by Emily Snow
Before I have a chance to say how lovely I think it is, Joss’s hands and lips are everywhere. My face, my neck, my back, my hair, my skin.
“Mel?” he whispers as his fingers play with my hair and his lips brush across my collarbone.
“Yeah?” I squirm under the attack.
“Would it be okay if we talked about all the stuff we need to later? Like after I’ve been inside you for five or six hours straight?”
He starts walking me backwards. I have no idea what’s behind me or where I’m going, but I don’t really care as long as he keeps licking my earlobe and caressing my—Oh, dear God, that feels good. Before I know it, we’re in a room that’s dark, a sliver of light from the street outside peeking through the gap in the curtains.
I feel the pressure in my core building, and my heart struggles to keep a steady rhythm. Joss reaches for the buttons on my blouse and starts to undo them. They’re small and there are a lot of them. He stops. “Is this a special shirt?” he asks huskily.
“Um, not really.” I respond.
Before the words are even fully out of my mouth, he’s ripped it down the front, popping those little buttons off every which way.
“Shit,” he grinds out and he looks down at me, my pale blue silk and lace bra glowing in the low light. He brushes the backs of his fingers down my torso. His expression is reverent, and I watch him, seeing myself through his eyes. I’ve never felt so beautiful.
He slides the blouse off of my shoulders and I let it drop to the floor. Next he reaches behind me and unsnaps the bra, tossing it away quickly. Then he cups both my breasts in his hands.
“You’re the most perfect creation I’ve ever seen.”
I can feel myself blush. I reach up and stroke his face, the light stubble on his jaw. He leans into my touch, his eyes closing for a moment. He kisses my palm then the tips of each of my fingers before he lets go of my hand and returns his touch to my breast. I kiss him on the face, the neck and the mouth, and slide my hands under the hem of his t-shirt. He shivers at the contact, and I lift the shirt and pull it over his head. He growls then and pulls me close so we’re skin to skin.
“I missed this so much,” he whispers. “Just being able to touch you.”
“Me too,” I gasp as he takes my breast in his mouth and gently sucks. I moan and unbutton my jeans when his erection presses against me.
“Great idea,” he says as he undoes his own perfectly worn jeans and drops them, along with his boxer briefs, to the floor. I do the same and then we’re on each other—stroking, licking, and kissing. Hands, tongues, mouths, and fingers, slide along each other’s bodies, encouraging, emphasizing, captivating. Joss takes my hand and leads me to the bed.
He sits down, bringing me along with him gently. We lie side by side, just exploring one another after being apart for so long. As his hand slips between my legs, he sighs. “I love you, sweet Mel. I want this—you and me—forever. Promise me that’s what you want too.”
I arch against his fingers that are stroking my center so slowly and smoothly. “Yes,” I gasp. “It’s all I want, Joss. I love you so much. I missed you. I don’t ever want to be away from you again.”
“Never again, baby. Never again.” And then there are no more words. He’s inside—my body, my heart, my very soul—and I know that no matter what, this rock star is mine and he always will be.
Epilogue
Joss
I’ve finished up my run and I’m stretching outside the apartment. It’s a typical Seattle summer day, not too hot and not too damp. There’s very obvious giggling nearby and I fight the urge to look up. Pretty soon I hear a girl’s voice near my shoulder.
“Excuse me?” she asks.
I stand upright and turn to face her. She can’t be more than seventeen, so I smile and try not to look too irritated. “Yeah?”
“Are you—” She and her equally young friend dissolve into giggles. I keep the smile pasted on my face. “Aren’t you Joss Jamison?” she finally gasps out.
“You know,” I respond, “don’t be embarrassed, because you’re not the first person to ask me that, but no, I’m sorry, I’m not. I just look a hell of a lot like the guy I guess.”
She turns bright red. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry!” she squeaks out.
“No problem. Really.” I give them another smile as they turn and hustle off. I roll my eyes and finish my stretch before heading upstairs.
I enter the apartment and find Mel curled up on the sofa with Mesopotamia and a newspaper. She smiles as I walk in and inside my chest my heart does the thing it does every time she smiles at me.
I threaten to hug her with my sweaty self, get the requisite shriek that we guys love so much, then flop down next to her. Mesopotamia, who barely tolerates me, hops up and stalks off.
“I can’t believe you got up so early after that late performance last night.”
“Yeah, I couldn’t sleep thinking over all that stuff Dave had to tell me.”
“About the amphitheater tour?”
“Yeah, playing places like Red Rocks and the Hollywood Bowl. What a rush that’d be. But I need to put together a backup band and a crew.”
“Well, if anyone knows how to do that, it’s you,” she smiles sweetly.
“What about you? No homework today?”
“No.” She peers at me over the paper. “All I have to do is submit that last digital portfolio I finished shooting last week and then I’m done. One MFA on the way.”
“I’m proud of you, baby. I can’t wait to throw you that graduation party. Hey, is that the Denver Post?” I ask.
“Yeah, our subscription finally got here. I’ve been looking at houses.”
“Cool. You find anything for us yet?”
