BANGED: Rock Stars, Bad Boys & Dirty Deeds

by Lexxie Couper

  “No,” he said with a snort. “Impressed. I love a girl that wants it so bad, it doesn’t matter where she is.”

  “Or do you just like sex in public?”

  “I just want to have sex with your accent.”

  “Wanker.”

  “You don’t really say that, do you?”

  I laughed. “I’ve been in the states awhile, but I do love a good string of homestyle insults.”

  He pressed me into the rear quarter panel, lifting me enough to sit me on his trunk. “Say something rude.”

  “I can’t believe you were so quick with the fan club girls, you dirty skiver.”

  “From context, I’m thinking very rude.”

  I looped my arms around his neck. “Shirking your responsibilities is a bit shite.”

  “Is it wrong that my dick is even harder because of your accent?”

  “Probably. Though you Americans are so easy when someone puts on an accent.”

  Johnny’s mouth tugged up on one side. It was ridiculously infectious. So much so that I wondered if I was going to end up with my panties around my ankles just because he reminded me of the mardy boys from my year in uni. Moody and usually sullen with a touch of the fun buried under the the black cloud they brought with them like a sidekick.

  I always had a thing for the sulky ones.

  His thumbs skimmed my belly, following the lines of my obliques and back to my middle again and again. Distracting as hell. I was used to a firm grip.

  I was already used to his firm grip.

  This lazy thing he was doing. No. I wanted the hard stuff. The kind that obliterated my ability to overthink things—my personal specialty.

  I scraped my nails over the peach-fuzz short hairs at his nape, dragging him down to my mouth again. He seemed to take the hint. His touch grew more impatient, his fingertips gliding around the back of my jeans and into the dip in my spine. I lifted my legs to hook over his hips, and the kiss spun out quickly.

  He fit himself against me, denim to denim, hardness to my more-than-willing softness. I hummed into his mouth when he got his grind on. I loved a man who wasn’t afraid to show what he wanted. Especially when my pussy was number one on the leaderboard.

  I dragged my nails down his cotton-clad back until I reached his belt. Such broad shoulders that weren’t suited for old concert T’s. Back then, scrawny smokers were the norm, not this guy with muscles on his muscles.

  Not this guy with his smooth skin begging for score marks.

  And I was going to give them to him whether he wanted them or not.

  I found the downy-soft skin under his shirt. Firm. Firm everywhere. And blissfully smooth as I’d been hoping. I didn’t mind a guy with chest hair. Hell, most men had hair in all sorts of places unless they were manscaped. There was no stubble here, just warmth and suede-soft skin.

  I had to admit I really didn’t mind it.

  When I gripped harder—molding my fingernails into his shoulders—his groan and harder kiss was exactly what I wanted. Any semblance of sweet was gone. He pushed at my shirt, his mouth covering one breast as his other hand sneaked down into the gap in my jeans.

  He molded my ass, and I lifted one leg up higher on his waist to give him more room.

  He ripped his mouth away. “I don’t really want to bang you on the trunk of my car.”

  “Where do you want to bang me then?”

  “Not this alley.”

  “My place is way too far,” I said as I tugged at his belt. “You sure you don’t want to just get it over with here?”

  He covered my hands on his belt. “Not just over with—I want you naked and screaming.”

  SEVEN

  Yeah, so that had not been what I was expecting. Nor did I really want to like the sound of it, but I did. I would have taken the quick fuck in the alley and no shame would have followed me for even a moment. When I needed an itch scratched, I needed it scratched.

  Period.

  He revved my motor, so he would do.

  This messing it up with a whole night of sex? That was the part I wasn’t sure I wanted in on. Even though I was relatively sure he could actually do the job.

  Most of the time guys were good for the one and done. Truthfully, so was I.

  I had training at six the next morning. Not that rolling around a bed, floor, or whatever available surface he had in mind wouldn’t be good fun. I just had more important things that needed my focus.

  Except that thumb thing he kept doing. Sweet Jesus on a pogo stick.

