Fade Into You (Shaken Dirty #3)

by Tracy Wolff

  He started to get twisted up in it, tangled in the memories of his past as the familiar guilt wrapped itself around his gut. His heart.

  But it was like she knew, like she could feel it, too, because suddenly she was cupping his face in her soft hands, those gorgeous gold-brown eyes of hers looking deep into his own. “Hey,” she murmured, before pressing soft kisses to his jaw, his chin, the sensitive skin of his neck. “Stay with me. Please.”

  “I am,” he told her. “I’m right here.”

  She must have heard it in his voice, though, because when he moved to once again take her mouth with his, she shied away. Pushed him back just far enough so that she could slide her legs down his hips and put her feet on the floor.

  “Don’t,” he said, his voice breaking with the sudden need—the sudden desperation—burning inside of him. Don’t push me away. Don’t leave me alone, not now. Not yet.

  His hand clenched on her hip, his fingers digging into the soft lushness of her ass for one second, two, before he forced himself to let go. To move away.

  But she moved with him, her arms twining around his waist and her body pressed against his own as she walked him backward across the living room.

  “What—”

  She stopped him with kisses, so many kisses—soft, hard, slow, fast, lingering, deep—as she kept them moving down a short, narrow hallway. “Much as I like walls,” she murmured against his lips between kisses, “sometimes a bed is good, too.”

  Relief flooded him and he grinned, his arms winding their way back around her waist. “You won’t get an argument from me,” he told her as they made their way from the hallway into her bedroom.

  Since it was the label’s condo, there wasn’t much to the room—nothing personal that would tell him anything about her that he didn’t already know. At least, nothing beyond the fact that she had yet to unpack and was currently living out of a purple-and-white polka-dotted suitcase that he found completely ridiculous and totally endearing all at the same time.

  But there was also a bed—a huge, sprawling bed with a black duvet and a million pillows—and at the moment, he was much more interested in it than he was in Poppy’s luggage, no matter how charming her suitcase was. He started to take control, to turn her so that he could lower her onto the big bed—but she just shook her head.

  Shot him a wicked little smile.

  Murmured, “It’s my turn.”

  And then she was shoving him hard enough to have him falling ass first onto the bed.

  She was on him in a second, her long, curvy legs straddling his hips as she yanked his shirt over his head and sent it soaring across the room.

  He laughed a little at her enthusiasm, but his amusement soon turned to need as she slammed her mouth down onto his.

  It was a fast kiss—fast and hard and deep—and he was just getting into it when she pulled away. He reached for her, but she laughed and twisted her hips to dislodge his hands. He groaned—even through two layers of fabric, the feel of her sex against his cock was nearly enough to have him going blind with need—and it took every ounce of willpower he had not to roll her beneath him and take what he so desperately wanted.

  Only the knowledge that she wanted to be in control this time kept his hands on the bed and his hips from thrusting into her as she pulled her tank top over her head and then leaned over to rub her breasts against his chest.

  Fuck. He gritted his teeth, tangled his fingers in the duvet, fought against the need blasting through him like a particularly powerful bass line as Poppy started licking and kissing and nibbling her way up his neck. She paused at the hollow of his throat, swirled her tongue against his skin in slow, lazy circles that made his eyes cross and his dick swell. She prodded his Adam’s apple with her tongue, once, twice, before moving on to where his jaw met his neck. She dawdled there for long seconds, licking her way along the line of his beard until she reached the sensitive spot beneath his ear. She kissed her way over it even as she blew a warm, soft stream of air into his ear that had his hips slamming up and into hers of their own volition.

  She gasped, her knees tightening around his hips, and for a second he thought he had her. But then she moved to the other side of his neck and started all over again, and he knew he was in trouble. It was a feeling that only intensified as she sought out every single one of his spots, listening to the way his breath hitched and ebbed in an effort to figure out exactly what he liked and how hard—or soft—he liked it.

