The Rock Star’s Baby Bargain

by Lili Valente

  “Sperm count. Anything more than once a day is going to lower it and decrease our chances.”

  He arches a brow. “Really?”

  I nod, breath catching as he sits down on the blue velvet couch and pulls me onto his lap, urging my knees to either side of his hips until I’m straddling him and there’s no ignoring the thick ridge beneath his jeans. “I’m not in my best conception window yet,” I whisper, unable to resist the urge to rock against him. “But I will be soon, so we really should…”

  I trail off with a moan as he presses a kiss to my throat, where my pulse is already racing.

  “We really should what?” he asks, his lips moving against my skin.

  I rock against him again, loving the way he growls in response. “We should probably cut it out until tomorrow, since we already had shower time today, but…” I tangle my fingers in his hair. “But I really don’t want to wait.”

  “You don’t have to wait.” He bunches my skirt in his hand, slowly drawing it up my thigh. “Just because I can’t come doesn’t mean you can’t.”

  “But I—” My words end in a gasp as he tugs my top down with his other hand, sending my left breast spilling out into the warm air. Glancing toward the picture window on the other side of the room, I instinctively move to cover myself, but Zack captures my wrist in his hand.

  “Don’t worry,” he murmurs, bending to kiss my throat, then my shoulder, making my nipple pull tight. “Nancy made it pretty clear they won’t be bothering us. Or watching.” He bends lower, capturing my aching tip in his mouth, making my head fall back as his tongue swirls in dizzying circles.

  “But shouldn’t we find a bedroom?” I ask, pulse spiking as he draws my wrist behind me to the small of my back and holds it captive there.

  He shakes his head, brushing his lips back and forth across my nipple as he moves, making me squirm in his lap. “No, we shouldn’t.” He catches my other hand, pulling it back to join the first, as he asks, “Is this okay?”

  “Yes,” I whisper, arching closer to his mouth as he gathers both of my wrists into one big hand, ensuring I’m at his mercy. I watch him shift his attention to my other breast, my chest rising and falling faster as he slowly, deliberately drives me out of my mind. He licks and sucks and nips at my sensitive flesh until I’m whimpering and grinding against his cock through his jeans, desperate for relief.

  “Please,” I beg, eyes squeezing shut as he drags his teeth over my nipple again.

  “Please, what?”

  “Let me come,” I say, breath harsh in my lungs.

  “How do you want to come?” he asks. “My mouth or my fingers?”

  “Neither.” I rock my hips against his erection, literally feeling like I might die if I don’t get him inside me in the next five seconds. “I want you. Now.”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  “Please.” I force my eyes open, catching his determined gaze with my no doubt pained one as I beg, “Please take me upstairs and take off your pants.”

  He shakes his head. “Last chance to decide, or I’m going to decide for you.”

  I bite my lip, but I can’t seem to stop myself from whispering, “I want you to fuck me, Zack. Please, fuck me. Please.”

  His eyes go dark, and for a second, I’m positive he’s going to throw me over his shoulder and make a run for the stairs. Instead, he releases my wrists and, with one swift and efficient movement, flips me onto my back on the couch and shoves my skirt up to my waist. A beat later, his hand is in my panties, his fingers driving inside me as the heel of his palm grinds against my clit.

  “Oh God,” I cry out. The way he touches me—so possessive and familiar, like my body has belonged to him for years—drives me crazy. I cling to his shoulders, fingers digging into the thick muscle there as he pumps his fingers hard and fast, demanding I give him what he wants.

  My orgasm.

  My release.

  My pleasure. That’s what he needs, and he’s not going to stop until he gets it.

  I try to reach for the button on his jeans, but he moves my hand away and bends his head to my breasts, worshipping them with his mouth, building the hunger swirling inside me until I have no choice but to break.

  I come crying out his name and bucking into his hand, slick heat flowing from my body to coat his fingers as he whispers, “Fuck, yes, I love it when you come. Watching you gets me so hot, Colette. I can’t wait to be inside you again.”