  “Why do you want to muck this up with a whole going-home-with-you thing?” I asked. And seriously, I said it a little too breathlessly for my liking. I’d dropped my head back to give him more access to my neck.

  When he tried to go for my other side—for the scars—I urged him back to where he was. I wasn’t exactly ashamed of them, but I didn’t want questions either. Scars were hot on a guy, not so much for a girl.

  In the ring, they were a badge of honor. Here, in this very shadowy alley, on top of this delicious car, it wasn’t a mood-inducer. In a house or apartment, I’d have to go for lights. Because I couldn’t fuck this fine specimen of male with the lights off.

  But without a choice, I could make it work.

  Too many choices were bad as far as I was concerned.

  He dragged me off the boot of his car and set me on my feet. He didn’t let me go though. It was a little manhandle-ish actually. But instead of getting bitchy about it, it made me smile. The world I lived in, men were afraid to handle me.

  They knew I could pin most of them, and the ones I couldn’t usually had a bit more of an edge than I was looking for.

  This cocky American rock star thought I would just be a fun fuck.

  It was kind of freeing.

  He opened the door and reached inside for a lever. The convertible top popped. He crawled inside to get to the other latch and pushed it back.

  Thank you, balmy September night.

  He held the door open for me. His eyebrow spiked when I pushed the seat forward and got in the back. “What are you doing?”

  “I like a big seat.” I dropped onto the bench seat and opened my legs. “Even better if you get in the back with me.”

  He groaned. “You are determined to see if you can get me to bend, aren’t you?”

  I shrugged. “Pretty much.”

  “I don’t bend.”

  I smiled wide. “Me neither.”

  “Fuck, that accent. I’m going to fuck you until you can’t talk just so I can lose this goddamn hard-on.”

  “Now, that would be a trick.”

  He slammed the seat back in place, got in, and jammed the key into the ignition. My ass vibrated from the power of the engine. I actually had to shift in the seat.

  He backed down the alley and out onto a side street. I saw pieces of the city I’d never seen. The seedy side, with people loitering around corners. A drug deal went through as we paused for a stop sign. We didn’t stop. There was too much tension in the car already.

  The city was too congested for a good stretch of driving. Frustration mounted between us. I watched him in the rearview mirror. Those hooded eyes, with the prominent ridge line, were watchful. What the fuck was he looking for? My soul?

  He wasn’t going to find it tonight, no matter how hard he tried.

  I wanted it to be just sex.

  I needed to turn it back around.

  “Radio,” I called out.

  The muscle in his jaw jumped and he snapped on the radio. He’d upgraded the stereo and the bass came out of speakers on either side of me. The heavy beat of James Arthur’s “Recovery” made me smile.

  I didn’t know much about music, but I knew what I liked. And the piano mix, and almost techno-club beat of this song was exactly what I needed.

  We finally hit a street that he could find some speed. My hair whipped around me as the bass fed through the walls of the backseat. I slid my hand along my belly.

  The song started to
wind down and I shouted, “Again.”

  He hit something on the dash and the song started over again. I opened my legs and moved lower, until my fingertips tunneled behind the buckle into my jeans. I didn’t even bother with the tease. I was already worked up, and the music wasn’t helping me.

  The longing in the artist’s voice called out to just what I needed. I unlatched the buckle with my other hand and ripped open the snap.

  “Jesus.”

  I grinned. That’s right, watch me.

  I tipped up my hips just enough for me to get my hand into the soft, pliable denim. These were my oldest pair. They’d molded to my body long ago, and I’d worn them a few times this week so they were loose in all the right places.

  Even I was surprised by the wetness of my panties.

  The music, the predatory gleam in his eyes, the almost fight in the alley—all of it had put me far closer to the edge than I’d thought. If anything I was too wet.

  “Can you hear that?” I asked.

  I moved over so I could see him. His jaw was locked, as were his fingers on the wheel. In the dim lights of the city, I could see the white of knuckle through skin. I dug deeper, craving the fullness I just wasn’t going to get from this position. But I was able to rub my palm against my clit.