  Jesus. He wasn’t going to survive giving her control. Wasn’t going to survive her curious sensuality, or the care she was putting into her exploration of him. Groaning deep in his throat, he closed his eyes thinking maybe if he couldn’t see her beautiful face, her gorgeous body, that maybe—just maybe—he’d last long enough to get inside of her.

  And then she shifted, her sex brushing against his straining cock, and even with the layers of clothes between them, it was almost enough to have him coming in his jeans. And that was before she started fumbling with his zipper, her fingers clumsy.

  “Fuck,” he breathed, moving to help her. As he did, he ended up with his face pressed into her hair and damn, did she smell good. Like honey and strawberries and fresh summer rain. And then, because he couldn’t resist, he kissed her shoulder, trailing his lips over the slope of her breast until he could take her hard little nipple in his mouth.

  She gasped, arched her back. Tangled her fingers in his hair.

  Thank God.

  He sucked harder, swirled his tongue around her nipple once, twice, then again and again as she moaned and quivered and gasped above him. Determined to press his advantage, he slid his hand over her hip to her sex. He could feel her through the yoga pants—hot and wet—and for a second he wanted nothing more than to strip them off of her and press his lips to her pussy.

  But before he could do much more than hook his hands in the waistband of her pants, she jerked away.

  “No, what are—” He grabbed for her, but she was already gone, sliding off the edge of the bed and tugging his jeans with her while she went.

  “I told you,” she said, pressing her lips to his now bare abs. “My turn.”

  “No offense, sweetheart, but if you don’t hurry up, I don’t think I’m going to survive your turn.” He sounded like he’d just swallowed a handful of broken glass.

  She only laughed, though. “No offense, sweetheart,” she mimicked after a minute, “but I’m just getting started.”

  And then she was nuzzling her way along his happy trail, licking along his V-cut, pressing kisses over his abdomen and chest.

  She paused at his nipples this time, circled her tongue around first one and then the other before pausing to suck one into her mouth. His fingers tightened in her hair—he’d long since lost the battle to keep his hands to himself—and she moaned, a breathless little sound that had his cock all but standing at attention.

  He pulled her closer, held her tighter, reveling in the luscious scent of her, the creamy softness of her. The wicked, wanton sex of her. Though he knew this was her show, knew she needed to be in control, it took every ounce of self-control he had not to lift her up and set her down on his face.

  He knew if he did, he could have her screaming his name in less than thirty seconds.

  He didn’t do it, though. Instead he lay there as she explored every inch of his body with her hands, her mouth, her soft, wet little tongue. She sucked his nipples into her mouth, licked her way along the macabre, black and white tattoos that made up both of his sleeves, even ran her fingers along the track marks on his hips and inner arms.

  He squirmed away the second she touched them, hating that she was seeing them. Hating that she very obviously knew what they were.

  And when she leaned forward to press kisses to the ugly marks—one after another—he nearly lost it completely.

  “Don’t!” he ground out, pulling her away from him.

  “It’s okay,” she told him.

  “It’s not okay,” he
answered, feeling naked in a way that had nothing to do with how his clothes were crumpled on the floor. He couldn’t stand that his addiction—his weakness—was laid out in the thin black marks for her to see. He hadn’t wanted to be strong for anyone in longer than he could remember, hadn’t wanted to be whole and clean and normal. But he wanted it now, for her. Wanted it with a desperation that bordered on the pathological.

  “They’re a part of you,” she told him, shoving his hands out of the way so she could kiss along the tangible proof of his weakness. “Not all of you, not the most important part of you. But a part of you.”

  “I don’t want you to see them,” he said. “Please, I don’t want—”

  “Okay,” she murmured, shimmying back up him so that she was once again straddling his hips. Only this time all that was between his dick and her sex was the very thin layer of her yoga pants, and it wasn’t enough to keep him from feeling how hot she was. How wet.

  “I won’t touch them,” she continued as she rocked her hips gently against him. “But I want you to know what I see when I look at them.”

  “Poppy, don’t—” She was killing him, tearing him apart with his need for her and his utter self-loathing all at the same time.

