BANGED: Rock Stars, Bad Boys & Dirty Deeds

by Lexxie Couper

  She sighed. Coming over. That was what had started them down this track. She’d flirted and flirted and flirted—and never really believed anything would happen. For years. And then something had changed between them. Slowly first, and then faster, like a train picking up speed. The way he’d looked at her had been more intent, more serious. More sexy in that stern-morality-sex-appeal way.

  If you really want to learn to play, I’ll teach you. Guitar, he meant. But she’d taught him right back, other things. Grown-up things, because when it came to sex, they were equals.

  Not anymore.

  Running a hand over her face, she made a sound of frustration. “Can we not do this?”

  “Do what?”

  “This whole…” She twirled her hand in the air, some vague gesture of futility. “This caring thing. Obviously you aren’t interested in being a father. At least, not with me. And that’s fine. I don’t care.”

  Liar. And in the church basement too.

  “Chloe—”

  “I just thought you had a right to know, but look, I’m going to speak to Pastor John on Sunday and quit. You won’t even have to see me again. I don’t expect anything from you, so don’t worry.”

  At least that last part had been honest. She didn’t expect anything from him. She wouldn’t do anything to bring him down. It was her choice to keep the baby, and it would be her responsibility.

  Except Tim didn’t look relieved. No, he seemed…kind of pissed, actually. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen him pissed. His gaze sparked with something like frustration. His soft lips pursed, framed by the scruff of his beard.

  He opened his mouth to say something, but footsteps rang in the gym outside. In a flash she stood and so did he. They backed away from each other, straightening their clothes like two teenagers who’d been caught necking in the bathroom. Only it was the teenagers catching the adults this time. And they hadn’t been necking. They’d been doing something much less fun. They’d been saying good-bye. That was how it felt, hollow in her bones.

  One of the juniors, Sarah, poked her head inside. “Hey, um, don’t freak out or anything, but the popcorn machine is kind of on fire.”

  “Crap.” Tim dug his fingers through his hair like he always did when he was stressed out, only rougher now, faster. He sent her a wild glance she couldn’t parse before muttering, “We’ll talk later, Chloe. I’m serious.”

  She just raised an eyebrow.

  With a sound of frustration, he left.

  Chloe followed more slowly. The popcorn machine did something crazy every time they used it. It was old and broken, like everything else in the church basement. She loved it. She’d miss it all when she left. The crazy popcorn machine, the leak in the ceiling. The kids.

  And Tim most of all, more than anything.

  The kids were using their pillows to air out the smell of burned popcorn. Tim knelt beside the popcorn machine, muttering under his breath as he banged at the ancient machinery. The man had no idea how hot he looked in the faded blue shirt left unbuttoned over a gray T-shirt. How sexy it was when his too-long hair curled over the collar. How very grabbable his ass looked when the loose denim stretched taut.

  Or maybe he did know. The same way she read Cosmo and painted her nails the latest color. Maybe he had some sort of youth-leader-image magazine. Bow ties are out, it would say. Lumberjack is in. And thank God for that trend, really, because he rocked this look. Though perhaps her life would be easier right now if he hadn’t been so damn appealing.

  She clapped her hands. “Come on, kiddos. Grab your sleeping bags, and grab a spot in the gym.”

  Usually they split the girls and the boys into separate rooms. Then Pastor Tim would sleep with the boys and Chloe would sleep with the girls and everyone’s virtue would be safe. But the smell was too strong here, so the boys would have to sleep with the girls tonight.

  It would be fine, though. Pastor Tim wouldn’t let anything happen. A small smile touched her lips. He wouldn’t let anything happen between them either, because he wasn’t interested in her anymore. He would probably help her with the baby if she insisted, but she didn’t want that. She wanted so much more.

  Not going to happen. She was her mother’s daughter. She was a cautionary tale. She was a forbidden apple, and he’d already had his bite—but she was the one who would fall from grace.

  SIX

  Lock managed not to jump the sexy little Sunday school teacher the second her pen left the paper. Her hand had been shaking as she’d signed, and she wasn’t ready for sex. At least not the way he did sex. So he showed her into the restroom and let her freshen up. Meanwhile he conferred with the concierge to get her bag brought up and her car moved to a VIP spot.

