Getting Played (Heart of Fame #7)

by Lexxie Couper

  She hissed in a breath, ground her teeth and gripped her phone harder, refusing to acknowledge Jax’s touch.

  He nuzzled her neck with a low, throaty chuckle.

  “I see.” Uncertainty wavered in Jeremy’s voice. “Are you with him now?”

  “He’s just—”

  Jax nipped at her earlobe.

  “He’s just dropping me at home,” she gasped, pressing at his broad, hard chest.

  He didn’t move.

  “That’s good,” Jeremy answered, relief turning the words to a gushing laugh.

  Parting the split in Nat’s dress, Jax lowered his head to the newly exposed curve of her sex and traced his tongue over her flesh.

  A wave of hot sensations lashed through her core. Her breath seized in her throat.

  “Hang up,” Jax murmured against Nat’s pussy, dancing his fingers up and down the length of her thigh.

  “I was hoping,” the minister went on, “I could—”

  “Hang up,” Jax repeated, lifting his head just enough to make room for his fingers. Fingers that wriggled between her pressed thighs, seeking her wet slit.

  “—persuade you—”

  Jax grinned up at her and stroked a finger over her folds. “Hang up,” he whispered. “Now.”

  “—to meet me for—”

  “Coffee,” Nat burst out, even as her hips bucked upward to meet Jax’s determined penetration. “Yes, I was just telling Mr. Campbell I was meeting you for coffee tonight, Minister.”

  Silence greeted her outburst.

  From both Jax and Jeremy.

  “Is eleven too late?” she asked, pulse so wild, stomach so tight she wondered how she was conscious. “At the Grinding Halt?”

  Straightening on his seat beside her, expression unreadable, Jax studied her.

  Licking her dry lips, she adjusted her dress until its fabric covered her sex once more and raised the end of her phone closer to her lips. Oh Christ, what the fuck had she—

  “Eleven is perfect,” the Minister for the Arts and Culture replied, elation turning the words to a crow. “Would you like me to send a car to collect you?”

  Fixing Jax with a level gaze, she shook her head. “I’m fine, thank you, Minister. I’ve had enough of being in limousines for this evening.”

  Jax’s nostrils flared.

  “Ah, the life of a celebrity not for you, Natalie?” Jeremy’s good-natured laugh scraped at Nat’s sanity. Or maybe it was the way Jax watched her, eyes unreadable, jaw bunched.

  “I can take or leave celebrities and their needy ways, Minister,” she answered, holding Jax’s stare. “See you soon.”

  Chapter Seven

  Jerking off in the shower wasn’t the same as burying himself in Nat’s sweet, tight, pussy, but that’s what Jax did back in his hotel suite.

  And try as hard as he might, he couldn’t stop thinking of Nat while he did it. Which was unexpected.

  Jax never let his mind linger on a particular woman when masturbating. Whenever he took matters into his own hand—ha! Get it? Own hand? Ah, you’re a bloody comedian, Campbell—he tuned his mind into the physical sensation of the moment, not the visual. He let his body be aware of his breathing, his heartbeat, let his head focus on the licks of pleasure stroking his every nerve ending. He never conjured a sexual partner in his mind to help the proceedings. The sensation was all he required.

  Yet for the three hours after he’d deposited Nat at her home, every time his hand moved to his cock—and it did, often—it was Nat he thought of.

  She’d refused to kiss him goodnight or invite him to coffee with her and the Minister of Colour By Numbers. He’d tried to persuade her, had tried to charm her, tease her and seduce her. She’d resisted. Damn it.

  When they’d pulled to a halt outside her home, he was close to bloody desperate.

  When she’d opened the back limo door, he’d wanted to grab her and beg her not to leave him. He’d never been so…so…flustered by a woman before. Ever.

  When she’d leant back into the limo, exquisite cleavage on delicious display, her eyes twinkling with a light he knew was one hundred percent arousal, his cock had almost burst free of his trousers.

  And then she’d said, “Enjoy the view from your window tonight, Jax,” before closing the door, leaving him in a wholly messed-up and utterly wonderful state of painful, denied lust.

  He’d sat silent in the limo for the trip back to the hotel, pondering the situation. He’d arrived at the Park Hyatt, still fucking horny, gone directly to his suite and crossed to the window.