  “Ssshhh.” She pressed soft fingers to his lips, even as she slipped a hand between them. Fisted his cock. Began to stroke. “I know you’re ashamed of them, but you shouldn’t be.”

  He arched against her despite himself, his whole body straining for the pleasure—the release—her touch promised.

  “You’ve been to hell, Wyatt.” She pressed kisses to his chest, his neck. “And I’m so, so sorry that you had to go through that.” More kisses, to his cheeks this time. “But you’ve come out the other side. You’re here and you’re alive and you’re clean. That’s nothing to be ashamed of, baby.” Still more kisses, to his eyes, his forehead. “That’s something to be proud of. That’s something to celebrate. I’m so glad you survived, baby. I’m so glad you’re here, with me, right now. So glad—”

  Her voice broke and he broke with it. Rearing up, he thrust his hands deep into her hair and dragged her mouth down to his. Then he was shoving his tongue between her lips, taking her words, her breath—taking all of her that he could—deep inside himself. She cried out, but she didn’t stop him. Didn’t try to get away from his ravenous mouth, his rampaging need. Instead she gave and gave and gave, and he took and took and took, until their mouths were swollen and their hands were shaking. Until their hearts were slamming against their ribs and their bodies straining against each other.

  “Poppy, please,” he ground out as he sucked her lower lip between his teeth and bit down hard enough to make her cry out. “I need—”

  “I know,” she said, working him faster. “I’ve got you—”

  “Not like that. Not this time. Not—” His voice broke as she stroked her thumb over the sensitive head of his cock.

  “Okay. Okay.” She clambered off him and he nearly howled at the loss, his hand grabbing at her hip, her thigh, at anything he could reach.

  But she didn’t go far. Instead, she kept one hand around his dick as she used the other to peel her pants down her legs. It was a little awkward, a little slow, and still she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He was lost in her, enthralled by her, so close to coming that every heartbeat felt like a razor blade along his nerve endings.

  But he was determined to hang on, determined to be inside her when it happened this time. He thought about closing his eyes, about shutting her out for just a second until he could get some control, but he didn’t want to miss a second of her luminous skin, her gorgeous smile, her flashing eyes.

  Then she was climbing back on top of him, fumbling in the nightstand drawer with her free hand and coming up with an unopened box of condoms. Thank God.

  Seconds later it was time, and she was lowering herself over him, the tight, wet heat of her sliding against him. He shuddered then, completely overwhelmed by the feel of her. The sight and sound and smell of her.

  She was moon-kissed in the dark room, her skin pale and creamy against the black of the duvet. Her long, glorious hair was wrapped around her, wrapped around him, as he brought his hands to her lush, full breasts.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered as he rubbed his thumbs over the hard tips of her nipples.

  “So are you,” she told him, her voice breaking as she lifted herself up and nearly off of him before slowly, slowly, slowly, lowering herself back down his cock.

  And then she was finally moving, her hips swinging faster and faster as she rode him. He was close, so fucking close, but there was no way he was going off before her. No way he was going to come until he felt her beautiful body clenching around his own.

  Sliding a hand between them, he stroked his thumb around her clit, circling it as she continued to rock against him. She cried out then, bracing her hands on his chest as the pressure built inside her, built inside him.

  “Wyatt,” she gasped. “I need, I need—”

  “I’ve got you, sweetheart.” His voice was hoarse from restraint, from the iron will he was using to fight off his own climax as he squeezed her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, then did the same to her clit. “I’ve got you. I’ve got—”

  She came, crying out his name, her body convulsing on his in a rhythm that broke the last of his determination. Lifting his hips, he thrust into her. Once, twice. Then he was coming, too, emptying everything he had—everything he was—into Poppy. And praying, even through the pleasure, that it was enough for her.

  For both of them.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Early the next morning, Poppy shook her head as she clicked through to yet another Shaken Dirty tumblr dedicated almost exclusively to Wyatt. She’d gotten online two hours before to check out a few things in reference to some ideas she had for their social media, and she’d quickly fallen down the rabbit hole.

