by B. B. Miller
She seems to relax, but I can still feel her pulse beating wildly as my tongue glides against her neck. I slowly peel her blazer down her arms, dropping it to the floor. “Watch,” I whisper under her ear, and her eyes follow the path of my hand as I gradually lift her shirt up, splaying my palm over her stomach, feeling her muscles shudder at the contact.
The lines of ink on my hand are in sharp contrast to her creamy unmarked skin. Tipping the cowboy hat from her head, she lets out a hitched laugh as it falls to the small countertop in front of the mirror. “Something funny?” I lift a brow, catching her gaze in the mirror. Fuck, I love seeing her like this, open and laughing, exposed and vulnerable.
“This is crazy,” she whispers as my fingers trace the red scarf draped around her neck.
“Want me to stop?”
“No.” She shakes her head as I tug the scarf from her, feeling the smooth silk against my calloused fingers.
“I really want to cover your eyes with this, but I want you to watch me fuck you more.”
Her breath catches, and she watches me set the scarf on the countertop. I lift her shirt over her head and trace the thin, white lace of her bra before unhooking the clasps at the back. With a sweep of my hand over her shoulder, I tug it from her. It joins the growing pile on the counter.
“Touch yourself.” There’s a gritty edge to voice as my lips trail across her skin, grazing my teeth against her neck. I can see her hesitation, and I wrap my arms around her from behind, sliding both hands up her torso to palm her perfect breasts. “You are so fucking beautiful. Show me what you like, baby.”
Her eyes drop to my hands, and she watches my fingers tease and tug her hardened nipples. I can feel her heart hammering. She grinds her hips slowly back against me, driving me out of my mind. She grips the edge of the counter as if she’s fighting some internal battle, and I waste no time, covering them with my own and lifting them to close over her breasts.
My fingers tighten over hers, the weight of her breasts heavy in our joined hands, and the stubble on my chin scraping her neck. I drop my hands away to let hers take over, and I curl my fingers around her hips, tugging her ass back against me. One of her hands flies from her breast to reach back between us, palming me through my jeans, her mouth dropping open as she feels my cock hard and aching.
Tracing the band of her jeans, I pop open the button and tug the fabric down her creamy thighs. I’m unable to look away from our reflection as I slip my hand under the enticing lace between her legs, my breath warm and ragged against her skin.
Slowly stroking two fingers into her, she squirms against me. Her palm tightens against my cock, threatening to snap the last bit of control I have. “You like that, don’t you?” I mutter against her shoulder blade, feeling her shiver.
She’s so warm, wet, and ready, and she teases her nipple with each pass of my fingers. It’s a visual overload to see her like this, the muted, chanting crowd pulsating behind the wall a few feet away only adding to the desire that bounces thick and heavy between us.
Pushing back from her, I frantically work to remove her boots, stopping when I hear a soft whimper above me. I lift my gaze to hers. Her face is flushed, and her lips are parted. “One day, we’ll keep these on,” I mumble, and tug one boot off, followed quickly by the other, hearing her giggle as she tries to balance, leaning against the edge of the counter.
She shimmies the rest of the way out of her jeans, and then she’s standing before me, in just a patch of simple white lace, a few wayward strands of hair escaping from where it’s piled on her head. She holds my gaze in the mirror as she rolls her thumb over her peaked nipple. “Touch me,” she urges, her voice soft and wanting.
Reaching around her for my wallet on the counter, I flip it open and tug a condom out. “You said you’re always safe, right?” My hand slides along the delicious curve of her ass, squeezing as my thigh pushes her legs apart.
“Always, I promise, but are you . . .” She nods quickly.
“I’ve had the shot for a couple of years n—” I crash my lips to hers stealing her breath and quieting her words. My hips roll against her, letting her feel the rigid outline of my cock.
“Is this what you want, hmm?”
“You’re wearing too many clothes,” she manages, dropping her free hand beneath the lace between her legs. The red scarf taunts me from the counter, and I lift it to trail the luxurious fabric across her torso, up between her breasts.