  “Yes,” I murmur, skin buzzing as I float back to earth, still wanting him every bit as much as I did before he gave me one of the best orgasms of my life. “Now. Please.”

  “Tomorrow. I promise,” he says, kissing my forehead.

  And then, suddenly, he’s up, off the couch, and sprinting out the back door.

  Chapter Eleven

  Zack

  I run away.

  Literally run.

  Run from the gorgeous woman sprawled half-naked underneath me, begging me to fuck her.

  I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me, or where this sudden determination to make a baby has come from, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to come again until tomorrow morning.

  No matter how uncomfortable things get between now and then.

  Uncomfortable? It’s like we’ve gone five rounds with the heavyweight champion down here, asshole. What the hell is wrong with you?!

  To say my balls are unhappy is an understatement. They’re on the verge of detaching themselves from my shitty excuse for a body and taking their show on the road.

  Doesn’t sound too bad right now, honestly. I can’t remember the last time I was this uncomfortable.

  Adjusting myself with a wince, I continue across the wide lawn toward the cottage that houses the recording studio. The smell of warm summer grass and sweet clover fills my head. A deeper breath brings memories of picnics with my grandparents and long summer days spent playing in the backyard while Gram hung laundry or peeled apples for preserves.

  But the innocent memories are no match for the hot-blooded urgency of the present. All I want to do is turn around, run back to Colette, and fuck her until I’m free of this raging hunger.

  Instead, I let myself into the cottage and flick on the lights.

  The moment the door shuts behind me, I’m sealed into that deep, soft silence that only exists in well-padded rooms.

  “A padded room,” I mutter. “Appropriate.” Someplace where I can have a nice long rest before I make any ill-considered, impulsive, life-changing decisions.

  I wander farther into the cozy space, where an eclectic mix of faded furniture strikes a sharp contrast with the high-dollar guitar collection hanging from hooks on the wall.

  Circling a well-worn leather couch, I move to the swivel chair in front of the soundboard and flick on the power. It’s a simple interface, and I’ve spent enough time self-recording the past few years—working on my own music during my breaks from touring with Lips on Fire—that I know my way around a mixer. In a few minutes, I have the settings where I like them and the mic on the other side of the soundproof glass live and ready to go.

  My guitar is back at the house, but I’m sure Jed won’t mind if I borrow one of his beauties. I select a vintage Stratocaster from a hook on the far right and coax it into tune as I pace the room, willing my aching balls to shut the fuck up already.

  We’ll shut up when you get back in bed where you belong, Shit for Brains.

  They’re adolescent to the point of being embarrassing, but the balls have a point.

  I do feel like I belong in bed with Colette, in a way I haven’t felt I belong with a woman in a long time.

  It’s just so easy to be with her—something I know better than to take for granted. Finding someone who makes you feel at home when you’re naked and there’s nowhere to hide all your messy humanity is the hardest kind of easy.

  “Hardest kind of easy,” I murmur.

  Like that, the words catch fire inside me.

  Some song ideas c
ome at me from the head, some from the heart, but this one crackles to life in my throat, hot and eager, demanding to be born. So I hit record on the soundboard, shut myself inside the glass room, and write a song in fifteen breathless minutes.

  It’s the fastest song I’ve ever written.

  It’s also one of the truest.

  And it’s all about Colette—a love song so raw and real I should be terrified.

  Only teenagers and fools fall like this. The rest of us know better. We know how much there is to lose, how much it will hurt if we run too far, too fast, and the object of our affection pulls up short, letting us tumble over the cliff alone and smash on the jagged rocks below.

  There’s only one way off that cliff that doesn’t end in disaster, and that’s holding tight to the hand of the one you love. And even then, you only stay airborne so long as neither of you lets go.

  I riff on different chorus options for the first song and then move straight into a song about hearts made of wax and flying too close to the sun. I put out song fires all afternoon until I have almost two hours of rough material to send to Chip for feedback, and there’s finally peace in my head.

  And my balls.

  You wish, fuckhead, floats from south of my waistband.

