For the third time in my whole life, I kiss a boy for the first time.
Paxton's mouth slants over mine and his hot tongue slides between my lips, taking complete control of the situation. Clearly, he's done this before and quite clearly, he knows what he wants. He doesn't care that my father died today or that I'm soaking wet and shivering, doesn't care that I have nothing and nobody.
That sort of apathy … speaks to me.
I feel like whatever darkness I might have inside of me, his is that much worse.
He kisses me not like that forgotten boy from so long ago, not like Kevin's sloppy acquiescence to foreplay, but like a man, an adult, someone who knows his way around a woman's body.
I moan against his lips, curl my fingers in the wet but still somehow perfect lines of his suit.
When he pushes me against the edge of the doorway, I don't fight him, letting him slide his inked hands over my curves and take me in. Now that my clothes are wet, plastered in some places, sagging in others, I'm even more exposed, my breasts tumbling out of my top, my ass falling out the back of my jeans.
Pax uses this to his advantage, running his warm hands over my entire body, sending hot thrills of fire through me. My sex feels swollen and eager and my thighs clench tight as I pull the edges of Pax's white button-up apart and lay my palms against his tattooed chest. He's so much more … defined than Kevin ever was, sculpted and muscular. I've never been with a man like this; I'm excited. It makes me realize how much I've been missing out on, having awful, sloppy sex with Kev all these years.
Pax is clearly dominant, his hands unforgiving, forging a path that can't be swayed. I wouldn't consider myself a weak person, but this feels so damn good. I don't want to be in charge of anything right now, not after all that's happened to me today, happened to me this year, happened to me ever.
“On the bed,” Pax whispers against my mouth, his accent delicious and so different from the slow Arizona drawl I've been hearing from the locals. “And hurry, Lilith Goode; I don't like waiting.”
He removes the silver cufflinks at his wrists—a pair of finely crafted guitars in perfect miniature—and he does it with this slow, careful precision that scares me, especially when he looks me straight in the face with those eyes.
They take my breath away.
I climb up onto the bed, surprised to find that it's actually soft, the black silk duvet cover smelling of laundry soap. I bet with these boys and … whatever girls they bring back here, this has to be washed—and replaced—a lot.
I try not to think about that as I lean back on my elbows and catch sight of Ransom watching me from down the hall. He's leaning against a wall, one foot crossed over the other, completely casual in his stance. His eyes … they tell a different story.
He watches me like he's hungry.
I drag my gaze away from him and his dark eyes, dark hair, all closeted away in the shadows of his hood. When I look back at Paxton, he's got his jacket off, his shirt unbuttoned all the way down. I can see the flat expanse of his tummy, every square inch covered in colorful tattoos. He kicks his shoes off while I watch, takes his socks off slowly, watching me as he goes about removing each piece of clothing.
Meanwhile, I'm leaning back on my elbows in my wet holey jeans and tank top, my heart thundering, the alcohol keeping me from feeling too self-conscious about the whole thing. After a moment, Ransom moves away but he's quickly replaced by Copeland.
“Don't be cruel, Pax,” he says, his soft voice a warning. His lead singer ignores him completely, taking off his belt and tossing it up onto the bed, like he plans on using it for something. My breath catches as he climbs up over me, the heat and weight of his body so new and exciting.
I reach a hand up experimentally, slide it along the side of his face and see how intimately he'll let me touch him. My fingers are just tangling in his dark hair before he grabs my wrist and pushes it aside. Wow. He's really closed off; all of that arrogant apathy must be just be one hell of a shield.
“Lucky you,” he says, and I can't tell if he really believes that or not, “finding me out in the parking lot like that. And you pretended not to know who I am? Everybody bloody knows who I am.”
“I didn't,” I answer honestly as he lifts one hand and lays his fingers across the front of my neck. When he pushes me back down into the blankets, I don't resist. Sweet, sweet oblivion. I need that right now.
“Sure thing, love,” he says and then he's kissing me again, tasting like cruelty and bourbon. This guy … he's hot as hell, but he's also a little bit scary. If this were for more than just one night, I'd be worried.
'Don't be cruel, Pax.'
