Seconds pass, but there's nothing between us like there was before—no more awkwardness, no more frustration, no more anger. We watch each other carefully for a moment and then a small smile cracks Naomi's lips.
“Friends still?” she asks. “Even though I threw a laptop at your ass?”
“Even though I confessed my love to you at an inappropriate time?”
“I think we can work past that,” she says as I take the cigarette and pull a drag of nicotine into my lungs. “Especially since that last rock fill was fucking amazing.” Naomi nods her chin at the speakers as the photographer and her assistants talk Sydney into position.
And when I say position …
“Fuck, I'm going to come in my pants,” I grumble as I let my lashes flutter and open them back up to find Sydney's hands pressed against the backdrop, her beautiful face with that sharp ass jawline glancing over one tattooed shoulder. Her ass is like, all fucking that. Round and plump and perfect. I'd take her hard and fast for the camera and I wouldn't care who was looking. The only thing that's stopping me is the fact that this is her dream, her chance. If she wants to model, who am I to stop her? Even if I have to live with permanent blue balls … and a massive dollop of jealousy that Turner isn't helping.
“If Naomi was posing like that for a magazine, I'd be losing my shit. I don't personally find Sydney attractive, but can you imagine how many men are going to spank it to this?”
I ignore him and take a step forward, my boots scraping against those perfect concrete floors as
I find myself drawn to the edge of the spotlights, that place where the bright white of the set lights meets the shadowed darkness of the warehouse.
Sydney spins around as our music fades into Escape the Fate's “Live for Today”, tangling her fingers in her pink hair as she poses with a hand on one hip. With each flash of the camera, she moves slightly, tucking her fingers beneath her chin, curling her lips into a smirk, accepting a blue guitar from one of the assistants. I watch with my fucking mouth gaping open and my fingers playing in my pocket. It's a sneaky way to tease my cock without anyone noticing. And if they do, well fuck them then. I can just barely stroke it from this position, but it doesn't matter. I'm so hypersensitive right now, a feather could make me come.
Sydney slides the guitar strap over her shoulder, using the instrument itself to shield the black thong she's wearing. After a few more poses with that, the photographer yells something I can barely hear over the music and has her assistants drag a drum kit on set. My fingers itch to play it even as they're playing with my cock … but all the while, I know I'd rather play
Sydney.
Her new pink hair, the flash of silver and black eye shadow on her lids, that bright pop of color on her mouth, all of it swirls together with the richness of her tats, the pale creamy color of her skin, until I feel like I'm going to pass the hell out. After a few more poses, I really feel like I'm about to come, so I pull my hand from my pocket and curl my fingers into a fist. If I have to walk around here with a wet spot on my jeans, those stupid cameras are going to see it and I'll never live it down.
I glance over my shoulder at our personal little film crew. It's becoming a habit for me to pretend they're not there. Hell, with Sydney posing and all that, I actually had forgotten about them. But they never forget about us. I spare them about a second of attention before I have to turn back and watch Sydney again. They want to film me masturbating on the set of a major magazine cover shoot? Screw them. Have at it. All I care about right now is her.
I'm head over freaking heels, I think as I unconsciously wet my lips with my tongue. Sydney's looking right at me now, mimicking the motion either by accident or on purpose, I'm not sure. Our eyes stay locked as she continues to pose, to position herself in ways that remind me how little time we've really gotten to spend alone together. I seriously want to Google some Kama Sutra shit and try it out with this girl.
I'm so distracted by her body, the way she moves, that I hardly notice when the poses stop and the photographer's waving me over.
“What's up?” I ask as I pause next to the woman and examine her Mohawk. It's an impressive piece of art propped up on her head like that. Of course, she doesn't hold a candle to Sydney, but nobody does. Not anymore. I take a deep breath and pretend I'm not a fucking obsessed psycho with a massive crush and an even bigger hard-on. “Is there something I can help with?”
“Actually, yeah,” she says, her voice this smoky accent that I can't quite place. Eastern European, maybe? “I want you to get in there, rev it up a little bit. Don't be afraid to get sexy, sexy,” she says, slapping a hand against my chest with a wink and a wicked smile.