“There’s a couple in here. Five minutes or so from your dad.”
“How many bedrooms?”
“Umm. Three.”
“Not enough.”
“Joss, seriously.”
“I am serious, Mel. We need an office for you, the master for us, a nursery, and a guest room for your parents when they visit. That’s at least four, and that’s assuming only one kid.”
She rolls her eyes at me. “Don’t you think we should wait until we actually have the wedding, get pregnant, all that stuff?”
I reach over and grab her, dragging her onto my lap.
“Ugh.” She sighs. “Sweat, Joss.”
I grin at her. “What I think, is that we need to practice some more. I’ve heard that baby-making is a very exact science and only by constant practice will you get it right.”
She breaks out laughing and I stand up, tossing her over my shoulder as I head to the bedroom.
Yeah, being a rock star is pretty damn good.
THE END
Acknowledgements
First of all, I want to thank everyone who reads my books. Whether you adore them or not, I am so grateful that you take the time to read them. It’s an honor, always, and without each and every one of you, I couldn’t do what I do. I’d also like to thank the bloggers. There are too many of you to list here, but you know who you are, you know all that you do for me, and I hope you know how very much I appreciate you.
I’d also like to thank my technical advisor for this book, Laurie. She was very patient with me when I botched most details of the job of a photojournalist, and I appreciate her willingness to work with me on a solution that left the story intact while also being at least somewhat realistic.
As always, my Street Team, Selena’s Sentries, are my constant support and some of my dearest friends in this business. The time that these women spend assisting me, and cheering me on is phenomenal. I really couldn’t do this job without them. In particular, my assistant, Michele W. should be given a medal, or a new car, or something. I’ll keep working on that M!
Finally, I haven’t gotten all mushy about Mr. L in past acknowledgements, mostly because even as a writer, it’s hard to find words to thank someone for being your best friend, your home, a
nd your heart for nearly twenty years. Hopefully he knows how I feel. Hopefully some of you can guess how I feel as well. Without him, none of it possible.
As Joss would say, Rock On.
About the Author
Selena Laurence lives in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains and spends a hell of a lot of time at soccer games, on her laptop, and reading. She requires a Mocha Latte every day to function, keeps a goldendoodle at her feet most of the time, and has more kids than she knows what to do with. Her husband, Mr. Laurence, spends as much time as he can at the office and the gym in order to avoid the kids, the dog, the laptop and the reading, but he always shows up for the soccer games, and he makes a mean Mocha Latte.
Selena loves to hear from readers. Contact her at any of the links below!
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WHO HE IS
BOOK 1
FIRENINE TRILOGY
Shanora Williams
writing as
S. Q. Williams
Dedicated to one of the closest friends/family members I have:
Taylor Little.
I adore you, I love you, and I appreciate all you’ve done for me. My life would be so boring without you. I’m so glad you can finally be the real you.
“Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet. Only through experience of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened, ambition inspired, and success achieved.”
~ Helen Keller
PROLOGUE
I heaved, clamping my chest, staring intently into the demented green eyes. There was a cloud of darkness behind them—anger, frustration, and a menacing glare. Those eyes frightened me every night, yet I’d dealt with it for years. His deep voice grumbled something I could hardly make out because of the blood racing around in my skull. His voice was toxic, deadly.
Through the darkness, I adjusted, but I could see her watching eyes, her partial, wicked smile from the bedroom door. I lay on top of the rough carpet and stretched out my arm, begging her to help me. Instead, she stared, watching as he picked me up from the floor and shoved me against the nearest wall. I winced, trying to keep myself steady, but instead I collapsed against the carpet again, burning my knees and the palms of my sensitive hands.
“Mama, please.” My voice was raspy from my previous yelling—from the excruciating pain he provided. The severity of his wrath left me bruised, tattered. My head hung and my cheek smashed against the carpet. For a moment I felt safe as the room became quiet and spun around me.
Finally she spoke up, her voice almost a whisper. “I’m sorry, Liza, but you knew this was important. When we need money, it’s not a joke. Should’ve done what was asked of you.”
A tear escaped from beneath my swollen eyelids and then I opened them, watching her turn around quickly. I called after her desperately, begging her not to leave me alone with that bastard. More tears fell, cigarette smoke drifted into the room, and then he yelled for me to get up, yanking on my arm.
My knees buckled again and my face slammed into the floor. Blood spilled from my nose and my forehead burned from scraping against the carpet. He threatened that if I didn’t get up, he was going to make the punishment worse, but I couldn’t. I was weak. I didn’t have the strength within me to move anymore. I was blank, nothing, like a thin sheet of paper. Unmoving unless blown by the wind or picked up by someone.
I wanted to dissolve into dust and blend in with the floor to become anything—anyone—but Eliza Smith.
I prayed and wished it would stop, but as he chuckled eerily and muttered something threatening beneath his breath, I knew it was coming. Heavy leather stung the backs of my legs, my hips, my back, my arms, and even my face countless times. I cried out repeatedly, digging my fingernails into the carpet with thick tears streaming, hoping soon I would numb to the pain.
I did eventually.