Her eyes flash, wild and hungry. She watches as I loop the scarf around her neck, and cross the fabric between her breasts. pulling it taut underneath them before knotting the ends tightly around her back. The deep, rich color of the scarf against her skin draws even more attention to her full tits, and I can’t resist cupping them in my hands as I stand behind her, her nipples tightening further under the rough pads of my fingers.
It’s tempting just to watch her like this, her fingers moving desperately over her clit to get herself off, and one day I will. But right now, the need to take her is overwhelming every other thought in my head. Nothing else matters—not the concert, not the fans screaming for me, not the fact that the rest of the band is waiting for me. Only her and me, and this insane energy between us.
I yank my shirt over my head and go to work on my belt. Then I kick off my shoes and tug my jeans down, the sound of the heavy buckle echoing through the room as it hits the floor. She never stops stroking between her legs as she watches me in the mirror. “No boxers?” It’s such an innocent question at a moment like this, and I can’t resist smacking her perfect, round ass as I press against her with deep laugh.
“No.” Sliding one hand up her neck, I coax her lips to meet mine, feeling her grind against me. Kissing Abby is something I should be doing every fucking hour of the day. She lets out a soft moan, my tongue gliding against hers as we devour each other. “Fuck, you taste so good.”
She answers with a nip to my bottom lip, slowly turning her head back to the mirror, her eyes wide as she watches me rip the lace at her hip away, and my fingers moving with hers to tease her swollen clit.
“Spread your legs and hold on.”
Her head drops forward with a groan, and she grips the rough edge of the counter as she bends over. I try to bite back a moan at the sight of her ass, her hips circling back as I push inside. She mumbles something I can’t understand, and I feel her stretch around me, both my hands tightening around her hips as I drive forward.
Flattening one hand up her spine, over the knot in the scarf in the middle of her back, I push my fingers through the messy twist of her hair and tug her head back, seeing her eyes finding mine in the mirror once more. “Watch us, baby.”
The intensity of the sheer desire in her eyes is more than I can take. There’s nothing gentle about what I’m doing. I’m taking exactly what I want, and she’s right there meeting me, each thrust deeper and more powerful than the last, her gaze darting around the mirror as if she can’t quite decide where to look first.
It’s a harsh, fast, and jarring pace. The ink on my skin snakes out to touch her silky skin as I wrap my arm around her waist, urging her back against me. Our movements are highlighted in the glare of the bulbs that line either side of the mirror, her tits bouncing against the fabric of the scarf with each punch of my hips, and I know it’s going to be over much too soon.
“Kennedy.” My name is a cry from her lips, and I feel her shudder around me. I roughly tug her back, the slap of our skin drowning out the rumbling outside the door. I can feel the white heat building, humming up my spine and spiking through my veins.
Her hands push against the counter as she throws her head back against my shoulder, a thin sheen of sweat breaking over my skin. “You’re so fucking tight. Christ.” My hips buck forward with the intensity of my release, my cock swelling and throbbing as my heated gaze locks to hers in the mirror.
“Holy God,” she mumbles, collapsing forward. Her breasts press to the countertop as she rests her cheek on the surface. H
er panted breaths fog the mirror in pulses, and I palm the sweet swell of her perfect ass. My heart hammers as I try to gain some sense of control, not wanting to move. I should be buried inside her every second of the fucking day.
I gently trace my fingers up her spine as I reluctantly ease from her with a rumbling groan. Releasing the knot of the scarf at her back, I pull her to lean against my chest, unbinding her breasts. “I think I’ll keep this,” I whisper into her ear, trailing the scarf over her collarbone. “Maybe put it on my microphone.” She blinks at me in disbelief, her chest rising and falling rapidly. “Mmm. Fucked speechless looks good on you. Welcome to London, Abby.”
Abigail
Holy hell. Every inch of me is tingling, and I barely have the strength to stand. I stare at his smirk in the mirror for what feels like eternity while I’m desperately waiting for speech to return.
“That was quite a welcome,” I manage weakly, as his smug smirk grows into a full-fledged grin.
“I want nothing more right now than to throw you on that couch and take you again, but we don’t have time.” He drops a kiss to my bare shoulder, making me quiver. “They’ll be coming for me any minute, and I don’t want anyone else seeing you like this.”
