A Dirty Wedding Night: A Dirty Rockstar Romance (Dirty, Book 2.5)

by Jaine Diamond

  I was close behind, shaking so hard I thought my clawed hands might slip off the metal rail, but I made it up to the dock, wheezing. I’d never felt anything so shockingly fucking cold. And now the pain was really sinking in.

  Yeah; fuck clothes.

  I ran up the dock as fast as I dared, afraid of slipping in the near-dark, hugging myself so hard I thought my ribs might crack. Brody was on the dock with Jessa, wrapping her in a blanket, but I didn’t see another blanket anywhere and I didn’t stop.

  I heard Zane behind me, roaring as he barreled up the dock. “Holy mother of fuck! My balls are up behind my eyeballs…” He grabbed me by the waist, swung me around, and threw me over his shoulder—like a fucking Neanderthal.

  A scream tore from my lungs, partly out of relief. I should’ve told him to put me the fuck down, like now, but Jesus fucking Christ.

  Never so cold in my life.

  Instead, as he hauled me up the boardwalk, I slapped his bare ass as hard as I could. My hand on his wet cheek made a satisfying smacking sound; I would’ve hoped it hurt, but he was probably in too much pain to notice. “Do not drop me,” I said. “I’m freezing!” Then the deeper dark of the woods swallowed us… and I got hit with a sickening rush of vertigo. “Oh my God, stop!”

  Zane slowed down, but he didn’t stop. “S’okay, Maggs,” he said, teeth chattering. Was that a sign of hypothermia? “I’ll take you to your cabin.”

  “Just s-slow down,” I ordered, my own teeth starting to chatter, and he slowed a little more. “It’s so dark… I can’t see shit except your ass and your f-feet flickering out of the dark. It’s gross.”

  “Just shut up and tell me where your cabin is.”

  “I have a r-room,” I said, “in one of the b-big ones, east of the lodge.”

  “Where the fuck is east?”

  I tried to lift my head, looking around, but I couldn’t see. Everything was passing in disorienting flashes. Snatches of trees and the boardwalk handrail catching the moonlight; pools of light pouring from the windows of cabins or the little yellow lights above the doors. Darkness; moonlight; yellow light; darkness.

  And music. It had to be almost four in the morning, but we weren’t the only ones still up.

  “Jude,” Zane remarked as we passed the cabin where the Stone Temple Pilots’ “Sex Type Thing” was throbbing into the night. “Guy never sleeps. Probably got all the single chicks herded up in there…”

  I didn’t touch that. But clearly “all the single chicks” didn’t include me.

  It really should have.

  Except that I wasn’t single, not technically—and Zane was the only one who knew it.

  He was right about Jude, though. Of all the guys in and around the band these days, it was Jude, our head of security, who was most likely to trash a hotel room—or in this case, a luxury resort cabin. It didn’t bother me, much, as long as he forked over a generous sum to cover the damages in the morning, along with a hefty tip.

  “Whatever,” I said. “Just g-get me to my cabin so I can p-put some pants on before anyone else s-sees me.”

  Because despite what I’d just done, I really didn’t need a bunch of my coworkers seeing me in my wet underwear.

  Somehow, I managed to guide Zane to my door, though we got lost in the labyrinth of the trees several times and had to backtrack.

  He carried me inside, and I stumbled a bit as he put me down, kinda dizzy from the ride as I found my feet.

  I wasn’t drunk; I’d made that mistake with Zane once, and ended up with a hangover in the form of his naked body in my bed, a round of electrifying morning sex, and an engagement ring with a rock the size of Gibraltar. But this had been a long day—especially for me, since I’d helped organize the wedding—and I was wobbly with exhaustion and the painful ache of the cold in my bones.

  Zane caught me, steadying me with his hands on my hips.

  On reflex, my hands clamped onto his arms. We were both shivering as we stood there, frozen, locked together.

  And then, predictably, he moved in.

  We were alone, he was naked, I was near-naked; it really didn’t take much. And he was definitely gonna kiss me.

  Couldn’t fault a guy for trying, right?

  Wrong.

