On stage, bound by beaming spotlights and the gazes of everyone at his feet, Garret stars.
It is alchemy coming from his throat. He is conducting the transformation of our every-day boringness into a shared bliss that wraps everyone here tightly together. With every note, every hum, every twitch of his hand or gyration of his hips, he obliterates the mold that pins us into the normal and the anxious. Freed from it, the crowd is speechless, like a baby deer taking its first steps. We knew to expect it – we had all experienced it before – but every time that Garret unbinds us, liberates us, the shock of suddenly realizing that we are free from the rigidity of our obligations takes a long time to register.
He is gentle with our hesitancy, though, endlessly urging us to leap in it, to pirouette in the emancipation. He shows us how – on stage, he dances with electricity, sometimes fluid, sometimes jerkily spastic, but always unburdened.
I feel so lucky to have known him, to have touched him, to have let my eyes sweep over his form and be able to reach out and lay a finger on something that could change me so much.
The music rises and consumes me like a tidal wave. Together, the crowd and I are battered about as we cascade from note to note, from song to song, from emotion to emotion; Completely beyond our control but blissful in surrendering the responsibility to move ourselves the way we thought we must. The only trick is to open up to it.
I look onstage, see Garret’s lips parted slightly in the midst of a long slow note, and know that I am as wide-open as I can be.
I wonder again how I ever lived before this.
***
I peek my head around a corner backstage and see Garret, seated on a couch and laughing with a couple of his bandmates. He sees my craning head and beckons me over with a smile. I oblige.
He does a double-take as I approach, his eyes jolting wide as they glimpse the entirety of my body. I am clad in a tight black dress that barely grazes the tops of my thighs, shoulders bare, white skin glinting in the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights overhead.
His gaze drinks me in from head to toe. My hair, curling in finger-tooled waves, pours down my shoulders and splays in the valleys of my cleavage. The dress squeezes my waist and hips into an outrageously curvy parabola, while the legs jutting out from beneath the hem of my fabric roll along thick contours into spiky, black leather pumps that add four inches to my height.
I had spent hours getting ready. The obvious desire exuding from his eyes justifies my effort. The two men on either side of him have fallen silent, too. The same kind of libido is oozing from their pores.
“I wasn’t sure if this was the right dress for the occasion… What do you think?” I demure, batting my eyelashes girlishly. I spin in place slowly, pausing with my ass towards them and leaning forward ever-so-slightly so that my curves strain against the fabric dangerously.
They all stammer, unsure of what to say. Garret’s voice is low. “I think it’s perfect,” he says. He rises from his seat and reaches for my hand. I lace my fingers between his – porcelain against bronze.
“Gentlemen.” He bows mockingly towards each of the other men, “I will catch up with you later.” He turns to me. “Miss Sutton, would you care to accompany me to the tour bus for a brief respite?” He arches an eyebrow. I giggle and nod, biting my lip. His eyes flash before he turns and tugs me down the hallway in a hurry. I follow behind him on my heels, laughing.
***
The inside of the tour bus is dark and lavish. Mirrored surfaces scatter our reflections everywhere, so that every time I turn, I see Garret’s face, its lines drawn in perfect sharpness, or my own, looking at him with an intense heat.
We walk towards the back, where a bright-red backpack is perched on a vacant seat. He pulls me around so that our chests touch and I am looking up into his eyes. The emerald hue is deep tonight, his pupils dilated and searching. The trademark grin is seared on his face as I count his teeth and imagine running my tongue over every one of them.
“The show was incredible,” I whisper. “Your best ever.”
“Thanks.” His voice is silky. I shiver at the sound of his voice so close to me. After seeing the way the crowd had worshipped him on stage, it is like having a god reach down and caress me. Tingles race down my exposed spine.
The silence between us palpitates with tension as we stare into each other’s eyes. Hunger, heat, shadows, roars – all of it unspoken and present in the middle of the space where the soft sounds of our breathes co-mingle.
His voice doesn’t break the silence so much as it prods it, slithers through it, envelops it and makes it his own. “So the show was a hit. Should we celebrate properly?” He asks.
Now it is my turn to arch an eyebrow. Sensing my confusion, he gestures towards the backpack behind us. My heartbeat quickens.
“I...I don’t know,” I say. My bravado shrinks a notch.
“Don’t worry.” He squeezes my shoulders. “It’s all going to be fine. We’re just going to have a bit of fun. I’ll be here. You can trust in me. I’m not going anywhere.”
His voice strokes at my fear, soothing it, calming me, although a current of uncertainty still runs at the base of my throat and stomach.
Garret unzips the backpack and withdraws a small plastic baggie. It contains two brightly colored tablets, emblazoned with the logo of a bumblebee. He plucks them out between delicate fingers.
“Come here.” He gestures. I gnaw at my lip but sidle towards him anyway. He drops to a seat and motions for me to sit on his lap. Quickly, he downs one pill, then places the other on his outstretched tongue. Encircling my head with one brawny arm, he pulls my face into his.
