.

  Sheesh! I can’t take my eyes off her face.

  God, she’s beautiful—blonde hair, full of glitter that shines when the spotlight catches it, eyes openly adoring. I don’t think she’s really that enamoured of me, but I revel in the fantasy that she is my number one fan, and that this is the future, when I’ve made the big time, and girls getting down on their knees for me has become the norm.

  There’s nothing wrong with a bit of shameless self-glorification now and again.

  I wonder how many rock stars have actually been blown on stage under the heat of a spotlight. I bet it’s fewer than you’d think, and I doubt any of them felt half so desperate or out of their depth. I’m careening out of control, when I like to be in control, but this lady plays havoc with my internal circuitry. When she sets her tongue to work, it takes me every bit of grit I possess not to come apart immediately. It’s too good, this sensation of slipping inside of her and being enveloped in her heat. She’s not wrong about her talents. I reckon she’s easily a grade eight. I’m going to come at lightning speed if she keeps dancing her tongue over the tip of me like that, so I curl my fingers around her shoulders and push her down onto the floor. Straddled across her, I lift her heavy breasts and squash them together.

  What a tableaux we make, her stretched out and naked from the waist up, and me with my arse bared and my cock nestled between her tits. It’s the sort of scandalous shot the paparazzi love. Good thing that neither of us are famous enough to stalk yet. Though that could be about to change.

  “Do it, then,” she says, hands scratching at my thighs.

  I lean forward—her breasts are big enough to enfold me completely—and dive into pillowy heaven.

  Thrust and retreat

  What would be truly fantastic would be if I could figure out a way of doing this and getting my tongue between her thighs at the same time. Sadly, I’m no contortionist. And I suspect this is going to be short lived anyway.

  Case in point—she watches the tip of my cock when it breaks free of the soft prison and sticks her tongue out to lap at it.

  That’s it. A few such strokes and I’m done for. I come over her—in her mouth, on her chin and in her hair. The best bit is that she doesn’t protest the mess, just rubs it away, then wipes her hand down the front of my T-shirt, before usin
g the same bit of cotton to reel me in and seal our mouths together again.

  “I like your come face,” she says. “Christ—look at your eyes, so fucking green.”

  I’m surprised it’s my eyes she was paying attention to, or maybe I’m not. She’s staring right into them now. I wonder which of my secrets she’s unearthing, and I’m not sure I care.

  I just want to kiss her.

  I want to fuck her.

  Bring her pleasure.

  But when I reach for the waistband of her jeans, she stops me from releasing her fly.

  “Not on a first date.”

  Interesting. So she doesn’t put out in the way the guys would have me believe. I don’t attempt to twist her arm, coercion isn’t my style. Instead, I respect the boundaries she’s set and stay outside of her pants. I use my thumb instead, and trace a path downwards to the seam that sits right between her legs, then I use the knot of denim to massage her clit.

  “Oh!” Her mouth becomes rounded, but I kiss her some more, so her subsequent sharp breaths are breathed into me. Her hips jig a little, getting me into exactly the right spot. I know when that is, because her focus becomes intense.

  “Are you wet for me? I bet the itty bitty panties you have on are a sodden mess. I bet you’ve creamed all over them, and now you’re all slippery and wet and desperate for something to ride. I’d like to put my tongue into you. I want to taste you.” The little strangled sounds she makes tell me I’m on the right track. I lean closer, whisper right into her ear. “Is the devil on your shoulder saying, “fuck…fuck…fuck” and the angel on the other reciting hail Marys?”

  “The only devil around here is you.”

  I graze her earlobe with my teeth. “Flattery will get you everything.”

  “I don’t fuck on a first date, no matter how much I want to.”

  “But I’m tempting the hell out of you, right?” It’s a rhetorical question. I don’t actually need an answer, because she’s beneath me, and I can feel the heat of her skin, and see the blush across the top of her breasts. Her body rocks, hips lifting to maintain the contact with my hand, pressing, giving her the friction she needs, exactly where she needs it.

  “You’ve done this before,” she crows, breath sharp and unsteady.

  “Fucked on stage? I haven’t, actually.” I know that’s not what she meant. She means what I’m doing with my hand and fingers. And the truth is yes, I may have had a little bit of practice. Sex doesn’t always have to consist of plain old bump and grind. There are thousands of ways to get a woman off. I’m not going to pretend I’ve tried them all, but I have mastered a few, particularly the most important one. Engage the brain. Sex has to be more than just mechanics.

  “How big is your clit?” I ask. “Does it get enormous when you’re turned on, and stand up all hard and eager? Is it standing up for me right now?” I find it through the denim and work it smoothly with my thumb.

  “Oh fuck,” she says, trembling. “Just there.”

  “Here?”

  “Yeah…Nate...”

  I turn so that I’m looking right at her again.

  “Oh, God!” She breaks apart right beneath me, shivers rolling through her body, and her back arching up off the floor. Her head tips backwards, and I bite her chin as it points up at the ceiling. I stay right with her as she rides the wave.

  “I like your come face too,” I tell her, before dropping a kiss onto the tip of her nose, and then pressing another to her lips. Her arms wrap around me and we roll into the darkness at the side of the stage.

  Only in the shadows do we break apart.

  Well, kind of, because her hands are still on my torso, holding me at arm’s length as if she’s not sure whether to push me away or drag me closer for another round of tongue wars.

  “What are we doing?”

  “Fuck if I know.”

  “We have to stop.”

  “That’d be wise.”

