She wasn't trying to impress me.
She was willing to put herself on the line for her work.
Even if it meant losing a job she loves.
That's the kind of person I want directing our video.
And the way her eyes filled up with need, the way she groaned against my chest—
She's the kind of woman I want in my bed.
The buzz of my cell breaks my concentration. It's an ETA from Natalie.
It comes with a picture of her thong-clad ass.
Natalie is undeniably attractive.
But this picture isn't making me feel shit.
It's time to end this.
I'm not going to be an asshole and do it over text.
Natalie's eyes light up as she pushes the lobby door open.
It's not I need him inside me, now.
It's not I need him tying me to my bed, now.
It's not a sexual glance.
"You're a sight for sore eyes." Her lips press together. Her cheeks flush.
It's subtle. Almost imperceptible. But the only thing I know about Natalie is how to read her body.
The way she's looking at me—
That's not fuck, light on the buddy.
That's not a buddy look at all.
She used to be the cold one. She'd ask me to leave the second the condom hit the trashcan.
It never hurt my feelings.
Sex is the only kind of intimacy I've ever wanted with a woman.
The fewer pretenses, the better.
"Come in." Her voice wavers as she pulls the door open.
I step into the sleek lobby. Its clean white walls and its marble floors scream new money.
It's empty this time of day. Too early for the after-work crowd. Too late for people sneaking in a noon quickie.
Once upon a time, I took delight in making Natalie strip in this elevator.
But whatever it is I felt for her, it's gone now. The only thing in my stomach is regret for what I have to do.
She clutches at the elevator handle, teetering in her heels.
Her lips curl into a nervous smile.
She loves me. Not the real Mal—she doesn't know him; no one knows him—but some idea of me.
And he's about to call this off.
Why does it always end like this?
It doesn't matter how clear I am about this being no strings attached. It doesn't matter how much my partner believes it in the beginning. It doesn't matter how little room we make for each other in our lives.
It always ends with a woman looking at me like I can save her. Like I'm the one who will finally love her the way she's meant to be loved.
I almost wish it was different. That I was capable of falling in love.
That I believed the women who told me they loved me.
That I had more to offer a woman than pleasure.
But I've been fucking for ten years now and I've never felt that warmth in my chest. I've never wanted in a woman's head or her heart.
I've never let my guard down.
I've never loved anyone and no one has ever loved me.
I don't know why, what the hell it is that's wrong with me, but I stopped asking that question a long time ago.
This is how it is.
It's not exactly torture, having a different fuck buddy in every city, calling whenever I roll into town.
If I could just skip the part at the end with all the heartbreak, it would be perfect.
I let Natalie lead me to her apartment. The penthouse is gorgeous. This time of day, the downtown skyline is stark against the bright sky. It's all steel and glass. It's cold. Utilitarian. Unbending.
"I've missed you." She looks me up and down, affection filling her soft eyes. She catches herself and shakes her head.
But it's too late.
It's written all over my face.
And hers.
"Mal..." She undoes the button of her suit jacket and slides the garment off her shoulders. Then she's undoing the buttons of her blouse.
I'm almost offended. But then, I know how it feels when someone you think you love rejects you.
It's not an easy pill to swallow.
She moves closer. Presses her hips against mine. Then it's her soft tits against my chest.
My body whines.
My thoughts immediately go to Lacey.
To her nails digging into my skin.
To her brown eyes filled with pleasure.
To her fuck, he's really going to pay three months of my rent smile.
I'm not going to fuck Natalie while I'm thinking of Lacey.
Hell, I'm not going to fuck anyone for a while. I'm sick of breaking women's hearts.
Natalie reaches up and runs her fingers through my hair. Her voice gets soft. She's giving up on pretenses. "I know you feel it too..." She rises to her tiptoes and leans in to kiss me.
I turn my head so she gets my cheek.
"Mal... I..." She clutches at my t-shirt like it's her lifeline.
There's nothing I can do.
She's going to say it.
And I'm going to break her heart.
It's inevitable.
"I love you," she whispers. Her eyes search mine. When I don't respond, she continues. "You must feel something."
Sugar coating this will only make it hurt more. "No."
"No?"
I keep my voice firm. "No."
"But..." She stares at me, studying my expression, begging me to break.
I hate doing this to her, but it's the only merciful option.
"This is just sex, Natalie. That's all it's ever been. That's all I'm capable of."
She blinks back a tear. She shakes her head. Then she's not trying to hold them off. She lets tears fall down her cheeks. "No, Mal... you must. The way you touch me... The things you make me feel. You're rough. Then you're tender. No one else has ever made me feel like my needs meant that much to them. No one else has ever made me come the way I do with you." She chokes back a sob. "The first thing you do when you tie me up is go down on me. If that isn't love—"
I shake my head.
"Mal..."
"I should go."
She tugs at my t-shirt and buries her head in my chest. She's sobbing so hard she's shaking.
I wrap my arms around Natalie. "I'm sorry, but I don't love you. I never will. I'll never want more than sex."
"But..." She breaks into a sob.