  But at least I’m no longer on the verge of spontaneous combustion. I feel fantastic—open and free and overflowing with creative energy and excitement about the next two weeks.

  Colette may very well decide I’m a crazy person who should be kicked off the love cliff to fend for myself, but for two weeks, she’s mine.

  Chapter Twelve

  Colette

  I spend the first five minutes after Zack leaves trying not to cry.

  And then I go ahead and let myself sob into the soft cotton throw pillow on the couch for another five.

  I don’t know why I’m so upset—I’m the one who had a glorious orgasm, not the one who delivered pleasure and hit the road unsatisfied—but for some reason, I feel…incomplete.

  But then, making love isn’t just about getting off. That’s a part of it, obviously, but at its core, good sex is about giving and receiving pleasure. And I’ve always been more of a giver. I love watching my man’s eyes roll back in his head as I drive him over the edge. I love the sounds he makes when he loses control and knowing I’m responsible for the goofy, blissed-out grin on his face after.

  Logically, I understand and appreciate why Zack made the decision he did, but emotionally I’m kind of messed up about getting finger-banged and bailed on.

  Which is bad news. If I’m this volatile now, I can’t even imagine what a basket case I’ll be once the pregnancy hormones set in.

  Pregnancy hormones…

  It hits me all over again that this baby-making thing might actually happen. Zack turned down an orgasm—one he wanted as much as I wanted to give it to him—in order to keep his sperm count high.

  If that doesn’t prove last night and this morning weren’t just moments of weakness, I don’t know what would.

  It’s also insanely hot. Maybe it’s my ticking biological clock talking, but knowing Zack is holding back so he can have a better chance at knocking me up makes me so insanely frisky that, after I finish crying and go upstairs to unpack, I can’t resist having a moment with myself in the shower. And it’s not Fernando—or Thor, God of Thunder, my only fictional crush—that I’m fantasizing about as I come on my own hand.

  It’s Zack—sweet, intense, sexy-as-hell Zack who is hotter than any movie star.

  After I’m clean, I change into a slinky green sundress far too sexy for lounging around a haunted house, waiting for the ghosts to make contact, and roll my suitcase out into the hall. I assume Zack still wants to sleep separately tonight, and even if he doesn’t, I’m going to have to insist on a couple of doors between us.

  If he’s lying in bed next to me, I don’t trust myself not to pounce him in my sleep.

  I choose a small bedroom decorated in delicate pinks and yellows, with rose-patterned wallpaper and a fluffy white comforter that is as soft as it looks. After checking the closet and the small adjoining half bath to make sure nothing is lurking in wait to spook me later, I wander downstairs.

  There’s still no sign of Zack or Jed or Nancy, so I grab my book and head out to the pool. I resist the lure of the sunny side of the blue water—I’ve been working so hard this summer that I’m still winter-pale, and a burn would seriously spoil my plans for the week. Instead, I settle into a shady lounge chair, where I open my book and disappear into a world of lords and ladies and a beautiful nanny who is a commoner, unfit to marry a duke, but she will.

  I know she will.

  Even though I’ve read at least a dozen variations on this same historical romance plotline, it doesn’t matter. I love it as much as I did the first time. I still can’t wait to be there as the love story unfolds. I will still swoon when they kiss for the first time, and rage when the Duke’s evil sister is terrible to the nanny, and sigh with happiness when the hero and heroine fall in love and form a family with the motherless little girl the nanny’s come to love like her own.

  Family has always been a part of the ideal happily ever after for me. Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve leaned toward stories of broken people, of motherless or fatherless children coming together to heal each other’s hurts and create something beautiful out of the shattered pieces the bad guys in their past left behind.

  Deep down, I know a part of the reason I desperately want a child to love is that I didn’t experience that boundless mother love I’ve read about when I was growing up. But I know it’s more than fiction. I’ve seen it in up close with Theo and her sweet mama and with my other friends who were lucky enough to be born into the kind of loving families I daydreamed about growing up.