  “I’m not sure I’m very wise. I shouldn’t have come in here.”

  “Bollocks. It’s the best thing anyone has done all night.”

  She grins so that her canines make an appearance. They’re sharp little points, like there’s a bit of Tepes blood in her, although her accent is pure Cornish without a hint of Wallachia. “Yeah, but…Soon.”

  I nod, because I know. In a few short hours Graham Callahan is going to destroy whatever it is that’s growing between us by pitching us head to head in a fight to the death—I’m picturing battle of the bands, Hunger Games style. Wonder if I’m going to be throttled with a guitar string, smashed over the head with snare or just smothered to death feasting between the thighs of one of the best bass players on the planet. Yes, I rate her that highly, and dying while buried in her muff doesn’t seem such a bad way to go.

  “I ought to go and let you get back to your composition.”

  My composition—the one I hope to destroy her with tomorrow. Yeah, I do actually need to get back to that, which means I need to stuff all this high emotion that’s bubbling between us into a vault and sink it to the bottom of a lagoon. This is absolutely the wrong time in my life to be getting doe-eyed over a girl. I reckon I’ve just about packaged it up, when she leans in and then it’s all wet and heady between us again.

  I want to cling on and wind her up to orgasm number two, but then something else besides desire rears its head, something ugly, and irate. Why is she here toying with my feelings like this, turning a straight forward fight into something that’s too emotionally fraught for words? Isn’t it enough that I’ve Knox to pin down and knock into shape, a wayward brother who can’t keep his dick in his pants and only wants to make it because it’ll get him more pussy, not to mention a bee in my ear buzzing away with Joel Ashton’s voice about doing whatever it takes? He’s going to call me every name under the sun when he finds out about this.

  Man enough to screw her, but not to employ her—fucking hell, Nate! Couldn’t you do it the other way around, and screw Knox?

  Knox is already screwed. He has been for years. He doesn’t need me adding to his woes.

  But even pushing that aside, I’m an idiot for letting her distract me like this. Everything is dependent on me having this song finished, and while I have her cradled in my arms there’s no bass track being written.

  There’s still sparks firing between us and zapping off in all directions, but I make the decision to stop this and salvage what remains of the night. Initially, when I pull away, she tries to hold on and draw me into another kiss.

  I shake my head. It can’t happen. I need to get on, find Knox, and make music. “You ought to go, before anyone stumbles in here.”

  She sucks her bottom lip. “Yeah. I mean, we should all be heading to bed.”

  Given the hour, she’s not wrong, but I’ve no intention of stumbling upstairs.

  “We could walk to the lift together.”

  That’s a terrifically stupid idea. I give my head another shake. I can see from the way her shoulders slump that she doesn’t care for my response.

  “See you in the morning.”

  Unfortunately.

  I refuse to let myself watch her dress. What just happened can’t happen again. I can’t let myself get attached to her. It was a moment of madness that’s all. Nothing good can come of something deep and meaningful blossoming between us—absolutely nothing. The last thing I need to be feeling when we play for Callahan is guilt that I might be robbing her of the chance of a lifetime.

  Dressed, she plants herself right before me. Too close for comfort, but not nearly as close as I actually want her.

  “Are you going to say anything at all to me?” she asks,

  What’s to say? I respond with silence.

  “Fair enough, but just in case you happen to think of something.” She writes her phone number on my fore-arm, backwards and upside down, which is an accomplishment for definite.

  “For what possible reason could I need this?” I’m pretending, trying to convince myself the ta
ste I’ve had of her so far is enough.

  She sees right through me. “The universe works in mysterious ways.”

  “So what, you’re gonna have my back if we wake to the zombie apocalypse?”

  She laughs and walks away. “I was hoping for a better bit than your back.”

  “Big toe?” I respond. “A hand?”

  I don’t get a reply. Instead, I hear the door to the function room swing closed, and I’m left staring at the numbers inked onto my arm, and resisting the urge to call right away.

  -7-

  Loveday Trevaskis

  I’m a damned idiot. As if getting entangled with him and letting him fuck my breasts wasn’t stupid enough, I go and write my number on his arm. He’s supposed to be the enemy, the demon of darkness according to Jessie, but I confess I’m struggling to see Nathaniel Darke in that way. Oh, I dare say he has a fuck of a mean streak, but I can be a vicious bitch myself if the occasion demands, and there’s just something about him that grabs me by the vitals and reels me in. It’s not a single thing, and its nothing so shallow as his looks. Although, I won’t deny there’s plenty there to appreciate, what with his chartreuse-green eyes, cheekbones that you could ski off and hair that’s all fringe and spikes. It’s the whole maddening package.

  I breathe deeply and realise I can smell his scent on me. Hardly surprising given he splattered me with his axle grease. I’ve never thought having a guy come on me would be such a turn on, but it was fucking hot watching him hump my breasts.

  If we ever make a video for Perverted Tit Fucker, then we ought to get the Darke brothers to do cameos. Actually, what the hell, I’m good with it just being Nate humping my tits for three minutes. I reckon it’d go viral, and Bitch Slap would have ourselves a platinum disc within a week.

  I head into the ladies’ bathroom to straighten up my clothes and wash the scent of him off my skin before I track down Jessie and Ivy. There’s no sense in advertising what happened. No good will come of it, but at the same time, I refuse to feel guilty over something that gave me such an impressive high. There aren’t that many guys who have got me off, and none of them have done it without a heck of a lot of pussy-worshiping first.