  When she emerged from the bathroom, he knew she was ready. He knew by the fresh lipstick on her full lips and the resolved set of her chin. But most of all he knew because of the flicker of curiosity in her eyes. Under the fear, she wanted to know what came next.

  He crooked his finger and beckoned her to him.

  Her breathing was shallow, her cheeks flushed, and she kept running her fingers through her hair, touching herself. That long blonde hair cascaded around her face in a messy tumble. Bed head, and they hadn't been anywhere near a bed. Wouldn't be near one anytime soon if he had his way. Which he would. This was his show.

  She tugged the hem of her short skirt so it covered a sliver more thigh, drew her shoulders back, and crossed the room, steady on her bare feet. She should be plucking daisies, not padding across the plush carpet of his penthouse suite. “Your wish is my command.”

  No more preamble. If she was really going to do this, he'd know now for sure. “I'm going to fuck you against that window over there, and I'm not going to be nice about it. Do you like to hurt, Hailey?”

  Her name was a weapon on his lips. A sharp thing he could use to lash her. Every time he said it, he watched her tense. This time she wobbled, her answering nod barely perceptible, her coltish legs giving way under the weight of his regard. And he liked it.

  She wanted this thrill, and at the moment finding her sister's baby daddy didn’t have much to do with it. Her eyes held wariness and guilt—but most of all, excitement. As if his proposition had jolted her awake. More awake than she’d ever been in her drowsy little East Podunk life, he’d lay money on it.

  He’d woken up on stage like that, the whiskey haze parting long enough for fear to creep in, adrenaline spiking into his bloodstream as he fumbled for an instant and then…click. Everything slipping into its proper place. The music. The band. The crowd. All of it more alive, more real, brighter and sharper because he’d come so close to disaster.

  Do you like to hurt, Hailey? He’d asked her, and she could only nod.

  He’d hurt her so good she’d give voice to that desire before he was through. She knew it. He knew it. The subtext breathed in the air around them, a living thing, that damned contract come to life. She wants this. She wants the lurid celeb fantasy. The shock, the pulse-pounding vibrancy that only exists on the edge of a bad decision.

  He’d take her there.

  “Take off your clothes,” he said, a little too harshly, his urgency coming out as hard-edged gruffness.

  It didn’t scare her away. She wants that too. She fingered the button of her cardigan, uncertain, and then popped them all in a rush, exposing a silver tank that dipped low over her cleavage. Fuck. Surprisingly lush curves on her willowy frame, and smooth, pale skin.

  He shifted in his seat, imagining his cock between her breasts. Making them slick, squeezing them together, and thrusting, thrusting, thrusting until he came all over her neck. Jesus, he hadn't even seen them yet. She put a hand to her throat as if she could read his mind. As if every dirty thought he'd ever had was flashing on his face. And she knew. Why was she taking so fucking long to undress?

  Lust propelled him across the room. He grabbed her by the hip and spun her around, pressing his chest to her back. She was warm, soft, every sweet powder-scented
inch he could touch. She didn't resist his rough hands skimming under her shirt. She just raised her arms and let him lift it over her head. The silver tank lay discarded at their feet. Next, the bra. Her favorite part of the day. He stifled a laugh as he unhooked it, guided the straps down, the blue satin cups slipping free. She sighed into him, letting her head fall back against his chest.

  He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of her skirt and her tights and yanked them down to mid-thigh, taking her panties with them. She rewarded him with a sharp inhale, with shock. He stepped back so he could see the top of her ass. A peach, there for the biting. Two years ago he'd have bumped lines off that ass. No. He'd never have gotten near it back then. She'd have run screaming from him in the thick of his addiction. Sobriety had its rewards.

  He spun her around again. “All of it off, now.”

  She pushed everything down to her knees and shimmied it the rest of the way, kicking free of the tangle of denim and netting. The air conditioner purred to life, blasting them both with a burst of cool air. Her nipples tightened to lickable points. When she wrapped her arms around herself, he shook his head, and she dropped them to her sides.