I squeeze her tightly. This is the last time I'll ever comfort her. And right now, she needs comfort more than she needs anything.
I keep my voice soft. "You'll find someone capable of loving you. You'll be happier that way."
She shakes her head. She doesn't believe me. But she'll get there.
My place—technically, still my parents' place—is three blocks from the beach. On an August evening, the streets are filled with the roar of the ocean and the low chatter of conversation.
I hang out on the deck and watch the waves pound the sand. There aren't any surfers this late. There aren't many swimmers either. It's mostly people taking romantic moonlit strolls or huddling at bonfires.
I'm used to quiet nights by myself. I don't party with the other guys. I've never found that appealing. If pressed, I'm sure that Ethan, Kit, and Joel would admit they prefer it this way.
I'm the de facto boss. The older brother. The responsible one. And you can't act like a fucking idiot in front of the responsible one without feeling like a fucking idiot.
I don't enjoy cramping their good time.
Or acting like an idiot for that matter.
Which is why I need to get over the thoughts of Lacey flitting through my mind. I barely know the woman.
She's interesting. Gorgeous. Responsive.
But I don't fuck colleagues.
That's acting like an idiot.
I head inside and flip around channels. Nothing entertains, but the Gossip Girl rerun does catch my attention. My little sister Piper and I were halfway through fini
shing the series when she moved out. Not that she's officially living with Kit. But it's close enough.
The show is a soap, through and through. It's not my thing, but it's fun watching it with my little sister, teasing her about how ridiculous it is, debating plot points and preferred character pairings.
Without her here, the show holds no appeal.
Without my brother and sister here, TV fails to entertain. Hell, without them, the gorgeous beach house is miserable and lonely.
After the next commercial break, I give up on the TV. I head to my room and pick a book from my Kindle. I get through three chapters before my interest wanes.
The book is fine, but it's not nearly as interesting as Lacey.
As the pleasure that spread over her dark eyes.
The way she groaned as I pinned her to the bed.
The way she smiled as I accused her of being a fangirl.
Fuck, she really would look good in my bed.
This is a bad idea.
But I can't stop myself from grabbing my phone and shooting her a text.
Mal: You home?
Lacey: Who is this?
Mal: Cute.
Lacey: It's a little hard to believe that *the* Malcolm Strong is texting me.
Mal: What about Mal, that guy you met at work?
Lacey: Does he sing like he's in the middle of a fuck?
Mal: He didn't sing when you met.
Lacey: Did he have hot tattoos and piercing blue eyes?
Mal: Yes.
Lacey: Then it's surprising he's texting me this time of night. Finish your booty call early?
Mal: I don't booty call.
Lacey: Then explain the "You home?" text.
Mal: I want to talk.
Lacey: About?
Mal: If you don't want to talk, say that.
Lacey: You really don't booty call? You seem like the type with a harem.
Mal: In my basement or something?
Lacey: Don't be ridiculous.
Mal: I'm being ridiculous?
Lacey: Yes. California homes don't have basements.
I have to laugh. It's not my usual this is mildly amusing chuckle. It's a real laugh.
This girl is funny. Smart. Adorable.
I actually like her.
Fuck, I can't remember the last time I liked someone.
Mal: I do have women I can call.
Lacey: Who drop everything to fuck you?
Mal: Unfortunately.
Lacey: You don't enjoy being the center of their universe?
Mal: No.
Lacey: Hmm… I'm not sure if I believe you.
Mal: You don't?
Lacey: Yes.
Mal: Because…?
Lacey: You begged me to cut your video together.
Mal: Beg?
Lacey: Paid me. But now you're texting me when I'm supposed to be working. You want my attention.
Mal: What if I'm texting about the video?
Lacey: With that booty call opening line? I don't think so.
Mal: You know a lot about booty calls.
Lacey: I do.
Mal: How is that?
Lacey: Not personal experience, trust me. My BFF, Carrie. She's that type.
Mal: And you?
Lacey: I get plenty of action making out with rock stars for the camera.
Mal: Now I feel cheap.
Lacey: What did I tell you? It's almost every day some hot rocker boy is begging me to make our footage a reality. It's getting exhausting.
Mal: I can imagine.
Lacey: Yes, and they don't take a hint either. You know how it is with guys who are artists. They decide you're their muse and they won't let go.
Mal: What albums have you inspired?
Lacey: I'm embarrassed to tell you. They're big and I don't want to make you feel small.
Mal: Trust me, I never feel small.
Lacey: Is that a dick joke?
Mal: I don't joke about my cock.
Lacey: Never?
Mal: What's to joke about?
Lacey: Its whorish ways?
Mal: Those are my whorish ways.
Lacey: To-may-to, to-mah-to.
Mal: I never let my cock take the driver's seat.
Lacey: Not even once?
Mal: Never.
Lacey: Aren't guys supposed to be ruled by their libidos?
Mal: Maybe. I've never done what I'm supposed to.
Lacey: That last Muse album. That was me.
Mal: It was good.
Lacey: Thanks, I thought so.
Mal: You get a sweet dedication?
