Plucked (Classical Badboys Duet Book 1)

by MV Ellis

  “Not exactly the boardroom, but I really want to fuck you on it—and over it—anyway.”

  She hadn’t taken her gaze from mine the whole time I’d been walking her further into the room, and her eyebrows shot up when she registered my words, and the backs of her legs connected with the table.

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yes really.” I pressed my lips hard to hers, demanding entrance to her mouth. She didn’t hesitate, granting me access instantly, while extending her tongue to explore me at the same time. Then it was on—lips, tongues, teeth and hands roaming everywhere they possibly could. I noted the rash of goosebumps that had spread across her body, and loved knowing that I’d been the one to do that to her.

  We made light work of removing our clothes, with little regard for what would survive the onslaught. They were just clothes, and I wanted her way more than I wanted buttons on my shirt. I was too impatient to wait for her to remove her panties, so as soon as she’d taken off her tight black sequined pants I was back on her, stroking and squeezing her tits, then bending down to lick, suck and bite her nipples—hard.

  “Aargh, Jesus.” Her body jolted, and I couldn’t help but smile. I loved the fact that she was so affected by my touch. Call it a power trip, but I took pleasure in knowing I had the ability to make her feel that way.

  “Lie down. I’m gonna make you see Jesus for real.” I knelt down on the floor, stretching out one hand to gently lower her backward. She didn’t hesitate, arching her back against the cold marble.

  I pulled her panties aside, quickly pressing my mouth to her clit and flicking it with my tongue before sucking.

  “King…” She pulled her knees up, resting her feet on the edge of the table, giving me better access.

  “Yeah, baby?” She didn’t respond in words, just tilted her hips upward, pushing harder into my mouth. Like I said before, sometimes actions spoke louder than words.

  When I extended my tongue and slipped it inside her, the moan that escaped from her lips, and the way she tightened around me, told me I’d answered her unasked question. As I fucked her with my mouth, I grabbed my dick tight, pumping it just hard enough to bring me to the edge, but not enough to tumble over. I wanted to come inside her.

  “I’m close, but I want to come with you inside me.” She wasn’t the only one, and she didn’t need to tell me twice. I stood up quickly and grabbed her knees, slipping my hands behind them to yank her closer to me. One more pull, and I was sliding inside her. I loved the way she was slick with arousal, and clenched around me as I pushed hard into her.

  Part of me wanted to take things slowly for our first time as a couple, but that was overpowered by my almost-obsessive craving for her. There was no way I could hold back.

  Still gripping her bent knees, I reared back and slammed hard into her, over and over again, as we chased our orgasms like junkies chasing the dragon. And just like a junkie, I knew that one hit wasn’t going to be enough. My need for the high that only she could provide was insatiable.

  “I’m—” Her orgasm stole the end of the sentence, and as she shattered around me, I pushed into her deeper and harder, achieving my own climax.

  When I came, it was as though I was discovering sex for the first time—like the first rush or high of release, but magnified a thousandfold. As I emptied inside her, somehow it felt like the slate had been wiped clean—there was no past: nobody and nothing before her. There was only the here and now, and our future together.

  Chapter 30

  Rome

  * * *

  Immediately as I walked into the band room before the first gig in Barcelona, I knew that something was wrong. Or, at the least, different. King and Quincy walked in together, which wasn’t at all unusual, but the chemistry between them—between all of us—was.

  They didn’t speak, yet a conversation seemed to be going back and forth between them. Then, when they looked at me, which they were both avoiding, it was there in their eyes: guilt, regret—pity? I wasn’t exactly sure, but what I did know was that I wanted no part of being around any of it.

  I grabbed a bottle of vodka from the rider—normally I waited until after the gig before getting wasted, but desperate times called for desperate measures—and headed out to the loading dock for a smoke. I drank straight from the bottle, which was becoming a habit. By showtime, I’d smoked all my cigarettes, and the bottle was empty.