  The window. Yeah, he’d spent the first thirty minutes after arriving back in his suite with his forehead pressed to that window, Sydney Harbour and all its picturesque beauty beyond, picturing Nat stripping the sinfully sexy dress from her lush body. Pictured her making her way from her bedroom to her bathroom in nothing but her stilettos. Pictured her hair cascading down her bare back to caress the curve of her incredible arse.

  Pictured her climbing onto her bed on hands and knees, presenting her exquisite arse and pussy to him as she crawled up the length of the mattress. Pictured her looking at him over her shoulder, her lips curled in a come-fuck-me smile.

  Thirty minutes lost in the enticing images of Nat seducing him with nothing but her molten sexuality. Thirty minutes craving her, aching for her.

  Thirty minutes of self-torture before he’d finally caved and fucked his own hand, Nat—only Nat—in his head.

  He’d collapsed onto the bed and fallen into a fitful, broken sleep after that. Every time he woke, he’d reached for her, only to bite back a curse upon discovering she wasn’t there. That messed with his head. Mainly because it made him realize he’d never reached for any of his previous sexual partners on waking. Only Nat. When they’d been living together, he’d loved curling her into his body, rubbing his hard-on to her butt and nuzzling the back of her neck on that sensitive spot that made her giggle and wriggle.

  Three hours of dreaming of Nat, waking to hold her, shattered when she wasn’t there and jerking off to the thought of her. Three hours. He’d jerked off more times during those three hours than he had as a horny teenager. His dick was damn sore. His balls felt bruised and swollen.

  Which was basically why he was where he was now—on a busy inner-city Sydney footpath leaning against a light pole. He had to save his poor scrotum somehow.

  Adjusting the dark sunglasses on his face and the baseball cap on his head, he watched Nat and the Minister for Dot-to-Dot exit the Grinding Halt.

  Bruce stood a few feet away, leaning against the side of someone’s car, scowling at no one in particular. He hadn’t uttered a word of complaint when Jax had banged on his hotel room door and told him they were going out. Hadn’t even asked where out was.

  Instead, he’d dressed, pulled the baseball cap and sunglasses Jax currently wore from a bag and called a cab.

  Efficient as always.

  On the opposite side of the busy road, Jeremy I’m-too-hipster-for-my-glasses Craig let out a look-at-me laugh and slid his hand over the small of Nat’s back.

  Jax ground his teeth. A bolt tightened in his gut. He pushed himself from the light pole, straining to see what Nat did at the overly familiar touch.

  Most likely hit the bastard.

  A string of cars sped along the street between them, blocking Jax’s view for a maddening moment.

  He bit back a curse, his heart thumping.

  When the never-bloody-ending flow of highly inconsiderate cars had passed, Nat and Minister Touchy-Gropey were nowhere to be seen.

  Jax drove his nails into his palms. His breath stuck in his throat. Fuck.

  Fuck, fuck, fu—

  “Ah, there they are,” he muttered, spying them three shop fronts along the footpath.

  Craig’s hand was no longer on Nat’s back, but nor was he holding a bloody nose. The bolt in Jax’s gut tightened. Hmmm.

  Shooting Bruce a look over his shoulder, he gave his head a quick jerk. A silent command
to follow.

  Bruce straightened from the car and, expression neutral, strode over to Jax just as Jax started walking in the same direction as Nat and the way-too-handsy federal minister.

  Keeping pace with them on the other side of the road, Jax narrowed his eyes. Nat looked hot. She’d replaced the dress with a pair of black leather pants and a loose emerald-green shirt thingy that hung off one shoulder completely, exposing the creamy curve of her flesh with such teasing perfection his cock throbbed every time he looked at it. He wanted to press his lips to that curve. He wanted to nip that flesh with his teeth and make her moan. Right there on the street. With their fellow night owls and café-hoppers as witnesses.

  She wore knee-high black boots with heels tall enough to bring her eyes level with Craig’s.

  In a nod to the cool winter night, a silken burgundy scarf wrapped her neck, brushing over the swells of her breasts.

  Jax knew exactly what he wanted to do with that scarf. Bind her wrists together before pressing her to the window of the closest shop or café or bookstore and making love to her mouth with his.