“Me?” I ask, but Vlad's already there with a makeup brush in his hand, cleaning up my cheeks and forehead with a dusting of powder, refreshing my liner while I slap him away with a growl and give Photographer Chick a look. “I'm not getting in there. This is Sydney's thing.”
“You are Sydney's thing. Her eyeballs go to you, no? You don't see it? Get your ass in there and do not disappoint me.” She claps her hands, the gold bangles on her arms clacking with the motion as Vlad sneaks in and manages to get a brush through my hair. “Go, go, go.”
I glance over at Sydney and find her standing there with a smile on her face, completely confident in her body and her look, not at all bothered by the two black star stickers covering her nipples. She motions me in with a crooked finger and before I know it, I'm striding across the pristine white carpet that covers the floor. I don't stop until my hands are on her hips.
That single touch is enough to ignite. I feel like a stick of dynamite that's about to explode.
“Do you want me here?” I ask, my words low and my breathing hot and heavy. I'm practically panting. “Because there's no way in hell I'm screwing this up for you.” I don't want today to be about the bands or the drama or the music; this is her time to shine. Instead of answering me, Sydney wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me hard and deep, tongue sliding into my mouth with a groan. The sound actually comes from my throat, and before I know it, I'm kissing her too, pushing her back until her mostly naked body slams into the white wall at the edge of the set.
My mouth moves from Sydney's lips to her jaw, her throat, her collarbone. I can't seem to get enough of her, even as I know we're being watched, photographed, filmed.
“Does it bother you?” she asks quietly as our hands roam and things get real racy, real fast. “That they're watching?”
“Honestly? No. I want them to see,” I whisper as I stand up and thread my fingers through her hair, kissing her mouth with a slow, steady intensity, drawing a long moan from her throat that even the loud pulse of music can't hide. “I want them to film us,” I continue as I move my mouth to her earlobe and nibble on the tiny diamond studs there. “Because I want them all to know that you're mine now.”
My hands move back down Sydney's body, taking in the sweat soaked warmth of her skin until I get back to her hips. With a grunt, I lift her up and her legs come around my midsection, squeezing me tight as I kiss her neck, sliding my tongue along the smooth expanse of her heated flesh. When she starts tugging on my shirt, I oblige, tearing it off my head and tossing it away before I go back to my task, grinding my erection into the sparse bits of fabric that separate us. Just a layer of denim and cotton to get through, and I could be inside her. Even in front of all these people, I don't care.
Sydney scrapes her nails down my back as I kiss her throat, leaning forward and sinking her teeth into my shoulder hard enough to draw a bit of blood. As she does that, she looks right at the camera with her too blue eyes and our photographer curses with excitement.
My naked tattooed back, Sydney's high-heeled legs around my waist, her teeth in my flesh, eyes on the camera. We've got our shot … and our cover.
I follow Sydney into the dressing room and tear open her robe, lifting her body up and slamming her into one of the vanity tables that line the wall. Either the staff figures out
this is happening or they watch. I could not care fucking less at that point.
“You're so goddamn addictive,” I say as I continue to kiss Sydney's throat, her jaw, her chest, her tits. My hands knead the soft flesh, the grim reaper on my bicep grinning as my muscles clench and release with each movement. I suck the black star pasties into my mouth, biting down on the hard points of nipple I can feel hiding underneath.
“Oh god,” Sydney moans, her thick curved lips parted with pleasure as I make my way down her belly, across the coral reef tattoo on her hip, licking and biting at the succulent display of flesh that's open and bare and ready for me. Little beads of sweat pop up across Sydney's skin as I work my way down to the front of her thong, kissing and nibbling at the moist heat that's just out of my reach. I don't stay down there long though, just enough to get that dirty candy taste in my mouth, and then I'm standing back up and whipping my cock from my pants.