  I dodged and dashed, extracting myself from his grip, and put space between us.

  “You can go now,” I said, hugging myself and hopping up and down. I held his gaze, carefully avoiding his cock. Because yes, he was completely naked. And I really didn’t need to see that.

  Even if I kinda really wanted to…

  “Christ, Maggs, just let me warm up.” He rubbed his hands up and down his arms and barreled past me, shivering.

  “I’m too cold to fight with you, Zane,” I snapped, still hopping around.

  “Then don’t.”

  “Don’t you dare get into that bed all wet!”

  I hurried into the bathroom as he headed toward my bed, emerging with a towel and throwing it at him. He got to work drying off, quickly, trying to warm himself as he rubbed the towel on his body. Not that I was watching…

  Jesus, though. There were women who’d pay for this private show.

  Shrinkage or no, the man was stunning. Lean, tall and blond, his sculpted body all tense and shivering from the cold, muscles twitching and flexing as he ran the towel over his long, hard thighs…

  Video: Zane Traynor towels off after midnight skinny dip.

  Instant viral sensation.

  “You need to go, before I die,” I gritted out between my teeth, still hopping as I turned away.

  He ignored me, heading over to the fireplace. I tried not to peek as he bent down, his bare ass in the air as he rooted through the logs on offer, obviously intending to start a fire. Well, shit. I was hardly gonna stop him from that endeavor.

  “Bloody fuck,” I swore instead, giving up.

  Then I dashed into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me, and blasted the shower on hot. Shaking, I dove right in, then gradually peeled off my wet panties and bra. I was so cold, it took several minutes before the warmth actually soaked in and my body started to register it. But when it did…

  Pure ecstasy.

  “You better quit making those sexy moaning noises…” Zane opened the glass shower door and stepped right into the spray, crowding into me. “If you expect me to keep my hands to myself.”

  I turned my back on him, fast. “Zane! Get the fuck out!”

  “What? I’m warming up. You want me to die?”

  I rolled my eyes and tried to ignore him. Which was totally fucking impossible. I edged forward as far as I could go and still get some of the spray, but he was right behind me. The bulk of his body—his pecs, his thighs, his fucking dick—brushing against me.

  At least he wasn’t hard. Yet.

  “Quit hogging the water, Maggs,” he said, pushing in closer behind me, and I stiffened as more of his body came into contact with mine… just lightly, nudging against me. He shivered violently—setting off a wave of goosebumps on my newly-warmed skin. Then he groaned, long and low, as the heat soaked into him. “Jesus… fuck, that’s good…”

  Fucking hell.

  It was like listening to a live porno, custom-calibrated to my exact fantasies, only inches behind me.

  Worse, his words reminded me of the things he’d said to me, and the way he’d said them to me, that first night we’d spent together.

  Our wedding night.

  “Get warm and get out, Zane,” I said, my tone cool and detached. It was a well-practiced tone, used over many years in Zane Traynor’s presence. The one that said, I’m not buying your shit, when I totally was.

  Because this was the only defense I knew: denial.

  My body was anything but cool as the hot water and Zane’s increasing body heat began to smother me. My brain was no help either. My thoughts raced ahead, full-steam, imagining all the things my body could be doing with his, right now. I berated myself, half-heartedly, for failing to lock the bath
room door. But the truth was, I left it unlocked on purpose. Because apparently that little moron inside me just loved tempting fate.

  So maybe there was no point in even trying to deny it anymore. It was beyond official: I was a masochist, plain and simple.

  When it came to Zane, maybe I’d always been one.

  Maybe I’d always be one.

  He sighed raggedly, a sound of deep contentment. And I couldn’t even pretend that I didn’t like hearing him happy.

  Because again, masochist.

  “Babe,” he said, his voice relaxed and husky in my ear, his breath and his devilish blond beard tickling my neck, “you think turning your back on me is making you any less of a temptation, you’re stupider than I thought.”

  “What!?” I turned my head to skewer him with my eyes.

  He gave me the world’s most charming—yet evil—grin. Because he was messing with me. And I was falling for it.

  And Zane just loved that shit.

  “Whatever,” I grumbled.

