The thought is strangely arousing, especially when our gazes meet across the broken coffee mugs and I see that his sapphire eyes are back to normal, no longer squinty red from the pepper spray. I can see the gold rings around his pupils, too. Yet another masterpiece painted by a skilled and brilliant hand.
“Here,” he whispers, putting the paper towel to the blood. It wicks into the white as Aspen applies pressure and releases my wrist … almost reluctantly. “I'll clean this up if you get me a cup of coffee? I seriously have no idea how this machine works.”
“Deal,” I say with a slight smile; the quiet confidence in Aspen's posture is intoxicating. And then on top of it all, there's this … layer of humility that wasn't there at the rest stop, like he got put in his place by my dad yesterday. I'm not saying he seems weak though. On the contrary, he seems like a man that's smart enough to realize when there's a lesson to be learned in a situation. “Just … stuff the broken bits deep into the can, so my dad doesn't see. He had those mugs custom painted last year.”
Aspen's brows go up, but he doesn't say anything, dutifully cleaning up the spilled coffee and the bits of ceramic.
“Sucks that you guys got snowed in,” I say as Aspen gets a sponge from the sink and wipes up the last of the mess. After he's done washing his hands, I pass over a cup of coffee … the mug smeared with blood. “Shit, I'm sorry,” I say, but Aspen just gently takes the mug away from me and grabs my wrist again.
“Let's get you washed up,” he says, tugging me toward the sink.
I trip in my slippers—they're two sizes too big as usual because nobody in my family seems to realize how small I am—and stumble against his chest.
Oh.
“Hi,” I say, and my voice is breathy and weak.
Aspen smiles at me, and the effect is instantaneous. Warmth spreads through me as our eyes meet, my breath hitching in my chest.
“Hi,” he whispers back, guiding my hand over to the sink and turning on the tap. Our gazes stay locked as we wait for the water to warm and then slowly, oh so slowly, Aspen pulls my right hand under the tap and slowly starts to massage me. He presses his thumb hard in the center of my palm and uses the rest of his fingers to rub my knuckles.
“Mm,” I murmur, my eyes sliding closed as Aspen lulls me into this sleepy, sexy state with just his two hands—one resting on my lower back, warm and comforting, and the other massaging me into a state of sheer bliss.
I'm at the point where I can't even remember why I came in here in the first place.
“Do you have a first aid kit?” he murmurs, his mouth just suddenly at my ear. I can feel his warm breath feathering against the brunette strands of my hair as I watch his tattooed hand tease every pressure point in my palm.
“First aid kit?” I echo, but I can barely remember to speak English. What's the point? Words are just words, right? Whatever's happening between Aspen and me right now, it's beyond that. We're communicating with body language.
“I think there's one under the sink,” I manage to breathe, and Aspen chuckles, his voice warm and confident as he moves behind me, the hardness of cock teasing me through his sweatpants. I can feel the thick heaviness of his erection against my lower back, and I want it.
“Under here?” he asks, turning the tap off with his tattooed hand, inked feathers etched in sharp relief into his flesh. I feel like if I reached out and touched them, they might be soft.
Aspen slides his left hand around to my front, resting his palm against my belly and then dipping lower … lower … His fingers tease the edge of my pajama pants and dive inside, finding my silky little panties, a single digit stroking the whole length of my slit, making my shiver.
“Is this where the first aid kit is?” he whispers and I groan, leaning my head back into him and lifting my left arm above my head, sliding it behind Aspen's and digging my fingers into his hair. Standing this close to him, I smell more than just spruce; I smell the crisp freshness of laundry detergent over a layer of fresh sweat, droplets collecting on his skin as he touches me and his arousal intensifies to the point where he's gasping and moaning almost as much as I am.
“It's inside,” I choke out, almost a sob, but not because I'm upset … who the fuck could be upset in my position? … but because it feels do damn good.
“It is?” Aspen whispers, pushing me forward with his hips, trapping me against the countertop, the edge of the marble digging into his tattooed arm as he slips that single finger under the edge of my panties and finds me wet and swollen.