  For the first time since hitting the road on the tour, I was dreading the gig. Until that point, no matter what was or wasn’t going on between the three of us, the stage was neutral territory. We’d get out there in front of thousands of people every night and light up the room with our musical prowess, and the chemistry between us. We’d make love to each other, aurally and emotionally.

  Through our music, we’d express all the pent-up shit we didn’t dare talk about, in the cold light of day, and it was the only time I let myself touch Quincy. Offstage, I couldn’t trust myself to look her in the eye, let alone have her sitting in my lap on my raging hard-on, or pressed between King and me while she sang a sensual ballad we’d written, called ‘Wanting’. The irony wasn’t wasted on me.

  I definitely wouldn’t dream of lowering my mouth to her neck, inhaling the scent that was uniquely hers, and kissing my way up to her ear, before whispering whatever was on my mind. “I want you so bad, it hurts.” “There’s a part of you that belongs to me.” “I know you want me.”

  Tonight, instead of being the musical equivalent of Switzerland—a safe, neutral space—the stage felt like a battle zone, and the war was being waged against me. But I wasn’t going out like that. Armed with another bottle of vodka, I’d go down fighting if it was the last thing I did.

  Ironically, the show that night was the best it had ever been. We played and sang ourselves out of the ballpark. Raw emotion was the perfect fuel for creativity, and the three of us had lots to give. The audience couldn’t get enough—riding the waves of our high highs and low lows with bated breath right along with us.

  I tried to imagine what we looked like to those observing us from the outside. Quincy, happy, but nervous and on edge—trying to navigate the thin, invisible lines drawn between the three of us. King, edgy and uptight—his love for Quincy coated in a fine dust of anger—throwing his barely contained rage my way. And me—a mess, however you fucking looked at it—every aspect of my life was a train wreck except the music. Thank fuck for the music. If it wasn’t for that, there would be nothing. I would be nothing.

  At the end of the show, as Quincy slid into my lap like she had done countless times before, the pity in her eyes as she looked at me nearly killed me. It was like she’d cracked open my rib cage, pulled out my still-beating heart, then stamped all over it with her red-soled stilettos.

  I needed her to stop looking at me that way. I grabbed her mic, and addressed the crowd.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I’d like to make an announcement before we end the show.”

  Quincy’s face was the perfect picture of shock and confusion, while King clearly would have taken great pleasure in breaking every bone in my body. I carried on regardless. He could eat a whole football team’s worth of dicks.

  “Love is beautiful. Well, I guess it is for some people. I don’t believe in it myself, at least not for me, but for those who do partake, I know it’s a special thing. Even better when it’s two gorgeous people I respect and admire, and who deserve all the happiness. So I’d like you all to raise your glasses,” I grabbed my second bottle of vodka from down by my feet, “—or your phones, in a toast to King and Quincy. To love’s young fucking dream.“ I was poised, ready to duck to avoid King’s flying fists. He was as close to losing his shit as I’d ever seen him. “Let’s wish them all the health, wealth, and wisdom they deserve. Peace. Out.”

  I woke up to the alarm on my phone beeping incessantly, at what seemed like one thousand decibels, as the sound ricocheted around my tender skull like stray bullets in a drive-by. I reached for
it frantically, wanting both to shut off the noise, and to make sure I wasn’t late for yet another lobby call.

  In my fragile state, with what I was sure was gearing up to be the hangover to end all hangovers, I couldn’t face dealing with the wraths of James and King. Especially not with King berating me like I was his fucking kid if we missed yet another departure time because of me. Worse still, there was no way I wanted to face Quincy’s silent, but obvious, condemnation of the way I lived my life.

  I tried to grapple around, reaching for the damned handset so that I could shut off the noise, and start the day without feeling like someone was trying to remove my brain through my nostril. Weirdly, I didn’t manage to move more than a quarter of an inch or so. My arms felt like lead.