Our mouths meet. The familiar warmth and texture of his lips is the cure to my panic. His tongue slips past my teeth and I can feel the weight of the pill slide down. With a hesitant gulp, I swallow.
The kiss deepens. My tongue lashes at his, playing with it. His fingers toy at the back of my neck. Deep in my chest, I feel my longing for him swell. His touch draws away the remnants of my fears and I press further into him, my breasts squeezing against his chest.
The kiss seems to last forever and when the ecstasy of the pills takes hold, fireworks seem to explode in my vision. The world shatters into colorful, revolving patches, a kaleidoscope of sound and motion, whirling, distorted, ravaging, beautiful. My perception of the kiss multiplies and deepens into layers that contradict one another. Garret’s lips are soft -- cloud lips, rain lips, the lips of the horizon meeting the ocean. The salt of his tongue is sharp and sprinkled around the edges of the sensation, while his fingers plucking and petting at the nape of my neck feel like birds’ wings fluttering gently over my skin.
The entirety of my body is alive and craving -- craving touch, his touch, his love, his wanting, his passion, his heat, his grin, his manhood. The warmth between my legs flowers infinitely.
Like I had been when I was leaving Bellamy’s office, I am weightless, prone to lifting off the ground at any moment. The tide of emotion in my chest is overwhelmingly light. It draws me up and into Garret’s embrace. The kiss we are sharing is sloppily perfect, as is the feeling of fingertips scrabbling at the folds of each others’ clothing.
I rip his shirt over his head and lean back for my eyes to consume his body. The rippling muscles, the skin stretched in bronze relief and the shadows that dance, dance as we rock back and forth with the intensity of the moment – all of it shimmers before me like frozen music.
I pause for a moment like that, with our bodies separated. A nagging thought trickles through my head: Old Jodie would never have done this. I consider where I am – half-naked and clearly pre-coital in the tour bus of a budding rock star, blindly trusting him as he feeds me unknown drugs. Old Jodie would never have done this. I am swept up in my lust for Garret, but the thought won’t go away. Old Jodie would never have done this. The multi-colored, fractured world spinning before my eyes only adds to the delirious confusion.
I put a hand on his chest. “Garr
et…” I say uncertainly. “I’m not so sure about all this.”
He pauses, cocks his head to the side to take stock of my concern.
“Babe,” he murmurs. “Do you trust me?”
I nod. “Of course.”
“Do you love me?”
He has never asked me that before. I have refused to let myself think about it until now, wondering if love was even a label that could be applied to the relationship between Garret and me.
I open my mouth and hear myself say, “Of course.”
There, it has been said. The words hang in the air – I can see them, spelling out in colors and flashes of sweet-tasting light.
“Of course I do,” I repeat.
He grins. “Then you’ll be safe with me. I’ll take care of you, Jodie.” His eyes glimmer.
Tenderly, Garret pulls my chest towards his mouth. I let my head loll backwards as I focus on savoring his tongue flicking down the line of my neck, over my collarbone, plunging between my breasts. I shrug off the shoulders of my clinging dress, exposing my breasts.
He suckles at each nipple, drawing slowly and strongly on one while he gently squeezes the other with his hand. Back and forth, back and forth he goes, his tongue tracing calligraphy over my bare skin. It's like nothing I've felt before. Is it the drugs that are taking me to these dizzying heights or is it Garret? I don't know. I can't tell. Only a single thought races through my mind.
More.
He leans me in that position, back arched, head lifted, breasts open to the air.
“Stay just like that,” he urges.
Reaching into the backpack again, he grabs a small vial and taps out a crumbly white powder onto the arc of one breast. Pressing a finger against his nostril, he vacuums it up.
The powder disappears.
Garret leans back and coughs, beating a fist against his chest. He catches his breath and draws in deeply with his lungs.
“Here, you try.” He exhales, grinning. He grabs a key from his pocket and digs a small lump out of the vial. Holding it up to my nose, he tells me to pinch one nostril and inhale with the other.
My stomach is churning. The colors and shapes swimming before my eyes are nauseating, sickening. I want to vomit.
Trying to calm myself, I take a deep breath, just like Garret had. The cool air of the bus floods my brain and slows my pounding heart. Get a hold of yourself, I think.
I look down at the cocaine on the end of the key. Garret’s eyes are gentle but imploring.
“It’s all good, babe. You’ll love it, I swear. And I’m right here with you." His voice isn't hovering near my ear. It's inside me, urging--no, begging--me to take that final step.
Old Jodie would never have done this.
I lean forward, pinch my nose, and do the bump.
The second it hits my bloodstream, all hell breaks loose. The colors that had been pleasantly murmuring at the edges of my vision vibrate, then implode, like someone had thrown a bomb through a stained glass window. My skin shudders, contorts, writhes with an unfamiliar force. My eyelids are wide open.