I wonder what that was all about.
I don't have to wonder for long.
Paxton grabs hold of my hair—hard—makes my scalp sting a little as he fists mahogany strands around his knuckles and pulls. His tongue is merciless as it drives between my lips, claiming every single last part of me, leaving no stone unturned. I hardly notice when his hand drops down and unbuttons my jeans.
His fingers slip easily inside, one hot tip trailing down the front of my panties and then under the fabric, testing to see how wet I am. I'm soaked, and not from the rain. Paxton pulls his hand out and slides his middle finger against his thumb, rubbing my juices against his skin.
“Well, that was easy, wasn't it?” he asks and his voice is as cruel as his kiss. When he reaches over and grabs the belt, my heart starts to hammer and I feel sweet trailing down between my breasts. He wraps the leather around my wrists and around a spindle at the bottom of the headboard, pulling it taut and then poking the metal clasp through a hole near the center of the belt, one that he clearly doesn't use to keep his pants up.
He's done this before.
I'm not sure whether that should bother or excite me as I lay there with my arms tied up above my head, watching him. He sits up, his white button-up hanging casually off one shoulder and then he drops any residual hope of a smirk or a smile, staring down at me with grey eyes full of tempest-tossed storms and angry seas.
“If you want me to stop, just say it. I don't play games.”
And that's it, the only warning I'll get.
Pax stays sitting propped up long enough for me to examine some of his tattoos, and although I'm pretty drunk, I recognize that there are words scrawled in black cursive all the way down his chest, dipping underneath his waistband. I wish I could read some of them.
Light filters in from down the hall but for the most part, it's dark in here. The two small windows have their curtains closed, and even from in here, the rain sounds loud and angry and raucous.
Pax pushes my sticky wet tank top up and over my breasts, sliding one steady hand around my rib cage to undo the clasp of my bra. Now that my arms are tied up, he can't remove it completely, so he just pushes that up, too, exposing two aching mounds of tender flesh, cool and wet from the rain, desperate to be touched.
When his hot hand closes over one, I don't even care that his touch is just this side of too much. He squeezes and kneads my flesh before dropping his mouth to my nipple, grazing his teeth over the hard points and making me gasp. Automatically, I try to bring my arms down, curl my fingers in his hair and take some control over the situation. But the leather belt is tight and tugging on it only seems to make it feel tighter.
You just met this guy and you're letting him tie you up? What the hell, Lilith? I think that, but I don't ask Pax to stop and untie me; I don't want him to stop. If I make him back up, undo his belt, send me back out into the rain, I'll have to remember that I am nothing and I have nothing and … there's no one left.
I gasp as his mouth closes fully over my left nipple. Pax bites down hard enough to draw my rib cage up off the bed, but not so hard that I tell him no. Without ever having met me before, without knowing anything about me, he somehow has this innate knowledge of how to ride the fine line between pleasure and pain.
“Lilith Goode,” he whispers against my breast, flicking his grey eyes up to star
e at me over the pale mound of my breast. Paxton raises his head and leans forward, putting our mouths close together again. “I'm like a connoisseur,” he says, brushing some wet, red strands of hair from my forehead. Unlike when Ransom did it earlier, there's nothing kind about the gesture. “A collector, if you will.”
“A collector of what?” I just have to ask, even though I know he's baiting me.
“Of names,” he says, surprising me. “What's your middle name?”
“Tempest,” I say and his curved dark brows go up.
“Tempest,” he repeats, and I like the way the name sounds with his accent.
“What's yours?” I whisper back, liking that for just a split second there, Paxton Blackwell looks almost vulnerable, almost human.
“Nah, I don't give my name out to strangers,” he says and just like that, the moment's passed and he's sliding down my body, hooking his colorful fingers under the waistband of my jeans. He slides his right hand to the button, flicking it open with his thumb.
I watch him, my head slightly raised, as he drags the denim down my legs and tosses it aside in a soggy heap. By the time I hear it hitting the floor, he's spreading my thighs and pressing a hot kiss to the inside of me.