“Now?” I squeak, instinctively covering my breasts with my arms. He nods and gives me a playful slap on my ass, spurring me into motion. I quickly grab my bra from the pile of clothing on the counter and slip it on, as he pulls up his jeans behind me.
My head is spinning. After waiting for about fifteen minutes in the expansive green room while staffers set up tables of booze and snack food, I was shuttled to this smaller dressing room to wait another half hour. My nerves were stretched so tightly I thought they’d snap. To distract myself, I’d poked around the clothes hanging from the rolling rack. Then he was there and everything happened so fast. One minute, I’m laughing at how I look with a cowboy hat, and the next I’m naked and getting roundly fucked.
“I can’t believe you did that right before going on stage,” I mutter, pulling my T-shirt over my head.
He snorts in amusement. “Are you kidding? Getting you naked again has been the only thing I’ve thought about since I left your apartment.” My eyes meet his in the mirror, and I can see that he’s serious. I feel my blush, so I hastily look away and retrieve the scrap of lace that used to be my panties from the floor. Damn it—I liked that pair.
“Was this really necessary?” I demand in exasperation, shaking the pieces at him. Going commando might work for him, but not me. And after he dropped me off, the driver took my luggage to wherever we’re staying, so I can’t get a new pair.
Kennedy barks a laugh, roughly pulls me to his chest, and kisses me soundly. “Definitely,” he growls, the sound making me melt against him. “It was in my way.” I can’t hide my smile; maybe going commando isn’t so bad, after all. Then his arms tighten around me and his mood shifts again, his cocky demeanor slipping a bit.
“I’m serious—you’re practically all I’ve been able to think about for days,” he murmurs, his eyes boring into mine. “Not just the naked part, as sweet as it is. You need to know that.” I feel like I’m drowning in that sapphire gaze, and I nod, speech escaping me again. So instead, I reach up and pull his lips to mine, allowing myself to get lost in the sweet sensation. He moans softly, and the sound kick-starts my libido. He starts to move us toward the couch when a sharp knock at the door startles us apart. “Damn it,” he swears, his breathing heavy. “Come on, babe. Hurry.”
I scramble to pull on my jeans, as he steps over to the rolling wardrobe and plucks a black shirt from a hanger. Distracted by the sight of his lean, muscular frame, I gape at his back for a second before turning again to the mirror. I frown at the state of my hair. Just-fucked doesn’t even come close to describing it. I pull out the clip and use a brush sitting on the counter to start working out the tangles. I’m about to sweep it up again, when Kennedy stops me with a touch to my elbow. “Leave it.” The hungry look in his eyes almost undoes me, but instead he hands me one of my boots. He holds me steady while I step into them and raise the zippers, just as there’s another knock. This time the door opens slightly, and I can hear the rush of noise in the hallway beyond.
“All ready in here?” Tucker asks, before poking his head into the room. His eyes flicker between us, and he quickly stifles a smile, his lips twitching with the effort. Kennedy runs a hand through his disheveled hair and grins like a fool. I feel a flash of embarrassment and pray no one could hear us in here over the sounds of the crowd filtering in from the arena. With as much dignity as I can muster, I pull on my blazer, pick up my red scarf from the chair where Kennedy had draped it, and take a deep breath.
Taking my hand, Kennedy looks down at me, his blue eyes flashing. “Ready?” he asks softly, and I nod.
“For anything,” I assure him, and my spirit lifts when I see the relief in his eyes.
“Let’s hope so,” he murmurs and pulls me gently to the door, where he addresses Tucker. “Do you have someone to take her?”
“She’s all set.” He opens the door wider and gestures to where Colin is waiting behind him to escort me somewhere. “Colin will seat you, Miss Walker.”
I move to follow, but Kennedy doesn’t let go of my hand. He leans down and kisses me deeply, obviously not caring about our audience, and making my heart skip a beat. I have to blink a few times to clear my head, and when it does, I realize he’s now holding my scarf.