  “Is that a no?”

  “Fucking hell.”

  I grinned. “So that’s a yes?”

  “No, not over the music and the noise.”

  “Oh. Too bad. It’s almost obscene. So slick and wet. Embarrassing, really. How wet you made me with just a little bit of snogging.” I threw the slang in there for his benefit. My arsenal was stocked now that I knew the accent was a weakness.

  I was really good at finding weaknesses.

  I was even better at using them against my opponent.

  As the elusive orgasm drifted a little further away, I tried to shake off that competitive side of me. I didn’t need to turn this into anything more than it was—a bit of dirty fun.

  “You should really come back here with me. Your fingers are bigger. Even better, I bet your cock could fill me up so good.”

  We came to a stoplight and he swung around. “Are you fucking kidding me with this?”

  I opened my eyes wider. It was really hard to play the innocent, especially when my brain was shrieking such absolutely profane stuff, but I really tried. “Do you want me to stop?”

  He reached back and dragged my hand out of my pants and brought my two middle fingers into his mouth.

  I dragged in a breath. Holy sweet fuck.

  He swept his tongue between my fingers and sucked every last drop off me. The shadows and traffic around us left him in darkness. All I could do was feel the rasp of his tongue and that sweet suction.

  “I knew you’d taste good. Wasn’t really prepared to find out this way, but I’m game for whatever you want to try, English.”

  The honk of a horn behind us had him looking over my shoulder at the driver. He waved, and a flash of white teeth shone from the headlights as he stepped on the gas.

  Not one to be outdone, I cupped my breast, making sure he could see it in the the mirror.

  “Tell me.” His voice was low. Broken enough that the order didn’t bristle—well, too much. I wasn’t used to taking direction from anyone other than a trainer. And this kind of warfare was a totally different fight.

  Guess I couldn’t quite turn off my fighter instinct. Can’t say I was too broken up about it. I did slip back into my soft British accent though.

  “Soft. Swollen.” I beefed up the breathy nature of my typically husky voice. “My clit is so full and tight. I’d just need to circle it a few times.” I tossed a little Marilyn in there for good measure.

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No,” he growled. “Not yet.”

  I do believe I controlled my own orgasm, but for the moment, I was enjoying the game. “Why?”

  “Because I want my mouth around your cunt when you come.”

  I laughed and my Marilyn slipped away. “Dirty words, Cage.”

  He threw a glance over his shoulder. “You like it.”

  “I’m not that kind of girl.” I put my best prim mum into my voice.

  “I’m going to pin your knees behind your goddamn ears and lick every bit of cream out of you.”

  My clit pounded against my palm. Okay, so maybe he was a little bit better at this than I thought.

  EIGHT

  “In the car?” I asked hopefully.

  “Tight squeeze, but doable. Especially when I’m hungry enough.”

  I pressed harder, my breath ragged. “Done it before then?” Just a little more is all it would take. A silent orgasm, and he’d never know. Then I could tease the hell out of him again. Just take the edge off, that’s all.

  “Don’t you do it.”

  “Do what?” Fuck, was that my voice?

  “Not without me, dammit.”

  “It’s okay, I can have half a dozen before you pull over.”

  He pulled off and up a road that lifted my ass off the seat. I had to pull my hand out and hold onto the back of the seat. Not like there was an “Oh, Jesus” handle in the backseat for fuck’s sake.

  His back end swung out and the tires spun before grabbing at the dirt road. Where the hell were we going? I didn’t even know there was a rural road on the outskirts of Manhattan. But no, it was the Meatpacking District—at least I was pretty sure.

  Either I was going to get fucked or murdered.

  My heart raced as I grabbed for the headrest in front of me. “Sweet Jesus, are ya trying to kill a girl?”

  He slammed on the brakes and jacked the music. His lap belt slapped against the door and he reclined the seat enough to climb back and get to me. He scooped me up and his mouth was on mine before I could make another pithy comment.