What is happening to me?I wonder, but standing in that kitchen with the warm glow of Christmas lights, the bitter smell of coffee, and the distant murmur of Andrea Bocelli's version of White Christmas … I feel like maybe this week won't be quite as terrible as I'd first thought.
What comes after this week might actually be worse, but I won't think about that right now.
“Inside, huh?” he asks, leaning his body against mine and sighing. He's practically draped over me right now and I like it. I feel protected, safe, loved.
And uh, I am aware that my hormones are fucking with my brain. I don't know this guy for shit.
But the feelings are nice … so nice …
Aspen leans a little closer and spears me with two fingers, opening me up and making me gasp. I spread my legs to give him better access and put my hands on the countertop, bracing myself. At first, the penetration is shallow, just the tips of his fingers teasing sweet juices from my opening.
But then Aspen withdraws his hand and I whimper as he trails wetness up and along my hipbone, across my lower back, and then dives down again. He uses his right hand on my lower back to encourage me to lean forward, and then cups my heat from behind with his left hand.
“Tell me if you want to stop,” he whispers, and I choke.
“Stop?” I ask, like that's the dumbest word I've ever in my life. “Keep going, please,” I beg and bite my lower lip hard as he pushes my panties aside and thrusts three fingers into me this time. I swear, my eyes are going to roll back into my head and I'm going to pass out right fucking there.
“Your wish is my command,” Aspen says, and I can feel him grinning against the back of my neck, some of that cocky asshole I saw in the bathroom taking over him again. I understand him a little bit better now, after hearing his story and seeing him with my dad. This is a man who grew up in a hard fucking life, earned himself a better one, and discovered that he has worth.And he fucking knows it.
But … he's also a good man, too. I caught a glimpse of that last night.
Aspen puts his other hand into the front of my pants and strokes my clit through my silken panties, putting his lips against my ear and singing along with the current song—Angels We Have Heard On High.
Holy. Fucking. Reindeer balls.
“Angels we have heard on high,” he sings, his voice this deep, sultry dream that sells records and drops panties, I'm sure. Having a song sung to me while his fingers are buried deep inside? I can feel an orgasm uncoiling from inside, these harsh, ugly gasps coming from my throat.
I can't help it.
I feel like I'm coming unraveled.
“Sweetly singing over the plain,” he croons, nuzzling against the side of my neck, his voice the perfect complement to the distant murmur of the music coming from the living room. “And the mountains in reply,” he continues as my muscles clench tight, and I arch my back, pushing my cunt against his tattooed hand. “Echoing their joyous strains,” he finishes, trailing off as this violent sob breaks from my throat and I climax hard, ensnaring his fingers in my heat, locking down so tight that Aspen bites my ear in frustration.
The song ends and Tarja's gothic version of O Tannenbaum starts to play.
“Are you ready to amp this thing up?” Aspen purrs, pulling his right hand from my pants and reaching back to push his sweats out of the way. “Because I'm more than ready to—”
“I don't have time today, Tina,” my mother snaps, shoving into the kitchen just as A
spen pulls away from me, his fingers still wet, my body still shaking and quivering and pulsing.
Must be a strange sight, seeing me bent weirdly over the countertop like that, my legs splayed, sweat dripping off the tip of my (admittedly still sore) nose and into the sink.
“Don't dawdle, Cyan,” my mom says, swatting me with a Frosty the Snowman dish towel. “This is why you lost that bookstore of yours—all this idle sloth time.”
The sweet, soft relaxation Aspen coaxed out of me … flees like a gust of icy wind, leaving me chilled in its wake.
“If you think I let the store go without a fight,” I whisper, standing up and averting my gaze from the sexy lead singer of Inked Pages. I can't look at my mom or sister either, staring intently at the floor. “Then we … we're strangers because you don't know me for shit.”
“Oh, stop being overdramatic,” my mother says, Tina chuckling softly beside her, like they have zero idea of how much they're hurting me. Hell, they're killing me inside. My grandmother, who grew up poor and stayed poor to put my mother through school, gave me the last of her money when my parents refused to take a chance on their own daughter. And I opened that store, and I paid her back, and I loved it with everything I had.