  Damn, though. What the fuck was wrong with me?

  I went to one wedding with Zane—well, besides our own—and I turned to useless, horny goo inside?

  I’d promised myself, like pinkie-swear promised, after the last time I let him stick his giant dick inside me and fuck me into the stratosphere that it was the last fucking time. That from that day on, he would be nothing to me but a work associate. A sexless, boring-as-fuck colleague, afflicted with some nasty, putrescent venereal disease.

  Yes, I’d totally made up the VD part—to trick myself into believing that Zane Traynor was way less appealing than he actually was. I’d even convinced myself—as I came down, sweating and shuddering, from that last Earth-shattering, mind-blowing orgasm—that tricking myself might just work.

  Because I was desperate enough to believe it.

  I would’ve believed anything, if I thought it might save me from getting naked with him again.

  And now, here I was.

  Naked.

  With him.

  Again.

  “Take your ‘temptation’ and go, Zane,” I said. “I just wanna be alone.”

  “No, you don’t,” he said, his tongue just happening to lick my neck as he spoke, slowly and lazily, almost like it was an accident. Which maybe it was. Hard be it for Zane to keep his dick in his pants or his tongue in his mouth when wet, naked pussy was to be had.

  “Yes,” I said firmly, “I do.”

  “Okay, how about this…” He edged in closer. His cock, which was now definitely hard, pressed against my butt. “We get warm together, then I go. If you still want me to.” He said it like he didn’t believe for a fucking second that if I let him get me warm, I’d want him to leave.

  He was probably right about that.

  And I fucking hated it that he was right.

  “Just keep that thing away from me,” I grumbled, as the familiar tension built, hot in my core, desire for him surging with an urgency that always threw me off-center.

  Overwhelming.

  Irresistible…

  “What thing?” he prompted, not even feigning innocence.

  I tossed him a dark glare over my shoulder and his wicked pierced eyebrow arched. Water droplets shimmered on his chiseled, godlike face and his dark eyelashes, spiky and wet, made his already-gorgeous ice-blue eyes even more striking. Totally reminded me of how he looked onstage toward the end of a show—his clothes soaked through, his golden skin dripping with sweat…

  So completely unfair that he looked even hotter soaking wet.

  I probably looked like a drowned rat. Or a drowned raccoon; I hadn’t even taken off my makeup.

  “Your dick, asshole. Put it back in your pants.”

  “Why?” he asked, his dick still pressed against me as he smoothed his hands lazily through his wet hair.

  “Because it’s fucking dangerous.”

  “Dangerous?” I turned away but I could still hear the smile in his smug voice. “Just think of it as a loaded gun, babe. Only dangerous if you pull the trigger. And, sweetheart… your hands are on your tits.”

  I dropped my hands. Damn… He made it sound dirty, like I was groping myself, when all I was doing was trying to shield myself from him.

  I couldn’t exactly help it if my nipples had started throbbing as his dick pressed against me, my body going totally fucking haywire in response to his proximity… like it always did when Zane got me alone.

  And I couldn’t fucking take it.

  Three months. That’s how long it’d been since I got off with a man.

  Three. Long. Months.

  Since the last time I let Zane Traynor, my husband but not really my husband, fuck me to hell and back.

  My latest lapse in sanity. Though probably not my last.

  Because I had some sort of sickness. An inability to resist him for more than ninety days. A debilitating weakness for his smoking-hot voice, his cocky swagger, his blue eyes and his big dick.

  Just to name a few.

  Yeah; I glanced back at those blue eyes of his, and I knew it.

  If I didn’t get out of this shower, right now… I was fucked.

  Chapter 2

  Maggie

  I sighed in frustration, and pressed my hands to the shower wall so I wouldn’t touch anything else—Zane’s or mine. And the worst part? He wasn’t even touching me anymore.

  He’d edged back a couple of inches so his dick was no longer feeling me up. It was fully erect, though, pointing at me like an accusation when I glanced back. Heavy, swollen, long, and totally unapologetic. There was nothing at all polite about that dick.

  He knew it, and he didn’t bother covering it up.

  Fuck, but I wanted him inside me.