  And I know I can be that kind of mom, the kind who loves my precious son or daughter enough to make them feel they can take on the world and anything it throws at them.

  And maybe, just maybe, I’ll heal that sad little girl inside me while I’m at it.

  I’ve just gotten to the juicy part of my book—the Duke and the nanny are caught outside in a terrible storm and forced to take refuge in an abandoned cottage where they will absolutely no longer be able to keep their hands off of each other—when a soft voice intrudes, rumbling, “Wake up, beautiful.”

  I pull in a breath and open my eyes, blinking in the dim light as the handsome man standing over my lounge chair slides into focus. “Hey,” I say, smiling as I hum sleepily. “I think I took a nap.”

  Zack grins, the warmth in his eyes banishing the chill lifting the hair on my arms. “Looks like it. Hungry?”

  My stomach snarls audibly, and Zack and I both grin wider. “Starving.”

  He extends a hand. “Then let's go. Nancy headed into the kitchen about twenty minutes ago. Said she was going to warm up the chicken and dumplings she made last night and make some salads.”

  I take his hand, thoughts sluggish as he draws me to my feet. “Twenty minutes ago?” His arm goes around my waist, pulling me close to his delicious heat. Instinctively, I snuggle against him, loving the way I fit perfectly under his scruffy chin.

  He presses a kiss to my forehead. “I watched you sleep for a while. I knew it was creepy, but I couldn’t help myself. You were so beautiful.”

  I look up at him, chuckling at his guilty expression. “That’s not creepy.”

  He arches a brow.

  I laugh harder. “Okay, maybe a little creepy, but with you, I don’t mind.”

  “Why’s that?” he asks.

  “Because you don’t have a creepy bone in your body. You’re all good guy.” I link my arms at the small of his back, wiggling closer as I add in a whisper, “Sexy-as-hell good guy.”

  He arches a brow. “Does this mean you don’t want me to spank you later?”

  Excitement zipping across my skin, I bite my lip. “Oh, no, I want a spanking later. Good guy spankings are the best spankings.”

  “Yeah?”
He grins, a dimple popping in his right cheek, which I’ve never noticed before, but it’s yet another adorable thing on an already extensive list of endearing qualities. “Because good guys know when to say ‘when’?”

  I shake my head. “Because good guys make the spanking about you. Not them. They want to please, not be pleased.”

  “I’m all about pleasing you,” he says in a raspy voice that makes the well-loved place between my legs begin to pulse all over again. “I can’t wait to be inside you again. It’s all I can think about.”

  “Not surprising, considering the way we left things,” I murmur, skimming my nails up and down his back through his T-shirt. “We can always start conserving sperm at a later date, you know.”

  Unexpectedly, he laughs. “Hell, no. Give me all the delayed gratification you can dish out, woman. I just had the best writing session of my career. Bar none.”

  I pull back, grinning up at him. “Seriously?”

  “If I didn’t write something that’ll go on my greatest hits album, I’ll donate my fingers to science.”

  “No, don’t say that. You need your fingers,” I say with a laugh, his giddy energy infectious. “But that’s amazing! I’m so happy for you.” I press my lips together and wrinkle my nose, but in the end, I can’t help but ask, “So do you really think stopping in the middle was…inspirational?”

  His lips quirk as he shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe. Or maybe it’s just you.” He pulls in a breath, letting it out as he nods toward the house. “Or this place. It has a reputation in the industry for giving good creative vibes.”

  I glance to my left, shivering as a breeze sweeps in and sends a few fallen leaves tumbling across the lawn. “It kind of looks like a face from back here, doesn’t it? I didn’t realize it before. The windows on the third floor are the eyes and the—”

  “Shit,” Zack cuts in, his voice hushed. “Do you see that? Fourth floor. The window on the far right.”

  I shift my gaze, catching what looks like the flutter of dress fabric and black hair blown by the wind. My throat goes tight, and adrenaline dumps into my bloodstream. I’m on the verge of telling Zack that we should rethink the whole “sleeping in a haunted house” thing when he laughs and asks, “What is it? An old toy or something?”