Bran turned into the Waldorf’s entrance, a Parisian-inspired motor court strung with even lines of round bulbs. The building’s interior windows were capped by purple awnings and as Bran passed the brightly lit branches of the towering green Christmas tree that covered the fountain at the courtyard’s center, black-jacketed valets surrounded the red Ferrari.
Bran slowed, pretending to admire his own car, hoping to stagger his and Nelle’s arrivals, give her time to clear the lobby.
One of the valets whistled. “A woman that gorgeous in a car like this? I’ll never get the image out of my head.”
What began as a frisson of pride gained power from the cold and Bran shuddered—he’d spent too long in LA, had lost his conditioning for a Chicago winter. He hadn’t even packed a real coat. Not that he’d been thinking straight when he’d packed.
A gust of warm air hit his face as he entered the hotel, and he waited for his muscles to relax their chill-induced tension. Passing under a silver starburst, he strode to the desk in the glittering black-and-white lobby.
He gave the name Kinsella, paid cash, and pulled his Sox hat as low as he could. The precautions weren’t enough. The concierge handed him an envelope with the key card to his room and ten extra digits penned inside.
Part of the reason this whole night had happened—had worked—was that no one knew he was in Chicago. He hadn’t seen anyone but family and clergy until today. Now a bartender knew, and so did a concierge. It was only a matter of time before someone Snapchatted him walking down the street. All he needed was a few more hours of anonymity to spend with Nelle.
Ignoring the number on his key, Bran hit the elevator button for Nelle’s floor. He bounced on his heels as if to propel the rising motion. The carpet muffled his quick steps as he wound through the hall to her room, and he barely remembered to stop, pull his phone out, and keep his head down, waiting for a laughing couple to stumble past him. The coast finally clear, Bran approached Nelle’s door and raised his knuckle to knock. His whole body felt stretched, a too-tight guitar string in need of tuning.
What if she didn’t answer?
His shoulders shook as a leftover shiver reverberated through him.
The door swung open while he was still gathering his courage and Nelle stood in front of him, lower than the last time he’d seen her, having removed her boots and the bun that added two inches to her height.
“Hurry up and get in here!” She fisted the sweatshirt under his jacket and tugged him into the room.
Bran fumbled forward, catching his free hand on the wall before he crushed her into it. Their bodies pulled close, almost touching, barely apart. He lowered his nose, inhaling the scent of peonies in her dark hair.
“You’re trembling.” She whispered the words, even though there was no one there to overhear them.
Fifty thousand people didn’t set his nerves shaking like this one woman did. It wasn’t the cold, or the fear of getting caught that had him wound like this. It was Nelle. The possibility of her becoming real.
It would have been enough, to share the secret.
But he wanted more. And now was the time to get it.
Chapter Eight
Nelle ducked under Bran’s arm. “There’s a fireplace, come on.”
Two low, patterned armchairs faced each other in the sitting area in front of the large evenly made bed. The bed that Nelle ignored, kneeling to click on the chair-flanked fireplace.
The bed. And the fireplace.
Heating things up, Benj would no doubt comment when Nelle relayed the night’s events.
Except. She couldn’t tell Benj, could she? A secret’s value decreased with every person who knew it. She was already dying to tell somebody. Would she be able to hold it back?
Bran shook out of his coat and dropped it on the floor next to his bag before claiming one of the chairs, sinking into it, and letting his knees fall wide. Nelle sat opposite him, bending forward, her elbows on her top knee, her arms and legs crossed. They regarded each other from a distance, the room silent besides the whoosh of gas flame under the mantel’s wide molding.
She was going to have to tell Benj. Not about the secret marriage and all the private little moments in the car. But she had to share with her best friend the way Bran Kelly looked sitting across from her, out-smoldering the actual fire in the room. If she didn’t, she might not be able to remember if it was real, or some new fantasy born out of years of distant pining.
