The Rock Star Next Door #1

by Cole, Starla

  She let out a sharp, “Oh!”

  Now he didn’t think he could hold out any longer. He crashed into her, pumping hard and deep. She clung to his shoulder now, crying out with every movement. He jerked out of her and pulled back, breaking her hold on him. “Turn around.”

  She scrambled onto her hands and knees and he knelt behind her to run his hands across her breasts, along her ribs, down her thighs, then spread her wide. God, he was ready for this. He thrust his cock inside her and she screamed, bracing herself on her elbows.

  He plunged on, and she said his name over and over, sometimes Rage, sometimes James. The pressure built up in him and when he knew it was about to spill over, he reached around her to finger her clit, crashing into her, feeling how tense she was too.

  He forced himself to wait, to hold on, until she started to quiver and groan, and as soon as he felt her start to come, he let it all go, the release into her as powerful as anything he’d ever done, from guitar riffs to finishing a new song to making a crowd scream the lyrics he’d written. He felt he’d lost his head, come to some incredible new plane, now that Jewel was with him. He pulsed hot into her, holding her hips, until both of them sagged against the bed.

  Rage leaned over her back, pulling her hair aside so he could see her. She turned her face to him and he kissed her cheek. “No one has ever been like you,” he said. “You were made for me.”

  She closed her eyes, so he pulled out of her and turned her around to embrace her.

  Her skin was warm and soft and breathtakingly perfect against his. He wrapped his arms around her, reveling in every curve, her breasts smashed against his chest, her small waist beneath his forearms, the swell of her ass under his hand. She was perfect. “Can I tell you I love you? Would that be too terrible?”

  She shook her head against his shoulder, and he could feel the wetness on his skin.

  “No, I can’t tell you? Or no, it isn’t terrible?”

  Jewel pulled back to look him in the eye. “I’ve always known you felt strongly about me. This is just, a different thing. You were always my little brother’s friend.”

  He nodded. “I never thought I’d ever have a chance with you.”

  “Should I give up that job? Not go back?” Her face was full of confusion and fear. “What do I tell them? And what if I lose all my contacts? Hell, I might never get a real job. My degree, for nothing.”

  Rage pulled her down on the bed, shoving the bedspread aside so he could cover them. “We can worry about all that tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that.” He curled her into him. “Tonight, we can just be glad we’re here.”

  Jewel snuggled against his side, her head on his shoulder. “Okay. We’ll talk about it again tomorrow.” She rested a hand on his belly, and his dick started waking up again.

  Settle down, he told it. We’ve got all the time in the world now. He squeezed Jewel's arm and brushed a finger across the soft curve of her breast, once again in awe that she was beside him, naked in his bed, and was already using those common sense smarts of her to figure out how they would make this work, how they could be together.

  “I’m the luckiest man alive,” he said.

  “Mmm hmm,” she murmured, and he could tell she was falling asleep. He kept stroking her hair until her breath was measured and even.

  Her phone buzzed on the side table just behind her bed. It was angled out, so he could see the screen. Some friend of hers, it looked like, Jackie. She’d sent a text message. Rage didn’t want to read it, but the thumbnail of the image looked familiar, so he reached around Jewel and picked it up. Shit, it looked like this hotel.

  He slid his finger along the unlock and pulled up the message in full size. The message said, “What is this about?” and linked to an image on a celebrity site, posted half an hour before.

  The picture had to have been taken in the hallway, when they were fighting that crowd. Rage and Jewel holding hands. The site had circled their joined fingers with a bold caption, “Who’s that girl?”

  The article didn’t name Jewel, but obviously this friend had recognized her. Which means she wasn’t his secret anymore.

  He had told Jewel that Stacey, the producer’s daughter, was a plant. But that wasn’t the whole story. Rage had no interest in her, but she had set her sights on him. He didn’t worry too much about it, but Stacey liked her publicity to look a certain way, and this gossip going around was going to be a slap in her face. She might act out. Make Jewel miserable.

  Damn it. He’d need to do something about her. Ease it off gently so she didn’t go crying to Papa, who controlled many elements of his schedule, tour, and album production.

  Jewel stirred against him. He flipped the phone off and stuck it back on the table. There were some dark days ahead, he had a feeling. But she was here. He’d protect her as much as he could, shield her from the glare of reporters, and give them as much time to figure this out as possible. He’d hire another bodyguard, maybe two. They’d make it work. He couldn’t let her go.