I rock violently back and forth in Garret’s arms. He is biting my neck and whispering into my ear, “Ride it out, baby, ride it out, it’ll be okay in just a second.”
I remember sticking a fork in an electrical socket when I was six years old. The feeling of invisible hands yanking me around then was similar to the loss of control I felt now. I am being thrashed around from the inside, from the outside, from every angle and force in the universe. Physics and colors rebound in and through me.
Then, like breaking through the surface of water in which I had been drowning, sheer euphoria replaces the terror. Light streams from every reflection in the mirror, from every brilliant white edge of Garret’s teeth, from the depths of his shaggy blond hair. His eyes are rippling with motion that defies explanation but enchants me, draws me in.
As soon as I look at him with half-lidded eyes that hint at the depth of my passion, he knows we are together. He knows I am with him, with every fiber of my being.
His tongue plunges into my mouth again. I claw back at him, trying to pull him closer, closer. I want every cell of him to touch every cell of me. I want his warmth to be my warmth. I want his heartbeat to propel mine. I want more than just his voice inside me. I want everything. The thought comes again.
More.
Our hands rip one article of clothing off after another. His shoes go flying; my heels are savagely torn off and discarded. He yanks down the zipper on the back of my dress until the once-taut garment sags, held up only by the jutting cliffs of my broad hips and meaty thighs.
Garret’s eyes are roaming over my body with each newly exposed piece of skin. His hands follow, tracking down the smooth porcelain texture of my arms, my breasts, my stomach, my thighs, until one exploratory fingertip grazes the subtle sensitivity of my moist slit.
I gasp; colors whirl. The ecstasy and cocaine and the furor of my emotions are mixing together so powerfully that I can barely sustain the tide. Waves of pleasure ripple from the point where his finger is churning slow circles against my hypersensitive clit.
Looking for purchase, for balance, for something to stabilize my reeling mind and body, I rub my hands down the thick hardness of his chest and his abs. I yank off his belt, undo the clasp and zipper of his pants, and strip him of the garment.
We are standing now; I don’t know when that happened. I slither down to my knees, letting my mouth trickle against his muscles as I go down. His manhood is pressing an insistent bulge against the fabric of his boxers.
I lay a hand against it, stroke gently, barely. He moans and laces his fingers behind my head, urging me forward.
I look up at him and grin mischievously. “Not so fast,” I say. The words coming from my mouth are spiked with a chemical sexuality, a raw kind of teasing hunger that I didn’t know I possessed. The drugs hadn’t created it; rather, they had drawn it out of me from a spot in my brain that I never knew existed.
He moans again. I lick the fabric above his shaft, lathing heat and moisture playfully upon him.
“Please,” he whimpers. The magic word.
I unsheathe his manhood and take it into my mouth, lap my tongue against the engorged head. His cock is standing at rigid attention as I bob and suck. Garret pulls my dress off; now, I, too, am naked, on my knees on the floor of the tour bus.
The same, well-worn thought crosses my mind – Old Jodie would never have done this. I look up at Garret, see the open-mouthed pleasure scrawled across his face, and decide that I don’t give a fuck.
I slurp against him, then rise and stare Garret in the eye.
“Make me moan.”
He moves quickly, throwing me back against the row of seats behind us. He falls to his knees, spreads my legs, and dives in, the fat width of his tongue causing earthquakes of bliss to tremor from my dripping cleft. I lose track of how many times I near the brink of an orgasm and fall back again, over and over.
My eyes are dilated wide. Rays of light flood in from every angle as if it were emanating from him, as if he were creating it, as if he were a conduit for light to come from somewhere far and foreign for the sole purpose of piercing my eyes now and making me want him as badly as I do. I am craving him, needing him, wanting him closer and closer to me. I want him to meld with me so I can soak up every ounce of everything he is and everything he means.
He represents the flight I am feeling, the flight I felt when I told Bellamy to fuck off, the flight I felt when I left his office and imagined soaring between skyscrapers.
He slides into me. I wrap my legs around him and pull him deeper. My body swallows him whole, absorbs him. As he starts to thrust, every stroke sends me higher and higher, draws more and more of the ballast from my thoughts. I bury my head against a seat cushion and heave the loudest moan I can – anything to dispel the sheer overwhelming power of the feelings from Garret’s cock fucking me and the drugs running in torrents through the canals of my brain.
Garret is fire, Garret is flight, Garret is freedom. Garret is fucking me and I am becoming all of those things as long as he is in me and with me.
Together, we soar like birds.
***
I wake up the next morning, or maybe it isn’t morning. The sun is filtering through my blinds at the wrong angle for it to be morning.
I check my clock; it reads five in the afternoon.
I blink, rub my eyes, and check again. Still five. Panic hits me like a truck.
Devil's Angels Boxed Set: Bikers and Alpha Bad Boy Erotic Romance Page 45