“I’m still cold.” Bran raised his arms, grasping the hoodie behind his neck and pulling it off. If he was so cold, he should probably stop losing layers, but Nelle wasn’t going to say so. Opposite him she was growing hotter by the second, sweltering under the sweater that rose to her throat. She gulped in air. Taking off clothes seemed like a really, really good idea. Best idea all night.
He shook a hand through his rumpled hair and pushed it back into place. His mouth quirked up and he cocked his head to the side. “Come here.”
Big. Dick. Energy. Eggplant-emoji energy.
That’s what he had. That’s what she’d tell Benj. Bran Kelly can get it.
Slowly she unfolded her body and stood. Reaching behind her, Nelle unzipped the leather skirt that flared around her hips and shifted it to the ground. She stepped out of the garment, pulling her sweater up and over her head.
Bran leaned forward to meet her as she stepped between his legs, her curvy silhouette on display before him. His hands went first to her wide hips, before sliding to the round ass she’d been accused of enhancing. He squeezed her roughly and she dug her fingers into his hair, tugging his head back. A guttural sound of appreciation rumbled from his throat and Nelle climbed onto his lap, eager for more, wanting to devour that sound and any other he might produce under her hands.
Her short waist was bare between navel-high tights and a black bra, and Bran’s cold hands sent a shiver through her body as he trailed them over the exposed skin. Icy knuckles brushed the underside of her breasts and Nelle gasped, her nipples pulling tight at the touch, the sensation exaggerated by the temperature. She arched forward and Bran slipped his hands under the wire of her bra, warming himself on her sensitive skin.
All at once Nelle felt the room narrowing to the chair they shared. Her body overtly aware of every little motion: the soft slip of her hair on her back, the hard lines of Bran’s lap beneath her—strong thighs pulling apart to allow the rock-solid thickness of his dick to press up against her.
Bran’s hands were roaming again as he pressed his cool lips to her jaw, humming a quiet breath into her ear and raising goose bumps along her shoulder. Nelle’s eyes drifted shut, her arms wrapping around his neck. His hair, still smelling of winter night, tickled her chin.
And then he was pulling back, his hands running along her arms as he leaned away from her.
Nelle sat upright, straddling his hips, her head hot and dizzy, her center aching with anticipation.
Starting with the pinky of her right palm, Bran twisted off her rings, easing them over her knuckles one by one. He collected them in a pile on the table next to the chair, stopping when the angled wedding band was the only one left. Her chest rose and fell heavily as he cupped her left hand to his cheek, turning his head to kiss the palm side of the ring he’d given her.
“Why like that?” she asked, thinking back to the moment he’d put it on her finger. “Why did you want me to wear it with the angle at the bottom?”
He threaded their hands together, pulling her forward so her chest flattened against his T-shirt. “You know what a claddagh ring is?”
She nodded, her nose grazing his. “Angel gave Buffy one on her birthday. Before they had absolutely unethical sex because he was a villain with or without a soul.”
His full-bellied laugh bounced her up. “Right, so you know the heart points down—”
“When you have someone.” Nelle sat
up, planting her hands on his chest for balance. “It means I have you?”
Bran’s blue eyes seemed to deepen. “You can have me.” He paused before amending, “For the night.”
Well. If they only had one night to do this, she was going to make the most of it.
Nelle bore down, grinding against his hard dick. Bran opened his mouth to groan and Nelle’s lips met it, capturing the sound as her tongue rushed against his. She wanted to feel his skin against hers, soft and warm. She wanted to lick the dip of his clavicle, follow the raised veins that disappeared under his cuffed sleeves and bite at the hollow bend. Nelle pulled at his shirt, but it was tucked tightly into his pants. Craving contact, she fingered the hole she’d noticed earlier.
Bran broke away to chide her. “You’re gonna rip it.”
“It’s already ripped.”
“It’s vintage.”
“Take it off then, if you’re so worried about it.”