  She met his eyes, uncertainty and desire at war on her face.

  He gathered her hair in his hand and pushed her against the window wall in his suite, forcing her legs apart with his knee. No one could see in, but the illusion was fucking hot. Her tits smashed, palms flat, breath fogging the glass. His little church mouse on display. The city, all lights and pulsing energy, spread out before them. He never got to see the cities he toured, not up close, just the vistas from his rooms and the blur from a window seat on the jet. He didn't mind so much when he had a hot body between him and the view.

  “Do you want me to fuck you like this, from behind, while the whole world watches?” He wanted to bury himself in all her softness. And he wanted it to hurt. Her or himself, he wasn't sure.

  Her only answer was the expanding cloud of condensation as she panted. And then she rocked back. The slightest shift, but just enough friction, in just the right place. He ground against her naked ass, his cock throbbing in his jeans.

  She turned her head, pressing her flushed cheek to the window, and he couldn't resist running his open mouth up the column of her neck, chasing that frantic pulse, biting the lobe of her ear until she cried out, “Nobody can see.”

  “Shhhh. Everybody is watching. Let's give them a show.” He skimmed over her rib cage, her belly, and lower, until he could feel damp heat. She wasn't wet enough for what he had in mind. Not yet. He wanted to fuck her so hard she'd be bruised. Marked. Damaged. He circled her clit with his thumb, savoring every buck and twitch, and plunged one finger deep. The slick walls of her cunt clenched tight as he drew back. Almost ready.

  “Don't stop,” she moaned.

  “I'm running things.” He bit the sweet spot where shoulder met neck in admonishment, and reached for his belt buckle. Impatient, he yanked off the belt, pulled the condom from his pocket and shucked his pants. All the while keeping one hand tangled in her hair. Holding her in place.

  He considered having her put it on him with her mouth, but she probably didn't have that skill set. Though it might be fun to watch her try, to teach her, to corrupt her.

  Later.

  Sheathed, he positioned himself at her opening, rubbed the head of his cock over her slick folds, and then he thrust. One fluid movement and he was balls-deep in hot, honeyed heaven. Every drop of blood in his body raged toward his hard-on. Fuck. He drew back and thrust again. And again.

  God, she felt good, arching to meet him. He gripped her hip so tight his knuckles went white, pulling her back against him as hard as he thrust. He released her hair so he could grab her other hip, get more leverage, and she gasped. How tight had he pulled it?

  He wanted to break her, but all she did was bend and bend.

  * * *

  Chicago’s jagged skyline sprawled in front of Hailey, carving her, scraping her until she felt raw and bloodied. Even the thick-paned window pushed her, hurt her, but in a world of cold apathy, the man behind her pulsed hot and…almost caring. Almost loving, the way he stroked her body, worshipped it.

  She was reading too much into it; she knew that. The rock star, the player. He could have every woman in the city and already had, maybe.

  She was just the novelty item, a punch line he could use back in Vegas. I fucked a preschool teacher once. But her body didn’t get the joke. Her body was too busy melting in pools of lava at his feet, and what would be left at the end? The volcano didn’t care. It burst right down the middle and spilled itself until nothing was left.

  The flesh at her sex was oversensitive, abraded despite the liquid pooling there, readying herself, and he knew. His fingers were achingly gentle as they caressed slippery lips. He raised his hand to her mouth, and she opened automatically, her mouth more obedient than her mind. Sandpaper fingers smoothed across her tongue, leaving the musky scent of her own shame in their wake.

  Her moan couldn’t breach the rushing in her ears, but she felt the sound vibrate in her throat. Felt an answering groan rumble from behind her. Unhearing, unthinking, like animals let loose in the penthouse. Wild things, she thought with a voiceless laugh.

  A pinch started at the base of her neck, where it met her shoulder. He was biting her. With his teeth. She gasped. The pain radiated out to her breasts, down her belly, spearing her sex.

  “Oh shit.” And that she could hear clearly―her voice. Her curse.

  “Yes. That’s right, baby. Let me have it. I knew you were in there in your fucking cardigan. Fuck.”