His touch feels … charged. It's like that kiss sinks into my bloodstream and travels straight to my core, making me gasp and struggle against the restraint on my wrists. Only, there's nowhere I want to go, nowhere but here. Hell, there is nowhere but here for me.
Paxton takes his sweet time working down my thigh from my knee. I swear, it takes hours. The pleasure is both exquisite and sadistic, too much and not enough at the same time.
I make a plaintive whimper, but my brain is firing on so many primal levels, there's no room to think treacherous thoughts—not about Dad, not about my car, not about anything.
Pax finally presses his mouth to the crotch of my red lace panties and white-hot color explodes behind my eyelids. Kevin went down on me maybe a half-dozen times during our entire five year relationship, and I got the impression that he just wasn't into it.
Paxton, he's definitely into it.
He makes these … these male sounds when he's between my thighs, like that's where he wants to be. And his mouth, it's just as ruthless between my legs as it was on my lips.
His fingers curl under the fabric and pull it aside, finally exposing my pussy to the scorching heat of his bare tongue. It's about all I can take, dropping my head into the pillows and letting out a loud, pained sort of a sound.
“Your past lovers not take care of you right, Miss Lilith Goode?” he asks, and I can feel his cruel laugh against the bare heat of my throbbing wetness. “Because you're wound up real tight.”
Paxton thrusts a finger inside of me, punctuating the word tight with the motion.
I scream then, a real, full shout that makes my throat feel dry and sore.
“What the hell, Pax?” a voice asks quietly from the hallway—I think it's Ransom again.
The bed creaks, and I take the guess that Pax is glancing over his shoulder. I'm trembling too much to lift up my head and see for myself.
“Fuck off, Ran. Can't you see I'm busy here.”
Pax inserts a second finger and I cry out again. It's a little overdramatic, but it feels so good, and the sensations shoot straight up into my brain, like lasers destroying all the horrid little thoughts and memories biting at my subconscious.
I'm sweating all over the pretty black duvet cover, leaning my head back and focusing my blurry eyes on my bound wrists. I'm crying again, but I can't decide why that is, so I ignore it, leaving my head where it is so Paxton won't see and stop.
I don't hear anything else from Ransom, so I just assume he's left because Pax starts fucking me with his fingers, deep and hard and fast. My body loves the unfamiliar shape of his hand, tightening dramatically as I take fluttering breathless gasps. He even drops his tongue back down and tastes my clit, the hot flesh of his mouth pressing too hard, flicking too sharply.
I love it all.
“I want you inside of me,” I whisper and he laughs again.
“I'll bet you do,” he says, but he withdraws his hand and I glance up again, finding his grey eyes on mine, watching as he wipes his wet fingers on the open edge of his white button-up. He might've just laughed, but he's definitely not smiling. Our gazes locked, he reaches into the pocket of his expensive slacks and draws out a condom. “Safety first.” Even that, in his cold, sharp accent, sounds mean.
Pax unzips his pants, but I can't lift my head up enough to examine his cock. It's too dark anyway to see much, so I lay my head back again and listen to the rustling sound of his clothing, the rain outside the window, the gentle creak of the bed.
His hand takes hold of my face and tilts my chin down as he hovers above me, his hard warm body settling between my thighs.
“Look at me while I fuck you,” he says, and I don't even have a chance to breathe before he's thrusting his cock inside of me. It's been so long, and he's only the third man I've ever been with, so the sensation is … it's so intense that I feel tears prick the edges of my eyes. “There it is again,” Pax whispers, like he's fascinated with me, with my emotions. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
He asks that question even as he stares into my eyes, one hand holding my face, his opposite forearm keeping him propped up. My hard nipples scrape against his bare chest as his white button-up gapes open and his hips piston into mine. He's big, much bigger than Kevin, and I feel for a second there like he's going to break me.
Well, if I weren't already broken.
I squeeze my thighs around him, trying to get him to slow down a little, feeling a hot flush coloring my cheeks. When I try to close my eyes, he squeezes my face with his pretty fingers.
“No. Look at me.”