Lacey: No, Mattie—That's what I call him. Mattie didn't really appreciate the way I tore his heart out. He didn't want to give me credit for inspiring him.
Mal: Men and their egos, huh?
Lacey: Story of my life.
I laugh. I can't remember the last time I laughed this much in this short a duration of time. It's not that I'm humorless. More that I'm always the serious one.
Mal: What about a small album you've inspired? One that wouldn't crush my ego.
Lacey: Ah, well, I don't want to make you feel bad about the indie bands with credibility, the ones who would call you a sellout.
Mal: Convenient.
Lacey: Trust me, Mal, it's for your benefit.
Mal: Is my ego that fragile?
Lacey: The bigger they are…
Mal: Why do I feel a dick joke coming on?
Lacey: I've got nothing, sorry.
Mal: Me either.
Lacey: You're still firmly in booty call territory btw.
Mal: Am I?
Lacey: Very much.
Mal: Should I talk about the weather?
Lacey: It was hot as balls today.
Mal: I think it was more the cute brunette under me.
Lacey: That did make me acutely aware of the shitty air conditioning.
I let memories of her body under mine fill my head. My cock begs me to turn this into an actual booty call. She wants to fuck me. She wants to come on my face. She wants me splitting her in half.
Lacey: I can't believe I'm about to tell the hot guy I met at work this, but I won't be able to make my deadline if you keep flirting with me.
My lips curl into a smile. I love that she's choosing work over flirting with me. Most of the women I meet immediately throw away everything in their lives to spend time with me. That's how I get into the mess I got into with Natalie.
But Lacey has her priorities and they don't include me.
Whatever she believes, that's how I like it.
I'm not breaking another heart anytime soon. Maybe that doesn't have to mean keeping my jeans zipped.
Mal: It's not often a woman hints I should get lost.
Lacey: I can't believe it either. I think I'm going to wake up tomorrow and hate my past self for passing up the chance to invite Malcolm Strong into my bed.
Mal: What about Mal, the guy you met at work?
Lacey: Him too. He was pretty hot.
Mal: Only pretty hot?
Lacey: Egomaniac.
Mal: You disagree?
Lacey: No comment. I have to get to this. I have an early call time tomorrow. And I'm about to choose between sleep and finishing this first pass.
Mal: You're not choosing sleep.
Lacey: How do you know?
Mal: Tell me I'm wrong.
Lacey: No comment.
Mal: Where do you want to meet Sunday?
Lacey: Come to my place.
Mal: And I'm the one booty calling you?
Lacey: At seven. Don't be late. Or early. I won't be done until 6:59.
She sends her address.
Lacey: Goodnight, tortured bad boy.
Mal: Goodnight, Lacey.
4
Lacey
My phone falls onto my lap. Right between my legs. If only it was buzzing. Not that I need extra stimulation.
My heart is still racing. My breath is still heavy.
My brain is utterly unable to comprehend Mal flirting with me. If I hadn't personally programmed my number into his phone, I'd think this was some practical joke.
My eyes refuse to focus on the footage. It's all here, finally uploaded. There's a lot of raw footage—nearly two hours' worth—but it's not as bad as more elaborate videos.
This is plenty to work with.
I already have an idea. A perfect idea. A perfect idea that will take every minute I have between now and Sunday at seven.
Which leaves absolutely no time for lusting over Mal.
For thinking about his hands on my skin, his lips on my neck, his voice in my ears.
I read over our texts again. That's flirting. That's definitely flirting.
I try to focus on the footage, but all I can see is me and Mal in that bed.
My tongue slides over my lips. My heartbeat picks up. My breath catches in my throat. That's not the celebrity client and the model in that frame. That's me and Mal, rolling around in bed. He's kissing me. He's pulling off my shirt. Unzipping my shorts. Flipping me over and holding me down.
Dragging his lips over my neck.
Pulling my hair.
Pushing my bra straps off my shoulders.
Unzipping his jeans.
Fuck, my skin burns. Not just from the images, but from the memory of his body against mine.
His hard cock between my legs.
All that denim was in the way, but the feel of it was enough to light up every nerve in my body.
Fuck, I'm twenty-two and I'm out of mind over an erection.
This isn't how it should be.
But I'm not letting Adam ruin any more of my sexual experiences.
Not even the solo ones.
I turn my computer off and I climb into bed. I don't bother with pretenses. I push my pajama bottoms to my knees and I slide my hand between my legs.
And I think of Mal.
I think of his soft lips.
Of his calloused fingers.
Of his hard cock between my legs.
Nothing in the way.
Just his flesh and mine.
Him filling me again and again.
Those low groans of his in my ears.
My name on his lips as he pins me to the bed and fucks me.
All weekend I work. I only break to eat, shower, head to the gym, and text Carrie (she's busy with her summer program but she's still dying to know about my secret editing project).
By six-thirty Sunday evening, I almost have the video cut together. I grab a glass of water and dive back into editing for long enough to fix the last few shots.
Dangerous Fling: A Rock Star Romance (Dangerous Noise Book 4) Page 3