The room shifted as he stood. He gripped her bottom firmly as he carried her to the bed, setting her down gently, one leg at a time. Bran unbuttoned his pants, pulling his shirt loose and over his head, revealing pale skin and a triangle of dark hair between his unsculpted pecs. While his abdomen was flat, it was undefined compared to his arms, curved and hardened by muscles that were in demand every time he picked up a guitar. Nelle didn’t doubt the strength, the endurance, Bran was capable of—touring was a marathon, hours of cardio every night. He owned his confidence, and she felt it like a DJ’s mix, the way he would last, blending track to track, an endless build that crested in that one perfect moment when the beat dropped.
Bran lowered to his knees, pressing his mouth against the layers of nylon and satin that covered her slit. He breathed in her heat and tongued the fabric until it was saturated from both sides.
“Bran—” She gasped his name and pulled at his hair and he pressed harder against her. Nelle’s knees buckled and she fell back on the bed. Bran took the opportunity to peel the tights from her legs, taking the satin underwear with them.
Reddit had not oversold his talented tongue. When Bran reapplied himself to the wet throb between her legs, the barriers stripped away, she learned the power of his mouth unfiltered. She moaned and writhed and was completely incoherent by the time he released her, pushing her knees wide and sucking at her clit until she broke. Waves of satisfaction spiked from the spot, amplifying outward.
Oh god she’d needed that. Something just for her. Something worth the sacrifice.
Bran’s weight pressed her to the mattress and she lapped grateful, sloppy kisses on his neck, his jaw, his lips. He shifted their positions so she was on top of him again, helping her out of her bra as they kissed lazily.
Nelle sat to sweep her tangled hair back and looked down at him. Her brows furrowed and she pushed his shoulder, rising up on her knees and rolling him over between her legs. Her palms swept over his back. “Where are your tattoos?”
“What tattoos?” He groaned into the mattress as she massaged a knot of tension pushing against her fingertips.
“Guitars, women, tattoos—you missed a rock star stereotype.”
“I’m not a rock star, I’m a singer-slash-songwriter now. Haven’t you heard my solo stuff? Rolling Stone called Green a tonic and tenable folk album.”
“You memorize your reviews.”
“Insecure artist, remember?” He twisted onto his back and she fell forward. “I’m very flawed. But no tattoos. I’ve got commitment issues.”
“You just married me.”
“You could have done better.” He kissed her neck. “I haven’t come up with anything I want permanently on my body. Except maybe you.” He pulled her hips down on his, her bare opening catching against the unhooked button flap above his zipper, shooting pleasure up her spine.
Nelle fought to keep her mind on the conversation. “There has to be something—the chorus of ‘Fly Free’?” She’d considered that herself once before chickening out.
“My own lyrics? You really do think I’m a dickhead.”
“Something about your gran then?”
“You’re suggesting a tattoo for my grandmother would make me more rock and roll?”
He rubbed against her and her mind fogged with lust. “Do you ever stop talking?”
“You keep asking me questions.” The sly tease in his smile was almost enough to undo her again.
This was temporary. She had to stop wasting what little time they had with words. They had talked enough.
“Good point. Let’s just fuck.”
Bran’s eyes burned into her before he urged her off of him and rose from the bed. He wrestled a condom out of his taut pants and shoved them to the ground, removing his underwear and socks in the process.
He stood, framed by the fireplace, his dick straight and hard, straining towards her. Another win for the internet, proving it wasn’t all fake news.
Bran handled the foil wrapper and knelt on the bed.
“Come here,” he said again.
Nelle didn’t hesitate before climbing over him. Bran held her hips as he eased her onto his dick. She gripped his shoulders, stuttering, “Ah, ah, ah,” as he sank deeper inside of her. She took him to the hilt, his hands applying light force to her sides to make sure he’d filled her completely. Her breath hitched as he found the back of her.
“Okay?” Bran asked looking up from their connection to find her eyes.
“Very okay—ah!”