  His cock throbbed again. More insistent. His balls, still aching from his masturbation marathon, joined in.

  Another stream of cars cut his view of Nat and Craig.

  “Fuck!”

  Around him, several pedestrians scowled.

  He shot them a grin. “Sorry.”

  One of them, a short guy wearing a pale-pink suit, squinted at him. “Hey, has any one ever told you you look exactly like the guy that played keyboard for Nick Blackthorne?”

  “Jaxon Campbell?” Jax said, watching the bumper-to-bumper cars dissect the space between his side of the street and Nat’s.

  “That’s it.”

  A flash of green taunted Jax from the other side of the street. “I get that a lot,” he said, peering at the spot. Gone. Damn it. “I’m better looking though.”

  The guy laughed. “And taller.”

  Bruce drew level with Jax, a towering, intimidating, silent presence.

  The flow of traffic on the street cleared.

  Jax searched for Nat.

  There.

  Hot irritation licked at his nerves. Fucking Craig had his hand on the small of her back again. And he was leaning toward her, lips close to her ear.

  Jax drove his nails into his palms. It was time to end this inappropriate behavior.

  Stare fixed on Nat and the offending hand on her back, Jax stepped off the footpath and let out a shout as Bruce yanked him back onto the footpath just as a car sped through the very space he’d inhabited.

  “Are you okay, sir?” Bruce asked, releasing Jax’s upper arm.

  “Shit, what the hell were you thinking?” the guy in the pink suit asked, incredulous shock in his voice.

  Heart fast, anger warring with distress, Jax rubbed at his biceps and searched the other side of the street for Nat.

  He couldn’t see her.

  Where the hell is she?

  A thick lump filled his throat. His heart pounded faster. Harder. He scanned the footpath, unable to find her.

  Frustration spiked. Where was she?

  A glimpse of green caught his eye, but with how dark the lenses of his sunglasses were, he couldn’t be sure…

  Was it Nat? Holy crap, was that Nat? And if so, what was she doing squeezing the Minister of Paint-By-Numbers’s arse?

  “Fuck this,” he muttered, every muscle in his body tense. Reaching for his sunglasses, he pulled them from his face. He needed to see if the woman in green mauling the guy on the other side of the road was Nat and he couldn’t do that wearing dark fucking sun—

  “Shit, you are Jaxon Campbell!”

  The second the guy in the pink suit squealed out Jax’s name, Jax realized he’d made a mistake.

  Australians loved their homegrown celebrities and famous musicians. He may only be a keyboard player, but he’d been the keyboard player for Nick Blackthorne, the biggest rock star the world knew. He’d also hit the New York Times bestseller list with his autobiography and had come close to stealing the limelight at a red-carpet movie premier only a few hours ago. Which meant when the guy in the pink suit shouted his name, everyone around them instantly snapped their attention to Jax and let out a collective gasp when they realized they had one of their homespun celebrities in their midst.

  People surged toward him. Bruce let out a menacing growl and positioned himself between Jax and the guy in pink. Smartphone flashes peppered the night. His name danced on air.

  “Get back,” Bruce’s snarl rose above the noise.

  More flashes fired.

  To Jax’s left, someone called out Nick’s name, obviously wondering if he was there as well.

  Bruce grabbed Jax’s arm, doing that impressive thing he did where he somehow appeared bigger. “Keep walking, sir.”

  Jax didn’t argue. Not because of the rising madness around him, but because he’d finally got a good look at the woman in the green shirt on the other side of the street feeling up the guy with her. The woman that wasn’t Nat.

  The woman who was Nat walked the footpath a few feet in front of the woman not Nat. And her hand was nowhere near Jeremy Craig’s butt. Thank fucking—

  Someone grabbed him.

  Wild hands grabbed at his wrist, yanking him forward, pulling him downwards. Wild hands that quickly snared the back of his head as wet lips locked on his.

  A cheer split the night. A tongue lashed at his lips. Hands tore at the front of his shirt.

  Bruce let out a roar a second before the lips and hands were torn from Jax’s mouth and body. Fresh squeals filled the air. Jax staggered backwards, blinking—shocked and befuddled—at the excited woman doing her best to climb over Bruce, her frenzied stare fixed on Jax as she told him over and over again she was his biggest fan. Biggest.