  “Hey Rome, what is it? Don’t try to move; just stay still. We’ll get a nurse to come help you.”

  A nurse. What the fuck is going on? Why was Quincy in my room? I attempted to open my eyes, but didn’t make it beyond a tiny crack before I was blinded by the light of one thousand torches, and had to screw them shut again. I tried to lift my arm to shield my face, but I didn’t seem to be in full control of my own fucking limbs. Seriously, what the fuck?

  Chapter 31

  Quincy

  * * *

  My heart thudded against my chest so loudly, I was sure everyone in the room could hear it. To me it was almost deafening. But not as deafening as the scream of terror that had escaped from me when Rome collapsed on stage. It was obvious right away that he hadn’t just passed out, although, given the amount of vodka he seemed to have consumed, I wouldn’t have been surprised.

  I was more shocked that he’d been upright and functional, as he’d been drinking excessively—even by his own dubious standards—for hours on end. It was even more of a mystery how he’d not only managed to function, but he’d played his ass off during the gig. Musically, it had been his finest hour. Ironic, really. When all else was going to shit, the music was pure gold.

  He was exceptionally talented and could play many world-class musicians under the table on any day of the week—he and King both could—but he’d outdone himself with an exceedingly passionate and virtuosic performance. It was truly jaw-dropping. I remembered thinking that putting up with his erratic moods and asshole behavior was worth it when we were rewarded with legendary performances like that one. It was raw, honest, and heartbreakingly poignant. It would have gone into the music history books, even before the dramatic medical emergency. More so after.

  I’d never forget the feeling of sheer white terror when he uttered the words, “Peace. Out,” then flopped backward off his piano stool, while I still sat in his lap. I’d never moved as fast—even while I screamed in panic—as I had when I’d jumped up to try to break his fall, lowering his body gently to the ground. Or when I’d started CPR, thanking the gods that I’d taken a first aid course every five years or so, “just in case.”

  Then, as I’d stood back, watching while the designated first-aider from the venue carried on with CPR until the emergency vehicle arrived, I’d felt like I’d been hit by a semi-truck. No, I’d felt like somebody had jacked my heart from my chest with a rusty spoon, tied it to the back of the truck, and dragged it for thousands of miles down unsurfaced roads.

  I’d been dimly aware of King, either by Rome’s side or by mine, holding me and offering me words of reassurance, but he’d been on the periphery of my consciousness. I’d been laser-focused on Rome. The building could have spontaneously combust into a ball of flames, and I would hardly have noticed.

  I’d only become more aware of my surroundings when the EMTs who’d been working on Rome had declared him in a stable enough condition to be transported to the hospital. Then my attention had been set on getting there as soon as possible. King and I had jumped into one of the tour vehicles, and the driver had gotten us to the hospital in no time.

  On the way, King had made some calls—letting Rome’s brother know what had happened, and connecting with their manager James, who’d already been notified by the tour manager.

  The fifteen-minute ride to the hospital had felt like the longest of my life. King had played it down, keeping up a strong front for my sake—pulling me protectively into his side on the back seat of the car, with his arms around my shoulders, and not letting go, reassuring me that everything would be okay—but I’d known that he was equally shaken and concerned for his best friend.

  The fact was, no matter what happened between them, they really were more like brothers than friends, and the situation would have been eating him up inside, just like it was killing me.

  When we’d arrived at the hospital, accompanied by a member of the local production team who acted as interpreter, we were told that the doctors suspected that Rome had suffered some kind of seizure, most likely caused by excessive alcohol consumption.

  At that point they hadn’t known for sure, and would need to run more tests to confirm and rule out a whole host of other potential problems and conditions. They’d then be able to work out the best form of treatment once they’d had a confirmed diagnosis.

  We’d sat huddled in the waiting room, trying—and failing—not to think the worst, and doing our best to distract each other from the reality of the situation.