  There were literally hundreds of thousands of tumblrs dedicated to all aspects of this band—their music, their influences, their girlfriends, even their clothes. And that didn’t even count the tumblrs dedicated to shipping the members together. Right now, Ryatt seemed to be the favorite ship—and after looking at hundreds of pictures of the two of them together, even she had to admit Ryder and Wyatt made a cute couple. The fact that Wyatt was currently cuddled up next to her in bed was completely beside the point. Especially when she was looking at really pretty pictures of him and Ryder hugging each other at last year’s Grammy awards…

  She was still grinning as she clicked on another timeline, this one from Shaken Dirty’s early early days, back before they were signed, when they were still playing clubs and hoping for a big break. She skimmed through the pictures and captions, laughing a little at all the inside jokes the fandom had. And yes, she knew the fact that she now got all those jokes might indicate that she had spent way too long on these blogs in the last two days, but it was so fun she didn’t care. Besides, if she squinted hard enough, she could totally claim all this “research” fell under her newest job description.

  She paused over a particularly adorable picture of the guys on a small outdoor stage in what the caption identified as Springfield, Missouri. The photo had obviously been taken when they were playing a county fair, which was odd enough for them during this time period. But what really gave her pause was that the maker of the timeline claimed they were playing there because Springfield was Wyatt’s hometown. Even more perplexing was that as far as Poppy could see, none of the twenty-four thousand people who had reblogged the timeline had given its maker any grief about the misinformation. And since that was totally not like Tumblr users, she couldn’t help wondering what was going on.

  Shaken Dirty had formed in Austin, when lifelong friends Jared Matthews, Ryder Montgomery, Wyatt Jennings, and Micah Tarrent were still in high school. Quinn Bradford was a later addition, having met them in a club after one of their shows nearly a year later. So if Wyatt had grown up in Austi
n with the others, as the bio claimed, what was all this talk of Springfield?

  She clicked back to the tumblr, one that had nearly forty million followers and was obviously one of the most respected in the fandom. Once she did, she searched through the blogger’s list of tags, found the ones that she had basically dedicated to Wyatt.

  As Poppy scrolled through them, she felt herself getting more and more confused. Because according to this blogger—Dani was her name—nothing was quite what it appeared when it came to Wyatt Jennings.

  For example, he’d said in numerous interviews that he’d grown up on a farm, but then other interviews—and his official bio—talked about him growing up in Austin where there weren’t a lot of farms. In another interview, he’d mentioned that at one time his big claim to fame was that he had gone to Brad Pitt’s middle school. At the time, the interviewer had joked that soon Brad would be claiming to have gone to Wyatt’s middle school and everyone had laughed.

  A quick Google search showed her that Brad Pitt had been born in Oklahoma but had moved to Springfield, Missouri, with his family when he was young…So Wyatt had spent a significant amount of time in Springfield, then. How did she not know about this? And why was his official bio disguised to make it look like that wasn’t the case?

  Intrigued now, she started combing through the rest of the tags. As she did, she came up with a bunch of things that seemed to contradict the label’s official narrative regarding Wyatt. Little things like when he’d learned to play the drums. Or what musicians had influenced him growing up. Or how old he was when he’d moved out on his own.

  There were bigger things, too, though. Things like whether it was his widowed mother who had raised him or his father’s sister. Or disputes on whether or not he’d ever been arrested. On whether or not he had a kid. And even, if she could believe some of the more outrageous conspiracy theories, on whether or not his name was actually even Wyatt Jennings.

  Because she was curious, she also searched the other guys. Found little to no ambiguity between the official bio and what the fans held to be true about Ryder, Jared, and Quinn. So it was just Wyatt who things didn’t add up for, Wyatt whose background looked to have been professionally whitewashed, considering almost nothing appeared online about him that dated back more than five or six years. It was like he hadn’t actually existed before Shaken Dirty was signed. But some intrepid fan had actually dug up a birth certificate for him from Missouri twenty-eight years ago, so obviously that wasn’t the case.