  He swiped his hand at his mouth, the taste of cigarettes and Juicy Fruit tainting his lips and tongue.

  In front of him, Bruce struggled with the fan. Around him, people snapped shot after shot with their smartphones.

  He dragged his hand over his mouth again, a distant part of his mind aware his shirt was torn. Holy fuck, how had this happened?

  How had this happened? And was Nat seeing it?

  Jesus, please tell me she’s not seeing this. Please, don’t let her find out I was here. Please don’t—

  A warm hand wrapped his wrist and, before he could register what was going on, he was being pulled through the crowd.

  Pulled away from Bruce and the maniacal, gibbering fan.

  Stumbling over his own feet, he swung his stare to his savior-slash-possible abductor currently dragging him through the ruckus.

  He stumbled again.

  Nat tossed him a harried glare over her shoulder, her grip on his wrist tightening. “You’re going to explain why you were here later, Campbell.”

  Heart pounding, warm joy flooding his chest, he grinned. “What? You think I was stalking you?”

  She rolled her eyes and quickened her pace, shoving people aside with a determination that would have impressed Bruce as she continued along the footpath.

  He let her pull him along, enjoying her hand wrapped around his wrist, loving the way her hips swayed as she elbowed pedestrians out of her way.

  Surprisingly, no one argued with her. Jax decided it was the absolute authority she oozed—the same authority he’d witnessed back in her office at the Con. It was as sexy as hell. And intriguing. And appealing.

  And wonderful. Damn wonderful.

  She was wonderful. Not just sexy, but wonderful. Someone to cuddle in bed, to wake to every morning, to be proud of as she presented students their graduating degrees at the Con. Someone to adore.

  A ribbon of unrest unfurled in his gut and he sucked in a breath. Adore? Proud?

  Cuddle?

  No, that wasn’t the relationship he had with Nat. They fucked each other silly. They enjoyed each other’s bodies. They reveled in each other’s flesh. That was it. Nothing so clo
ying and clichéd as adoration, pride and…and…hugging.

  Jesus. What the—

  A woman on his right thrust a bra at him, begging him to sign it.

  Behind them, way behind them, Bruce let out a shout. Jax couldn’t make out the words but they didn’t sound happy. Bruce hated maniacal, frenzied fans. With a passion.

  Without slowing her pace, Nat pivoted on her heel, snatched the red satin item of underwear from the beseeching woman and threw it into the crowd. “Go. Away.”

  Jax forced out a chuckle before giving the now bra-less woman a chagrinned smile. “She’s a tad jealous.”

  “She’s a tad pissed,” Nat snarled. “And inclined to leave you here if you don’t hurry the hell up.”

  He winked at the swooning fan, gave those around her a friendly nod and then caught up with Nat with a comical leap when she yanked on his wrist again. “As if you’d leave me here,” he murmured in her ear, shielding his face from the curious and excited crowd massing on the footpath. “If you didn’t want to be with me, you wouldn’t have ditched the Minister of Draw Something.”

  Nat didn’t answer. Her grip around his wrist however, constricted to a painful vise.

  He laughed. “Did I touch a nerve?”

  Once again, she didn’t answer. What she did do was extend her hand toward a shiny black convertible Mini parked a few feet away and press a button on a set of keys.

  The Mini’s blinkers flashed once, a chirpy little beep sounded and she gave him a pointed expression. “Get in.”

  “Yes ma’am.” He ran around the Mini’s nose to the driver’s side, yanked open the door, dropped into the seat and smirked up at Nat.

  She glared at him.

  Around them, smartphones and cameras continued to flash. The footpath swelled with curious and excited passerbys. Jax’s name rose above the noise on a chorus of voices.

  Jax gave Nat an innocent, wide-eyed gaze. “Coming, Boxhead?”

  Down the street, Bruce bellowed something that sounded like, “Get ’im outta here.”

  At the front end of the Mini, Nat scowled.

  “Now!” Bruce’s shout tore at the ecstatic onlookers.

  Nat startled, blinked, glowered at Jax some more and then, with a highly audible sigh, hurried to the passenger side, pulled open the door and slid into the seat.