  “Look…” I said, with some struggle. “You know exactly what you can do with that thing. What you do to women. I’m not gonna sit here on some high horse and pretend I’m immune, but—”

  “Women?” he said, feigning confusion. “Like Jessa?”

  I frowned. “No, not like Jessa, but—”

  “Elle?”

  Right. As Dirty’s bass player and Zane’s longtime bandmate, Elle probably wouldn’t fuck Zane in a last-man-on-Earth scenario. They’d been friends too long, business partners too long, irritated the shit out of each other too long. “Well, no. Not Elle. Just—”

  “Katie?”

  I scowled. Jesse’s new wife was so off limits to Zane it wasn’t funny. And he knew it, too. Jesse would murder him in his sleep if he ever made any kind of serious play for her. “Not Katie. Don’t even fucking say that.”

  “Hey, I’m just trying to follow, Maggs. You said I do something to women. I’m dangerous. Or my dick is. But I just named three women in like a split second who don’t give a shit about my dick.”

  Jesus, the guy was irritating. “Okay, so maybe not all women—”

  “So just you, then.”

  “Right. Just me,” I said in my most sarcastic tone. “Go ahead and play innocent. Put this all on me. I don’t care. Just get your big dick and your six pack and your blue eyes and your devil’s smile the hell out of my shower, and go find someone else to harass.”

  “Harass?” He laughed his cocky laugh. “I’m just showering, babe. Getting warm. You’re the one fixating on my dick.”

  “It’s hard, Zane.”

  “It’s a biological function,” he said, eyelids lowering. He was so totally enjoying the fuck out of this. “I can’t always control it.”

  “I know,” I said, slowly and with all the ice I could summon in all this steaming heat. “That’s kind of the fucking problem.”

  His smile faded, eyes narrowing. “What is?”

  I turned to face him, covering my goods as well as I could with my hands. Not well enough. His gaze fell, molesting every inch of exposed skin.

  “You and your dick,” I said flatly, doing my best to ignore the throbbing between my legs, the way my breasts felt heavy, my nipples fucking ached, and my breathing was getting all
rough and uneven. Because I did know exactly what he could do to me, in seconds, if I let him, and I was already wavering on that precipice between control and total abandon—between caring and totally not caring if fucking the shit out of Zane, right here and now, was a good idea. “The both of you are catnip for horny pussy, and you fucking know it.”

  His eyes lifted to mine. He blinked, once. Then he laughed, his infamous Viking laugh, big, bold and all-conquering, right in my face.

  And for just that split second, control won out.

  “Yeah, I’m going.”

  I darted into the narrow space between his large frame and the glass shower door.

  I didn’t get far.

  He grabbed me by my waist and spun me around, pressing my back up against the tile wall. It was easy. He was big, I was small.

  Plus, I didn’t actually want to go. My control was so quickly abandoned, it was surreal; my head spun as he pinned me there. But I didn’t fight.

  So maybe I just wanted to protest a little before I gave in?

  Shit. Did that make me sick? Kinda felt sick.

  But maybe not in a bad way…

  His fingers dug into my hips and held me tight as he pressed in, and a shudder of nervous anticipation ran through me.

  “Horny pussy…?”

  He wasn’t laughing anymore. His gaze moved slowly down my face, from my eyes to my parted lips, like he was reading me. And I felt totally exposed. He could probably smell my arousal. The man was a total bloodhound when it came to sex and my discomfort.

  And when Zane and I had sex, discomfort was always a part of it—for me.

  Worse, I’d come to learn that my discomfort turned him on. As did my increasingly feeble protests.

  Maybe to him, this was all just a long, slow, sometimes painful game that he was gradually winning.

  But I really couldn’t help any of it. The protests. The struggle. The giving in.

  I wanted him, like I’d never wanted anyone in my life.

  And… I wanted not to want him.

  I was breathing too hard, hanging on by a thin thread. I pressed my hands to the wall behind me, spreading my fingers and trying to dig in, like I could somehow leech onto the tile. But my hips stirred in his hands, restless, and I bit my lip, twisting it in my teeth, hard.