FUDGE SUNDAE
Gage Grendel…
There were only a few words that could describe him: hot, mouthwatering, and way out of my league. He and his band were out of my league, but apparently not my dad’s. He was their manager, and this summer things were really starting to kick off for them.
I remember exactly how my dad announced the tour to me:
“You need to start packing. We’re going on tour with FireNine!” he said over dinner.
I looked at him, a frown taking hold of my features, before digging into my mashed potatoes. “You mean you’re going on tour. I’d rather stay home.”
“Why? You need to get out and have some fun, Eliza.”
My dad’s personality made me feel so boring. He was spunky, hip, great taste, young-at-heart, all the above. When I’d moved in with him, he took me shopping first thing. He literally ran me to the mall because he said I looked “terrible.”
Apparently he didn’t approve of my sweatpants and the brown T-shirt I’d gotten from summer camp when I was twelve years old. I admit, by the age of sixteen it had gotten a little small on me, but I didn’t mind. I was twenty-one and would still wear it whenever I could because it was my favorite tee. It was a summer I was free of the hellhole.
“Come on, Liza Bear,” he begged. “It’ll be fun. I know you get tired of this house. You do the same thing every day. Eat. Draw. Paint. Sleep. You aren’t tired of that routine?”
“Not really.”
His brown eyes scanned me and then he smirked. “I think I know what it is.” He placed his fork on the table and tucked a lock of his perfectly trimmed hair behind his ear. My dad and I had the same natural platinum-blond hair. The fact that my skin was paler than a blank sheet of paper didn’t make it any better for me. He’d told me once before that I could pass for an albino if my eyelashes and eyebrows were a paler blond.
My dad pulled it off, though. He classified himself as “HOT” and I agreed. He worked out every day and had straight white teeth; his hair, parted at the crown of his head, just touched his shoulders. He naturally had more fashion sense than me, which was quite embarrassing sometimes.
“What do you mean?” I asked as he crossed his arms.
“It’s Gage, isn’t it?”
Hearing Gage’s name caused me to tear away my gaze. “What about him?”
“I notice the way you practically run to your room to hide when he and the band come over to practice now. You’re such a little girl.”
“Am not.” I stuck out my tongue and he laughed. “Besides, they’ve only been here twice.” A smile touched my lips as I slid away from the table, grabbing my plate. I took his as well, then made my way toward the kitchen. Our house was nice and somewhat simple. The kitchen was always clean. We had tan marble counters with grey and silver flecks, dark-brown cabinets with brushed nickel knobs, and an island in the center, surrounded by six bar stools.
I remember Gage sitting on one of those barstools and since then, I haven’t touched it. There’s just something about his presence that makes me nervous.
My dad stepped into the kitchen as I dropped the plates in the sink. “You really aren’t going to come with me, Liza? I want you out of the house. You’re twenty-one, and you spend every summer trapped here. It’s time to get out and live a little, don’t you think?”
“I’m sorry, Dad—”
“Ben,” he corrected. That was one thing he couldn’t stand. Being called “dad.” It supposedly made him feel old, and he was the type who would rather feel like a brother than a father.
“Well, Ben,” I said, rolling my eyes and plugging the sink, “I don’t think going on tour with FireNine will be such a great idea. It’s just a bunch of guys on a bus, drinking beer and doing God knows what else. That’s not my kind of crowd.”
“What is your crowd, exactly?” he asked, narrowing his eyes and leaning his elbows on the counter.
“I’m my own crowd.” I winke
d over my shoulder. I rinsed the suds off the plates and placed them into the dish rack as he laughed.
“All right, let’s make a deal.” He clasped his hands. “If I give you a gift card to a bookstore, buy you some cute clothes, and even take you to get your hair done, will you go?”
I shrugged. “I like the bookstore part. As for the clothes and hair, that was kind of a downfall.”
“Well, shit! You can get all the books you want. Just please come, Eliza. I swear it’ll be worth your time. We’re making tons of stops during the tour so there’ll always be something to do. It gets boring here in Virginia after a while, and you know it.”
I could agree with him there. There wasn’t really much to do in Suffolk unless someone had a party of some sort, but parties weren’t really my thing. Nothing was really my thing. I stayed cooped up in my house so much I think I missed out on most of the fun as a teenager. Even while enrolled in college, all I did was go to class or hide in my dorm. My roommate was trashy so I hardly ever saw her, which was a good thing most of the time because I couldn’t stand her.
“Okay.” I sighed as Ben’s large brown eyes looked me over. “I’ll go, but I don’t wanna be on the same bus as the band.”
“Oh, sweetie, you won’t be,” he assured, stepping around the counter to stand next to me. “You’ll be on a separate bus with me. You’ll have all the alone time you need. I wouldn’t put you on a bus with a bunch of boys like them. That’s just… ew. Gross. The things those boys do. Ugh!”
“Okay, okay.” I giggled, lifting my hands in surrender mode. “I’ll go—mainly because I do like their music and because I think it’d be cool to watch the cities go by. I can snap a few pictures or something.” I shrugged, sighing. “Why the hell not?”