But love and business just don't mix … and I lost it.
But I did try, and it kills me that they don't understand or care.
“Cyan,” Aspen says, but I skirt his outreached hand and disappear out the swinging kitchen doors.
I need a moment to think, and I can't do that with my mother sneering at me, my sister laughing … or Aspen looking at me like he's actually interested in knowing more.
CHAPTER FIVE
“You alright there, Cherry Pie?” Crispin asks me the next day, standing next to my bed with his hands on his hips. I don't have to wonder how he got into my room after I already locked the door. My brothers and sisters have been picking locks their entire lives—especially mine. As the youngest, I was granted some sort of strange omega status by the pack of Fallon siblings. Even though I fought back with everything I had, they still found it fun to pick at me. Hell, maybe my fighting back made it more interesting rather than less?
“We missed ya at dinner last night—and it was plum delicious, by the way. That daddy of yours sure can cook, can't he?”
“It was catered,” I whisper, turning away from Crispin and staring out my room's bay window into the snow. Honestly, I'm sure if I'm excited to see Crispin Fox, the sexy Southern bassist for Inked Pages, or disappointed.
If he's still here then … so are Aspen and Frost. Blizzards and bastards. That's my life now.
But the bastards part … I think it applies more to my family than the four sexy rock stars staying at my house. They've been nicer to me in the last two days than anyone I share an ounce of DNA with. My cousins—dickheads. My dad—asshole. My siblings—monsters. And don't even get me started on my mother.
“I don't think so, sugar plum,” he says, sitting down on the edge of my bed, smelling like amber and apples and soap. “There ain't no gettin' in or out of here at the moment. Trust me, our manager … well, shoot, she sure as shit been tryin'. I saw your daddy slavin' over the stove for damn near an hour and a half last night. Didn't see any caterers, that's for damn sure.”
I sit up and turn to face Crispin because, like, he's just not the type of person that's easy to ignore—in a good way. He's so excited and friendly and … ripped … and hot as fuck in a pair of tight jeans and a red tee that just barely fits his big, muscular frame. His skin is teased into a warm brown from god only knows what sunshine—probably some city in the south. I think Inked Pages started their tour in Texas or something?
Anyway, as I look over at Crispin, it's easy to see why he's considered the soul of the band. He's got an infectious energy that makes me want to smile, even if I still feel like shit. I took my grandma's money, built the store, and then lost it not six months after her death—I have good reason to feel like crap.
And Hot Reads … it was more than just a store to me, a business, numbers on paper. It was the building I'd painted with the colors my grandma had picked out, it was the light in her eyes when I made her proud, and it was the warmth and acceptance I'd felt when I'd filled those walls to bursting with readers and local authors for signings.
It was a platform, a place for people to connect with the world that wasn't online, a place that was real, with old wood floors I'd sanded myself, and books I'd handpicked, and paintings from local artists. But even in a city as progressive and welcoming to entrepreneurship as San Francisco, California, I hadn't made it …
“Chin up, Cherry Pie,” Crispin whispers, leaning close to me and brushing hair from my forehead with a gentle hand. I have no idea what he's doing in my room, but he doesn't seem to have any doubts about that. “You're crying.”
“I'm not crying,” I say, but when Crispin wipes a small tear off my check, I can see the wetness glistening on his finger. “Well, I'm not sobbing,” I start and he laughs, his brown eyes sparkling as he looks me up and down and then grins.
“A girl as pretty as you? No need to cry. The world is your oyster, sweet thing.”
“Is it?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest and leaning back into the pillows. It occurs to me that with my current mood, being alone with this Southern sexpot in my bedroom probably isn't the best idea, but oh well. I made lots of good decisions for myself and the business, and all that did was leave me heartbroken.
True, I had a somewhat charmed life, but that didn't mean I was happy.Because I wasn't. No, knowing that I'd crawled back to Minnesota with no degree, no business, no trade … nothing … it wasn't an easy pill to swallow.