“I told you I was going to keep this,” he teases, and then tilts his chin toward the door. “Stay close to Tucker’s guy; he’ll take care of you. Enjoy the show, baby.”
I lift an eyebrow in challenge. “I thought I already did.” His eyes shoot open in surprise, and then he laughs.
“Good to know. Act two, then.” Tucker clears his throat to draw our attention, and I obediently step away from Kennedy. He lets me this time and follows Tucker down the hall in the opposite direction. I start to follow Colin, casting one last glance over my shoulder; I manage to catch a glimpse of Kennedy’s roguish smile as he looks back at me, and then he disappears around a corner.
“This way,” Colin says politely, and I fall into step with him. The pace of the people in the hallway increases, and I can feel the energy surge as show time nears. It’s exciting to be behind the scenes, and I can’t help my grin when I suddenly find myself backstage.
“Do I get to watch from here?” I ask, my eyes taking in the frenetic waltz of stagehands and roadies behind the curtains.
“Mr. Lane thought you’d have a better view from out front,” Colin explains. “This way, please. Mind your step.” We turn a corner and come face-to-face with a sneering Brodie Dixon. His expression makes my skin crawl.
“Jesus Fucking Christ.”
“It’s Abby, actually,” I correct him. “I believe Mr. Christ is busy elsewhere tonight.” Colin coughs into his fist, and I think I see a ghost of a smile behind his hand before he straightens. Brodie ignores him.
“What are you doing here?” he demands, scowling at me with disgust.
I purse my lips, trying to keep my temper in check. “Not that I have to explain myself to you, but I was invited. Didn’t you get the memo?”
“Your seat is this way, Miss,” Colin interjects, placing a hand at my elbow and guiding me away. I toss a quick glance over my shoulder; Brodie stares darkly after us, fists clenched.
“What the hell is that guy’s problem?” I mutter, turning again to follow Colin. He opens another door and leads me to a stairway that’s dimly glowing with light built into each step. Shaking off the last few minutes, I gasp as we step through another door into the vast arena, pulsing with noise and light, and filled with enthusiastic fans. Colin escorts me to a small section situated stage right, above the sea of people milling in front of the apron. I’m guessing it’s the O2’s version of box seats. Colin sees me to a spot in the front row, nearest the stage.
“Can I get you anything, Miss Walker?” he asks politely
, and I give him a thankful smile.
“No, thank you, Colin.”
“I’ll be just over here if you need me.”
The anticipation in the arena is palpable. I quickly pull out my phone, snap a photo of the packed audience and waiting stage, and send it to Maddie with the caption, “Guess where I am?” Her answer only takes two minutes—I love how she manages to squeal like a banshee using only exclamation points and emojis. I promise to call her tomorrow, and then tuck my phone away.
There are a few other people already seated; two dark-haired men who look like media-types and three blond women dressed in tight Redfall tank tops. Based on their accents, I appear to be the only American in the box. The women eye the biceps peeking out from Colin’s black shirt appreciatively as he retreats to the box opening, and then their curious eyes turn to me.
“You missed the opening act!” one of them chirps helpfully, and I barely suppress my smirk. The opening act was rather spectacular, I think.
“I saw it from back there,” I say, pointing vaguely behind me. She nods, and then goes back to chattering with her friends. If they only knew.
I close my eyes, savoring the memory of his hands on my skin, the force of his thrusts, and the burning hunger in those intense blue eyes staring at me in the mirror as he took me. I can’t believe that he did that . . . even more, that I let him just walk in and fuck me with barely a hello.
Oh, who am I trying to kid? That was, hands down, the most erotic moment of my life so far. A shiver runs through me. I don’t know what this man is doing to me, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want more. And that scares the living hell out of me.
Suddenly, the lights go out, plunging the arena in near darkness, and the crowd gives a deafening roar in response. The energy in the room is amazing. Then the stage is illuminated by four white spots, and noise in the hall increases exponentially as the band takes the stage. The drummer—Sean—is cloaked in the Union Jack and appears to be howling as he prances around his drum kit like a maniac. The other two guitarists are more low-key, simply sauntering into the light and raising their instruments high over their heads to the joy of the crowd.