  I hoped that getting fucked was on the docket, but then again…this would be one helluva way to go. As long as I got an orgasm in the next five minutes, I wasn’t picky.

  He ripped at my jeans and dragged them down as he tossed me onto my back.

  “What the—” I tried to get up, but he lifted my legs up so my bare ass was to the cool night air. He dragged my jeans down low enough that he could get at me. Shock left me immobile for a second and then his tongue was there on me. He draped my legs over one shoulder, lifting me to his mouth. The angle wasn’t exactly right, but he was working me over regardless.

  I couldn’t get up—didn’t want to get up. I just wanted to be able to open for him. My pussy was contracting around his tongue and the sounds were ridiculous. Wet, sucking sounds over the pounding drums of Frank Turner.

  I laughed.

  Getting eaten out by an American rock star with a British underground punk rocker as our soundtrack. How had this become my life?

  He lowered me slightly and peeked around my thighs. I could barely see his face in the blue of the LED light on his stereo. “This is funny?”

  I kicked at him. “Take off my bloody boots and denims and have a proper go of it, Cage.”

  He shook his head. “Just can’t please you.” He tugged my borrowed boot off and threw it in the front seat.

  “Well, if you can’t, I can.”

  “Fucking ballbuster.” He tugged off the other one and it clunked to the floor of the front seat.

  I tried to move so I didn’t have my hips over my damn head, but he wasn’t budging. I really didn’t want to toss him out of the car into the dirt. I could do it, but I wanted to see what he was going to do first.

  He tugged my jeans free, and those went sailing into the front as well. He snapped the top of one of the British flag knee socks I was wearing. “This has been the weirdest goddamn night.” He opened my legs. “All I wanted to do was go home. I have a very nice bed, in a very nice apartment, with a lot more room for this.”

  I reached for the front of his jeans, dragging the tips of my fingers—all I could reach, unfortunately—along his impressively long shaft.
“Seem pretty into to me.”

  “I’d have to be dead.” He bit the inside of my thigh. “And I’m sure as shit not dead.” He drew a deep breath. “Christ, your pussy smells amazing.”

  Instead of being vulgar it was just…wrong in the best way possible. “Thank you?”

  He shifted his stance and situated me a little lower. This time the blood wasn’t pooling into my head. My ass was still way off the seat, but the intent in his hooded eyes dissolved the laughter that had been living inside my chest. He lowered his mouth to my slit and slipped inside. His tongue was unrelenting.

  When he’d boasted that he was going to lick me clean, he hadn’t been kidding. My thighs surrounded his head, the short hairs tickling, as he teased me tirelessly. His lips were soaked from me when he finally eased back for a moment.

  I tried to breathe.

  Really, I did. But this fucker didn’t let me go over. Just kept bringing me to the edge and stopping. He softened the strokes until they were nearly lazy. His eyes were shut as he learned me, complete concentration in every action and reaction.

  I was going to kill him.

  If he didn’t let me have an actual orgasm, I was going to crack his neck and leave him by the side of the road. His car would be mine for the trouble. When he turned his mouth to lightly nibble at my thigh, I slapped the back of the seat beside me.

  “Dammit, Cage.”

  His eyes opened. We were along the side of a building, and the security light was well in the distance. I could barely see him, but I knew he was smiling. I could feel it. He inched back and lowered me to the seat. I hissed at the cool leather on my overheated skin.

  I slid my hand over my slit. My clit was so stimulated, I shied away from it instinctively. This was no one-and-done orgasm at this point. I hissed out a breath as the sound of his buckle pierced the white noise in my head.

  Yes.

  He went for his zipper and I sat up to help him. My head swam from being practically upside down for way too long. I wanted this, wanted him—needed to get that magnificent cock out of his pants, and into me.

  He gave me a lazy smile and let his hands fall away when I took over the zip. He was watchful. He’d had me at his mercy for a good long while, and now he seemed to be as easy as you please with staring me down.