  King was particularly good at this, keeping me entertained with stories of the crazy times the two of them had shared over the years. I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall to witness some of their antics from afar—I probably wouldn’t have found them as funny if I’d had to be up close and personal in the midst of it all when they played out, or ,worse still, on the receiving end.

  “Seriously though, I’m not trying to downplay it, but he’ll be fine.” King had spoken softly, his tone reassuring.

  “You can’t be sure of that.”

  “True, but trust me, in all the years I’ve known him and his brother, they’ve had like one cold between the two of them. The rest of the world could be dying of swine flu, the worst plague to hit the earth in a billion years, and TB, and those two wouldn’t even have so much as a sniffle. They are like some kind of bionic freak-show meta-humans. Or cats. With all the narrow escapes they’ve had, they’ve racked up a minimum of nine lives each, already.

  “It must be a Slavic thing, or something. I dunno, but it got to the point where his nickname at the Con was the Ox, because the rest of us could be wiped out by a vomiting bug or whatever other pestilence, and he’d be sitting there munching pizza, just the same as any other day.” A smile had tugged the corner of his lips as he remembered.

  “But he’s clearly not infallible, or else he wouldn’t be here right now. No matter what you, he, or anyone thinks, he’s just flesh and blood like the rest of us. He hurts. He was in pain, and we both knew it and ignored it, and now he’s sick, possibly really fucking sick, and we’re partially to blame.” My voice cracked, and I did my best to hold back the tears threatening to fall.

  “Yeah, I know. I’m just saying that if anyone can pull through, he can. I mean the amount he’s been drinking recently would have killed anyone else weeks ago. Shit, just the amount he drank tonight alone was enough to fell a fucking elephant, but here he is.

  “He’s strong, and he’s a battler, and always will be. After the things he’s been through in his life, his will to fight is the reason he’s still here. He’ll get through this.” He’d pulled me closer to him, kissing gently into my hair.

  A flurry of activity brought my attention back to the here and now, as the doctors and nurses completed their checks on Rome.

  A little while later, a doctor came over and explained—through the interpreter—that their initial suspicions had been correct. Rome had suffered a seizure, a bit like an epileptic fit, which wasn’t an uncommon side effect of prolonged excessive drinking. He’d had scans and X-rays, and from what they’d been able to find out, there was no water or blood on the brain, nor long-term damage. His vital signs were good, so they’d ruled out any issues with his heart or other
organs.

  He needed rest, and they wanted to keep him in the hospital for a few days for further observation, just to be sure. But from what they could tell, they thought there would be no lasting effects of the episode—especially if Rome refrained from drinking for a while—and that he’d make a full recovery.

  King turned to me, his smile spread wide across his beautiful and aptly regal features, his bright blue eyes sparkling like jewels against his tan skin.

  “See? The lucky fucker lives to piss us off another day.” Though he brushed it off with a joke, the relief he felt was palpable—his whole body relaxed as he spoke. I knew the feeling, I’d been so tightly wound since Rome had collapsed that my muscles were screaming from being stretched taut, and I’d developed a tension headache.

  Chapter 32

  King

  * * *

  We approached the bed, just as Rome was wrestling with the tube they’d put down his throat to help him breathe. Now that I knew for sure he was going to be okay, I took a moment to appreciate how terrible a patient he would make. The guy was a bad-tempered asshole at the best of times, let alone when he was sick, and prone—trapped in a hospital bed for days on end.

  The nurses managed to convey the message that they’d remove the tube when they’d finished all of their tests and checks. Rome’s face expressed his sincere desire for them to all fuck off, and I had to stifle my highly inappropriate laughter. We were all in for a bumpy ride, and the next few days were going to feel very long, if I knew Rome. Lord help us all!

  When they’d finally finished their work on the cranky patient, including the painful-looking removal of the offending tube, Quincy and I approached the bed again, safe in the knowledge that we weren’t impeding anyone from doing their job, or about to be shooed away for that reason.