I look Sydney straight in the face as I shove her panties aside and thrust in balls deep, slamming her ass into the table and sending tubes of lipstick and bottles of hair spray rolling to the concrete floor. The walls here are nothing but fabric panels that can be slid around and adjusted for privacy, so I'm sure the entire warehouse can hear my grunting, Sydney's moaning.
I kiss her mouth, taste the cinnamon sweetness of the Fireball Whiskey. As if she can read my thoughts, Sydney reaches behind her ass and grabs hold of the bottle I gave her earlier. It's half-empty. Not that she really needs booze to have all that confidence, that bravado—but it sure as shit doesn't hurt either.
I fuck her hard against the table while she swigs some alcohol and then lifts the glass to my lips. I don't pause my movements to take a drink, so whiskey sloshes everywhere, across Sydney's breasts, down my bare chest.
She groans and tilts her head back while I lick away the remnants, continuing to pump into her with an animalistic fury that I can't seem to control. Hard, harder, hardest. My balls get tight and cum explodes from my cock with a violent frenzy as I gasp and hold Sydney tight, her back pressed against the mirror. The exposed bulbs above her head paint everything in a harsh, white light as my orgasm recedes and I start to see things … a little more clearly.
When I lift my head up, I can hear the excited chatter of gossip all around us, like a flock of twittering boards. Twitter. Shit. A gif of this will probably end up circulating on Twitter or posted up on somebody's Snapchat or … worse—Tumblr.
I pull back and Sydney grins at me, guzzling another drink of whiskey. I watch, completely mesmerized as her throat works with the swallow.
“Get the fuck out of here?” she asks as I stare back, my dick already rising to meet the occasion.
“Yes, please,” I say as I pull out of her warmth and help her to her feet.
Well, if Tin Dolls needed an article to go with their cover, they've sure as shit got one now.
“Holy crap!” Turner crows as we climb in the limo with some small sense of shame. Jesus Christ. I am a goddamn animal. The hell is wrong with me? I glance over at Sydney and find her tongue sliding along her lower lip as she shoves back a fall of that cotton candy pink hair.
Never mind. Forget it. There's nothing wrong with me. Sydney Charell is just that addictive.
“You guys practically screwed on set, and then, dude, we could hear everything that was going on back there. You're more of a sprinter than a marathon runner, huh?”
“Turner, shut the fuck up,” Sydney says, crossing her legs and pushing down the short, black nothing that she's got on. I'd hardly even call it a dress. “If you don't like it, plug some headphones in and look away.” Sydney leans forward and captures my face with her bright pink nails, sliding her tongue between my lips for a long, lingering kiss that tastes like cinnamon and whiskey.
“Actually, it was pretty hot,” he admits, drawing my attention over to Naomi Knox. Her arms are crossed tight over her chest, but she doesn't look unhappy right now. More bothered. Hot and bothered, maybe? Did Sydney and I … turn her on? Nah. That's too stupid to even think about. “Seriously. That was awesome.” He reaches over and slaps me on the knee like we're friends or something. “Let's go out and celebrate, get drunk, get fucked up. Life sucks, but it's on the up and up, right? We got that redheaded asshole on our side, Naomi's awake, Trey can walk, we're making bank on this stupid reality show.” Turner raises a dark brow in question. “So what do you say?”
“You want to party?” I ask, still sweating, still panting, still … sporting an erection. I know, I know, you're shocked. “But Naomi …” I start, but she's already shaking her head, sweeping her blonde hair back into a ponytail.
“I'm fine, actually,” she says, touching a hand to her chest. “I mean it hurts sometimes, but not any worse than a pulled muscle. I need to fucking breathe. I need to get fucking out, so if you guys are down, let's do this.”
Turner slaps his hands together, reaching into his back pocket and tossing some coke onto the floor between us.
“Bought that off the guy in the bathroom,” he says with pride, sliding his fingers through his dark hair. And then he smiles at me. Actually smiles. “You two are in, right?”
Sydney and I exchange a look and she shrugs her shoulders.
“Honestly, it might be nice to get out for a while.”