“Why?” I ask, but the word is strained and thready, and he doesn't much look like he gives a fuck about what I have to say. Good. I don't want him to care; I just want him to fuck me. His cruelty, I almost feel like I deserve this. Dad was dying; I knew that. But I didn't go home right away because … oh God, for so many reasons that don't even matter anymore.
Before I know it, tears are streaming down my cheeks again and Pax is slowing, stopping.
He just stares at me.
“Please don't,” I whisper against his lips as he puts his mouth so close to mine that we're sharing breaths. “Don't stop. Not yet.”
“Fuck,” he says, but he keeps moving, filling me up, stretching my body with his cock. He's so long that when he thrusts in, I get this weird tingling sensation deep inside. I squeeze my thighs tighter, pull my legs back, give into the sickening rush of pleasure that I don't deserve. I want Pax to be crueler, rougher, meaner.
“Harder,” I whisper as he kisses me again, steals my breath with his tongue. He takes my instruction as carte blanche to go as fast and deep as he can, letting go of my face, dropping his hand and cupping my ass. Paxton drives into me and pushes everything else out—my doubts, my worries, my fears. He fucks me until I'm a sweating, aching mess, looking into his face as he kisses me with his eyes open.
We stare at each other, and when he comes, he drops his forehead to mine, shuddering and gasping, digging his fingers into my ass … and then looking at me like I'm fucking crazy.
“The bloody hell …” he starts and then he's pushing away from me, pulling out. I feel the bed jostle as he stands up off of it, and lift my head to watch him. “The fuck …” He's still cursing as he tosses the full condom into a trash can and zips himself up.
Without evening bothering to untie me, he walks away.
“Paxton?” I call, lying there naked and sweaty and desperate as hell. “Paxton!”
I pull against the belt and curse him under my breath, wanting to cry some more—this time from frustration.
What. An. Asshole.
What a fucking asshole.
I even hear the front door of the bus open, the storm thundering and raging, and then I hear it slam be
hind him.
“Paxton!” I scream, thrashing at the stupid fucking belt on my wrists. I liked it before; now I just want it off. Preferably so I can wrap it around the lead singer's neck and pull tight.
“Holy shit,” a voice says and then somebody's climbing on the bed next to me.
It's the boy from the gas station, the band's drummer, Copeland Park.
“God, are you okay, Lilith?” he asks, and I like how he, too, seems to remember my name. “Fucking Paxton. Jesus, I mean. This is the first time he's ever left a girl tied up like this …” He trails off as he undoes the belt and I drag my wrists to my chest, cradling them and trying to get back some sensation. “Damn it,” Copeland's cursing, but I see him glance over at me and then away sharply.
I'm aware of what I look like, lying naked and pale on the black bed, drenched in sweat, red hair wet and stuck to my forehead. I wonder if he can see the green of my eyes; I can certainly see the bright blue-green of his, even in the dark.
Some distant part of me, buried beneath sex and alcohol and pain realizes that I should probably be scared, sitting naked and alone on a bus with a bunch of men that I don't know for shit, that could do all sorts of horrible things to me and probably get away with it.
But I'm not.
“Are you alright?” Copeland—I heard his bandmates call him Cope earlier—asks softly, still not looking at me. I think of that hug he offered that I turned down, that he gave when I asked a second time. No, I'm not scared of him at all.
But I am … I need … something. More. The pain and fear is starting to creep back up on me and I feel like I'll collapse under its weight if it gets me now. Just a few more moments of oblivion. Is that too much to ask?
“I'm cold,” I say and Cope turns to look at me.
That's when I reach up and take the side of his face in my hand, kissing him hard and quick on the mouth, hoping that he can taste my feelings on my lips. Maybe he won't want me after he just saw another man fuck me, but I don't care. I'm asking with my kiss … and he's answering.
Copeland turns to face me, pulling me into his lap. We've just started kissing and already, I can feel him hard and ready beneath his expensive jeans. Maybe he's been hard this whole time, listening to Pax and me fuck? I hope so. The thought turns me on even as a wave of giddy, nervous energy shoots through me. Two men in one night? Two men was the whole total of my entire sexual experience until about forty minutes ago.
Groupie (Rock-Hard Beautiful Book 1) Page 5