“Your brothers were talkin' about the hot tub on the back deck?” Crispin asks, sweeping some of his wavy blonde-brown hair from his own forehead. He can't hold back his grin for long. “You want to get into your best winter bikini and meet me out in the snow, Cherry Pie? Have a soak?”
“Is this a game?” I ask him and he narrows his brows at me, all innocent and shit.
I almost buy it.
“A game?” Crispin asks as I check the time on my phone. It's already midday and no doubt my parents are going insane being trapped in the house. But even from here, inside my bedroom with its glowing lights and custom Christmas bedding … I can see that the storm is still raging.
“To see if you all can fuck me?” I turn back to Crispin Fox, and the look of real confusion on his face baffles the shit out of me.
“You shittin' me?” he asks, blinking long lashes, his frown the most genuine expression I've seen on a single human being in a long, long time. “You don't know, do ya, Cherry Pie?”
“Don't know what?” I ask as Crispin chuckles and relaxes back into my pillows, like he owns the damn place. His attitude should annoy me, but it's hard to be annoyed at someone who's smiling like that.
I frown and snuggle back into the pillows, turning to look at him and pillowing my hands underneath my head.
“You're not going to tell me, are you?” I ask, but he just shakes his head and laughs, the sound vibrating the small cushion of air between us, beckoning me closer. That sense of temptation and want is amplified when Crispin puts his hand on his lower belly, his fingers inching toward the waistband of his jeans.
He pauses, tantalizingly close to touching himself, but doesn't seem at all interested in going any further.
“I am,” Crispin says, looking up at my ceiling, at the strange pattern the Christmas lights make with their shadows and shimmers. “I'm just enjoying the moment of suspense first.”
“Asshole,” I say, reaching out and smacking him on the tummy with my palm. It's meant to be a playful move—a totally weird one really, since I don't know this guy for shit—but all it really does is turn me on. Crispin Fox … he has nice abs. Like, rock-fucking-solid. “What? You must've come into my room for a reason, right? Does this secret have something to do with that?”
“Ain't a secret,” he says, slidin
g a candy cane from his pocket and carefully unwrapping it. Crispin holds it out to me, and I take it, sliding it between my lips as he watches, my pulse picking up in pace, my heart thundering. Who knew sucking on a piece of Christmas candy could be so … erotic.“And I came in here because your door was wide open, and we hadn't seen hide nor hair of you since yesterday. You're hiding in here, Cherry Pie.”
“I am not hiding,” I say, watching Crispin's hand carefully as he teases at the button on his jeans and decidedly does not open it. And I want it open … even if he and his friends do have a bet.
“You can fool a lot of people, sugar plum, but you sure as shit aren't foolin' me. Can't bullshit a bullshitter.” Crispin rolls toward me, pulling another candy cane from his pocket. He unwraps this one, nice and slow, and then sticks the plastic back in his jeans. We stare at each other and suck the hard ends of the peppermint into our mouths, faces so close I wonder if he can see striations in the color of my eyes the way I see it in his.
“Maybe I am hiding,” I say with a small eye roll, resting on a nest of brunette hair and enjoying the peaceful quiet of the storm. It's put a damper on the whole world it seems, a blanket of serenity and stillness that can't be broken, no matter how much my mother wishes she could tear it apart. This blizzard doesn't care about deadlines or clients or bookstores or broken hearts.
It just … is.
That's a nice thought, the severe but stubborn face of nature leering down at man, refusing to be dominated or subjugated, omnipresent but sometimes silent … never subdued.
“But if I'm hiding, it's for a good reason. You've seen my family—they get manic during the holidays. I could deal with that if I were going home afterward, but I'm not. Instead … I'm staying here.”
“Where's home?” Crispin asks, watching me deep-throat the white and red candy, pulling his from his mouth so he can lick his lips and swallow, the bulge in his jeans making it clear that he likes what he sees. I shift, rubbing my thighs together and feeling my swollen sex warm in response. It feels so fucking good.
Billionaires, Boarders, and Bastards: A Limited-Time Collection of Reverse Harem Romance Novellas Page 6