  She bucked, moving her hips, rocking heedlessly, uselessly against the unyielding window. Only his body gave, the ridge of arousal twitching and the sleek muscles undulating and the kind man gasping. Strange thought. He wasn’t kind. Except when he bit her neck and pinched her nipple and her body clenched in helpless surrender, she felt his gift like a benediction.

  She fell, through the window and down the rabbit hole. Lost to darkness except for his arms around her, one on her waist and the other teasing the dregs of orgasm from her clit. She shuddered in relief.

  Still here. Only three days with him, but she was still here.

  His rough grip pulled her back to earth, where she tumbled to the feather-soft bed, drying her sweat and arousal on bleach-white sheets. He didn’t join her. Standing at the edge, he pulled her legs up and pressed them apart.

  His grin was strained. “We can do better than that, don’t you think?”

  She barely had time to consider what he meant. Her climax? Had been amazing. The best ever. And he wanted another one, a better one. How were they going to get it? His mouth answered her, pressing against her slippery sex.

  Her mind rebelled against the idea. His angular face with its even, neatly groomed layer of scruff. The little tongue piercing that glinted when he said certain words, like lick and slowly. He was a masculine form of pretty that didn’t need to dirty itself in the slick folds down there.

  And God, the black eyeliner. Would it smudge? It seemed like a real possibility the way he nuzzled her, unabashedly finding every slick, damp hollow while her hips thrust upward with a mind of their own. Pleasure coiled within her, taking over every impulse.

  Her hand fluttered uselessly above the dark crown of his head. What was she doing? Not pushing him, never that. Not holding his head in place. Just frantic, just panicking. Until he grasped her hand and pressed it against the bed―without lifting his head or slowing his torment.

  And then he found her clit with a pleasure so sharp it seared her. His piercing, she realized, and it did pierce her; it lanced her. That small, smooth ball of silver rained down ecstasy on her weak and untried clit. The previous pleasure blew away like cotton clouds, replaced by a dark storm and a strike of lightning where it hurt the most. She cried out, vague sounds of ah ahhh ahhh, and he answered her, groaning, grunting against her aching flesh.

  Wild things in commune and s
he could barely understand. All she had were observations, the tanned curve of his shoulder where it propped up her knee. And things she couldn’t see, like how wet she was. She could feel the wetness and hear it.

  Too wet.

  Embarrassment flushed hot across her skin, and it would only be worse when she came. She wouldn’t be conscious enough to guard herself. She’d gush all over his face, and then what? No, no. Her thighs tensed, belly clenched against the impending climax as if she could stop it, as if she had control. A hundred miles per hour toward the edge of a cliff and she slammed on the brakes. And fell right over the edge, tumbled over, headlong. Listening to the echoes of her own shameful cries, sighing in relief as she landed, impossibly light on a plush, pristine surface.

  His mouth didn’t let up. It just slowed. As if her pleasure hadn’t been the goal at all. It was the slippery musk she left on her thighs; that was his prize. He lapped it up, slow and hungry, until every part of her had been cleaned with his tongue. And she, boneless and spread-eagle on the bed, offered him anything, but this was all he took. Only then did she realize, right when he broke the contact, that they’d been holding hands all that time. He finally pushed himself onto the bed and rolled beside her.

  She lay like that, drifting. It might have been minutes or hours. Maybe she would have stayed that way forever, except she felt him vibrating next to her. That was the only way to describe it: vibrating. Was he laughing? Crying? Both possibilities seemed horrifying. Her eyes squeezed tight, unable to even watch her humiliation, to find out what she’d done wrong. But on a particular jolt, she had to see. She turned her head, and―

  He was touching himself. Stroking himself. When his fist met the base of his cock, the skin peeled back to reveal a curved, glistening head. On the upstroke, he turned his wrist, like twisting the lid off an old-fashioned Coke bottle. He was rough with himself, she realized.

  “Can I―” she started. “Do you want me to―” She made a little motion with her hand and her shoulder and hips, not even sure what it was supposed to mean. Was she miming sex now? Was she truly that ridiculous?