BANGED: Rock Stars, Bad Boys & Dirty Deeds

by Lexxie Couper

  Their keyboardist certainly didn’t sound as if she was enthralled by the idea of living on the road for six months or more. Me, I’m ready to rock as many people as are prepared to listen to me. I reckon that’s something Ms. Trevaskis and I have in common.

  “You don’t think we’ve the chops to beat you?” she says.

  Seriously, where the fuck does she get that idea from. I’m shitting myself here over how much of a test this breakfast performance will be. Does she imagine I’m composing at this hour for the sheer heck of it?

  “Your set was good. It’s not a big shock that Callahan was blown away by you.” Hell knows why I feel obliged to patch up her ego, other than out of some likely mistaken belief it might get her to leave faster.

  “Did you even listen to us?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you really think that?”

  I give her a grudging nod. No need to go into exactly how blown away by her playing I was, or the fact there are ructions in the band because she was so ridiculously good. “I prefer your vocals to Jessie’s. You’ve the more distinctive voice.”

  She makes a little huh sound in the back of her throat as if she’s genuinely surprised by this praise.

  “The track you sang was pretty impressive.”

  “No one else has said so, but then no one has said much about our music at all, not even Mr. Callahan. They’re all just rattling on about Ivy’s bush. We told her not to pull that stunt, but she didn’t listen.” Loveday shakes her head and sighs. “Ives doesn’t even want this gig—not really. Can you believe that?”

  Clearly she can’t.

  “This is just a bit of fun to her, something to do to while away a few evenings a month. I kind of figured she was at least vaguely serious though, and even if she wasn’t, who the hell passes over an opportunity like this?”

  “Are you telling me you girls aren’t playing tomorrow morning?” I can’t deny the thrill that shoots through me at that possibility, and not just because I’d enjoy some sleep tonight.

  “We’re playing,” she snaps, pulling her shoulders back so that she’s sitting up straight. “Sorry. It’s not your fault our keyboardist has cold feet.”

  “How cold?” I ask, because this is great ammunition if it comes down to a fight to the death. I’m sure Callahan doesn’t want to be hiring a band that isn’t one hundred per cent committed. He’s certainly not going to be impressed if half way through the tour, they wake to find Ivy’s taken a hike. On the other hand, I wish she’d shut the fuck up and stop proving Joel’s assertions right, because I don’t want to be tempted into compromising my principals because I’m desperate for success. Nathaniel Darke is not, and never will be, a sell-out. My soul is not up for sale to the highest bidder.

  “I shouldn’t be telling you any of this.”

  I can’t refute that.

  “But shit, I don’t want to be playing dive bars and hotel function rooms—lovely as this place is—for the rest of my life. I want to be rocking Wembley, and the twenty thousand plus crowds at all the major festivals.”

  “Preaching to the converted.”

  “Yeah. Figures.” She smiles.

  I like her. I can’t help it, even though she’s a distraction I can ill afford right now. Also, and despite the ammunition she’s providing me with, at least a bit of me suspects Jessie of having sent her here to spy.

  “What are you working on?”

  And yes, that tips the balance of my suspicions. “Nothing. I always sit alone in hotel function rooms playing other people’s guitars.” In other words, don’t be so fucking nosy.

  “Me too,” she laughs.

  She sits back and watches me for a few moments. She can’t hear the melody, so I don’t worry about her poaching anything. The rhythm I’m tapping out isn’t right anyway. The notes just won’t come. Maybe that’s down to pressure or tiredness, maybe it’s because bass isn’t my instrument, either way, having her staring at me really doesn’t help.

  “Do you think you could sod off?”

  Up she jumps from her chair, but not to depart.

  “Is this your beast?” She picks up my Gretsch. “Interesting choice. Mind if I try her?”

  You’ve got to be frickin’ kidding me. No one gets to play about with my guitar. And yet I let her put the strap over her head without making a murmur of protest. Not only that, I get prickles over the way she handles my baby, leaning it across her thighs, and fingering the strings with her delicate digits. I shiver, and she smiles in response, showing just the faintest hint of teeth.

  What she’s doing shouldn’t feel like caresses against my skin, but it does. It shouldn’t give me thrills, or turn me on, but it does that too.

  I try to tune her out, concentrate on the track playing through the headphones, but my gaze is persistently drawn back to her. In the end, I stop the endless loop of music, and take out the earbuds. I watch her, enthralled despite myself.

  This is madness. We’re on opposing teams. In a few short hours we’ll duel and only one of us can be victorious.

  Her, my sleep-deprived, horny-arsed self predicts.

  There’s so much raw talent wrapped up in her tiny frame, what the hell chance have we got?

  Every chance, a voice in my head that’s suspiciously like Joel’s suggests. But only if you enlist her for our team.

  I can’t do that. It’s not and never will be an option. I curse Joel under my breath for ever planting the idea in my brain. I think about her sound and ours, how we could combine them and my excitement only increases. Combined, we could blow Graham Callahan away. Hell, we could probably give Black Halo themselves a run for their money.

  I don’t recall the point at which my fingers begin to work again, only that suddenly my dodgy bass-playing is being complemented by her glorious licks. This girl could easily play lead. I try a few things, and she follows, or rather anticipates. She’s like a chess-player, always several steps ahead. Hearing the music before it’s played.

  The noise we make together is fucking awesome. For several long minutes, we’re both lost in it. Riffs become increasingly complex. This isn’t a Paradise Kiss song, nor something of Bitch Slap’s, but a perfect melding of us into a seamless whole.

  What sort of miracle could we weave together on our own instruments? I want to know so badly, but I don’t want to speak and spoil this.

  In the end she’s the one to say, “Swap.” She holds out my Gretsch to me, and I pass her Knox’s Fender in return.

  The eye contact between us is intense as we settle our respective instruments around our shoulders.

  “One…two…three,” I count us in.

  The result is so good I nearly come in my pants. It’s like the sound has been dredged up from the depths of hell.

  The vibrations of the guitar zap through my body, contributing to my dizzying sense of arousal. We take solos, bounce off one another in a way Dane and I sometimes do, blending our individual melodies, and pitching rhythm against lead. With her, the outcome is richer, more vibrant somehow. The bass rumble behind my flashy top notes pure magic.

  I fucking love the idea of her underneath me—and I’m not just talking about musically.

  There’s no hiding how much she turns me on, so I stop even trying to. Let her think what she will. It’s not as if I’m the only one riding this particular thrill train. Her nipples have tightened to twin points that distort the line of her top. They’re like beacons. I want to drag my thumbs over them. Suck them. Fuck them, even though the later makes me think of Jessie and that damned song.

  Actually, perverted tit fucker doesn’t seem such a bad title to be saddled with anymore. Not if the tits in question are Loveday’s.

  God help me, I want to be inside of this woman so badly. I’m so hot for her my fingers are glued to the frets. All right, not literally superglued, I mean they’re moving at the speed of light, but I don’t think I could release my grip right now even if I wanted to.

  “Don’t think I don�
�t know what you’re thinking when you look at me like that,” she remarks. Even the soft lilt of her voice turns me on.

  “Like what?”

  She shakes her head because…chemistry.

  “You’re an open book, Mr. Darke.”

  “Read lots of hot books, do you?”

  She cocks one brow. “I don’t need to be a literature major to know what’s going on in there,” she nods towards my head.

  “Depends how dirty your own thoughts are.”

  “Pretty fucking dirty.”

  “Sounds like we’d get along.”

  “I don’t think getting along is an option right now.”

  “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 complet
ely—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 using 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?”