He lifted his hips in a thrust and her eyes closed. Wrapping one arm secure about her waist and snaking the other up her back, he held her to him, his grip at the base of her neck, gentle but firm. They moved together slowly, her knees drawing tight to his toes and his knees pushing her feet wide. She sank even lower onto him, breathless from the fit, the stretch of accommodating his substantial cock.
Her breasts grazed his chest as she rose and fell. His hips held all the rock and roll she needed. They kissed periodically, coming together in whispers of appreciation, but their mutual concentration was on the heat building between them, winding them up. She was right about his endurance, the momentum of pleasure lasting and lasting.
Nelle’s back was hot, slick with sweat, and that one famous strand of hair that hooked over Bran’s forehead had darkened and stuck to his face. His eyes locked on to hers as her exhausted pussy finally tensed. Her muscles clenched around him and his mouth opened as though her grip pained him.
The force of her second Bran Kelly orgasm nearly tore her in half. Like the throbbing bass of a festival amp, pulsing through every inch of her body, overwhelming her from the inside out.
Her legs and feet cramped and she could do nothing but continue to ride him as he finished, gripping her neck and gasping her name.
Antonella.
Nella.
Nelle.
Chapter Nine
Bran rested his eyes, but he didn’t sleep. He lay on his back, left arm hooked under his head, Nelle in the nook of his other shoulder. He strummed his right hand over her back, where it dipped in a low curve, the points of her spine reminding him of the even nailhead trim he’d thumbed earlier in the evening.
It was always a gamble, staying after sex. Sure, sometimes it meant more sex, but sometimes it meant nonstop talking, requests for tickets, confessions of feelings they couldn’t possibly have because they didn’t know him, just his cock. Bran never knew what a woman might want from him after. And Nelle was no different.
The longer the comfortable silence lasted, the less comfortable it felt to Bran.
“No sleeping,” he reminded her with a nudge.
She sighed across his chest. “I’m performing tomorrow.”
“And I’m performing tonight.”
“I forgot, this is Bran Kelly: One Night Only. Should I be clapping?”
“Only if you enjoyed it.”
/> “Clearly, I enjoyed it.”
He knew that. He had felt it—how she had contracted around him, wrapping and squeezing as tight as a boa constrictor. And just as dangerous, because his first rational thought after spilling into the condom was that he needed to feel it again. And again. But they only had tonight. That was the deal. Their secret was worthless if they got caught.
“Bran?” Nelle’s fingertips circled through the coarse hair of his chest. “Did something happen to you today?”
“Yeah, I got married.” He clasped his hands together around her.
She turned to look at him, her chin at his collarbone, and he resisted the urge to squirm under her scrutiny. “I mean before. Why were you off the grid? How did you not know about the Cleffy nod?”
He loosened his hands with the intention to reach up and shake his hair, but Nelle’s fingers were already sifting through it. She was ahead of him. There was no point in trying to keep this from her.
“My gran’s funeral was this morning. I was trying to tie up some loose ends when you texted.”
His hands broke apart as she sat up, pushing hard against his ribs. “Bran. Why didn’t you tell me that?”
“It didn’t come up.”
“Yes, it did.” She ticked off the times on her fingers. “Your gran told you about secret marriages, you lived with your gran in the K streets—”
It was actually terrifying to realize that she had really listened to him. He made a mental note to try not to say dumb things around her. Things he’d regret and be unable to take back because Kellys were notoriously shit at admitting they were wrong.
“Okay—I didn’t want to talk about it.” He tried to lie still, look relaxed, but feeling tightened his gut, winding him up into a sitting position. “I really wanted to not talk about it.”
Her hand slipped to his thigh but a second later she clutched it back. “I can’t believe I took advantage of someone grieving for their—”
“You did not take advantage of me. If anything, it was me using you for a distraction—which I did not.” Not for that. Bran lifted Nelle’s hand to his mouth, gliding the smooth curves of her glossed nails across his lips. “Look. I loved my gran—she practically raised me. She was my biggest fan and I’m going to miss her—but she was ready to go.”
All the Best Nights Page 7