“You know they'll be filming the whole damn thing,” I say, acutely aware of the cameras inside our borrowed limo—not to mention the bodyguards sitting in the front seat. They'll follow us, too. There's no doubt about that.
“So?” Turner says, like he's getting pissed just thinking about it. “Watch this shit.” He reaches up a tattooed hand and slams it against the tinted window separating us from the driver. “Hey asshole, I think I'm gonna puke. Unlock these kiddie locks back here and let me out.”
“There's a garbage can in the cabinet to Naomi's left. Use that,” Brayden Ryker says from the passenger seat, his eyes fully focused on the phone in his hand. Turner just scowls and runs his tongue along his lower lip, spinning his lip rings as he shakes his head and then sits up, turning around and sticking his head into the front seat.
“Open the fucking door or I'm gonna upchuck all the hell over your lap.”
A flicker of irritation crosses Brayden's face.
“I swear to Christ,” he snaps, his accent twice as strong as usual. “You're going to get yerself killed, you idiot.” Still, the back doors unlock and at the next stoplight, Turner's swinging it open and reaching back for Naomi's hand. She casts me one quick look, shrugs her shoulders and follows after, sliding a pair of shades onto her face as she goes. “Oh bloody hell,” Brayden says as Sydney gives me an amused look and reaches out a hand, grabbing the eight ball of coke off the floor with the other. I take her fingers in mine, hauling her through the door before anyone can stop us.
In an instant, we're back in the real world, standing on a curb in the middle of the West Hills. There's no crowd here, no paparazzi, just … people. Normal people. Oh thank God. No rich a-hole, mega billionaire bullshit here. They're going to kill the world, you know, those fuckers. The new world royalty.
I close my eyes and breathe in the normal for a moment, the average, the everyday. It feels so fucking good.
“Let's get the shit out of here before the fangirls show up,” Turner says, glancing over his shoulder at us. I follow his narrowed eyes to Brayden Ryker and the two other men that climb out of a blue-green sedan that's idling nearby. Our bodyguards for the night. And then, right on cue, there's a camera crew sliding out of a white van two cars back.
This is going to be a shitfest, I think as Turner and Naomi start forward and Sydney and I follow after. When I glance back one more time, the light's turned green and the limo's disappearing into traffic.
Oh well.
Guess I'm fucking doing this.
Hopefully I won't end the night regretting it.
“I'm sick and tired of Slick's,” Turner says as she shrugs an arm over Naomi's shoulders and she pushes it right off. �
�Let's hop into some seedy dive bars and snort coke in the bathroom.”
“You have such a way with words,” Sydney says as I slip an arm over her shoulders and she lets it stay, snuggles into it even. God, she smells so good, I think as I tilt my head down and breathe in the scent of her hair. Wild. Floral. That's what she smells like, tastes like, always. “I can still feel your cock inside of me,” she whispers, leaning up to run a hot flick of tongue along my earlobe.
Fucking. Christ.
“Seedy dive bars are okay with me,” Naomi says slowly, tossing a wild glance over her shoulder. Even with the shades on, I can tell that she's pissed at being followed by the camera crew. Our bodyguards—Brayden Ryker included—are nowhere to be seen. That's cool with me, just so long as he actually tries to keep us safe this time. “But we're not going to get very far with these assholes tagging along behind us. You got another ingenious plan, Turner?”
“Cool it, Knox, I got things covered.” Turner slips on a pair of shades that only make him look more suspect rather than less. With our tattoos, the style we're rocking, the crew following us, there's not a snowball's chance in hell that we're going to make it more than another block without drawing a crowd. We don't exactly blend in, you know? The reaper tats on my arm, Naomi's bleeding heart chest piece, Turner's stupid fucking tongue ring … eh. Identifying markers.
“Well?” she asks, sliding her cell from her pocket and surreptitiously tossing it in a nearby trash can. Hmm. The night of our Hayden Lee Memorial Concert, Turner and Naomi disappeared. Completely. Lost Brayden's guys and everything. I hope they remember how they pulled that shit off.
Heart Broke (Hard Rock Roots Book 8) Page 18