  Somewhere in the room, his own phone started buzzing, urgently, incessantly. His agent probably, or someone he knew. The picture might be getting out. Or maybe it was something else.

  He ignored it, letting sleep take him, Jewel tight against his side. The rest of the world was outside these doors, and it could wait.

  Ready for Volume 2 when the news of Rage and Jewel leaks to the public?

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  About the Author:

  Starla Cole is a boudoir photographer and writer. She began her Boudoir Sessions stories after some crazy guy called her once and said he was so hot, she'd want to have sex with him during the photo session.

  After she hung up, she thought--hmmm. What if he WAS? And wrote the story Naughty Santa.

  The characters Syria and Tyson seemed to decide they wanted an actual relationship, so the Boudoir Session series has continued. She has also started a series with her husband (who was *not* amused by the phone call) called Couples Play.

  Watch for more work from Starla at her web site: http://starlacole.blogspot.com or join her mailing list for sneak peeks and free excerpts at http://eepurl.com/tlv6b.

  You can also find her on Facebook.

  Need a little more Starla?

  Here’s the opening pages to Syria’s Seduction. You can read it for FREE on Amazon. But we can get you started.

  Syria’s Seduction

  Chapter One

  If Syria had to stick one more needle into one more vein, she was going to shove an enema bulb up somebody’s back end.

  Nurse Calhoun frowned beneath her curtain of black bangs. Syria sighed. If there was anything she hated more than practicing phlebotomy, it was Nurse Calhoun. She took a deep breath, picked up the hypodermic needle from the metal tray, and pricked the skin of her friend and fellow student Jennifer, who stared intently at the ceiling so she wouldn’t have to look.

  “Work with confidence,” the nurse said. “You can’t dig around in there.”

  Syria withdrew the needle, too nervous with the beastly woman standing over her. Jennifer gave her a sympathetic look. No one else in Syria’s class had offered to allow her to practice a real blood draw. They had all seen the mess Syria made on the lab arms. But they were supposed to start clinicals in a week, and Syria was going to flunk out if she couldn’t get a proper draw.

  She took in one more deep breath and moved the needle toward the obvious blue line bulging inside Jennifer’s elbow.

  “Angle in!” the nurse snapped. “You can’t take it straight down!”

  Syria tried to adjust, but a bead of
blood welled up, and she could see she had already caused a bruise to form. She pulled the needle out again, tears pricking her eyes.

  “I think we’re done here.” Nurse Calhoun unwrapped the rubber tie from Jennifer’s arm and stepped back to let her out of the chair. “Perhaps your next choice of study should be outside the field of medicine.”

  Syria bit her lip as she dropped the sharp into the biohazard container. Her mother was a 911 operator and had been so pleased when Syria enrolled in junior college to be a medical assistant.

  But classes hadn’t worked out so she’d switched to phlebotomy, hoping the simpler focus would mean she could finish her twelve hours of coursework, pass her clinicals and start a real job. Everyone else she knew was halfway through four-year degrees, but Syria couldn’t afford that, and her grades hadn’t been good enough for scholarships. Learning a trade had seemed her only hope to avoid waitressing until she was too old to hold a tray.

  Jennifer taped a cotton ball over her own arm and squeezed Syria’s hand. “I’m sorry, Syria. You’ll figure out something. Let’s go out later, okay? Burn off some steam.”

  Nurse Calhoun led the smattering of students out of the clinic space and back to the classroom. Syria picked up her bag and headed the other way to the parking lot. More money wasted on a program she couldn’t finish. She didn’t want to face her mom yet, so instead of going home, she drove over to the park. The day was breezy and cool, a perfect spring afternoon, and she might as well go sit in the grass before the Oklahoma summer came along and fried it all into a dead brown carpet.

  She parked near the picnic tables and tucked her purse under her seat, carrying only her keys and an old blanket she used to cover the cracking seats of the ancient Pontiac her mother had given her when she graduated high school. With classes still in session, the main fields were deserted. Only mothers with small children were about, and they were all across the lot near the playground.

  Syria topped a small rolling hill, planning to spread her blanket on the other side, facing a line of trees, but stopped short when she saw a photographer shooting a woman wearing only her underwear not twenty feet away.

  She couldn’t suppress her, “Oh!”

  The man with the camera looked up, and Syria could see he wasn’t so old, maybe early twenties. The woman was closer to forty.

  “Sorry,” Syria said and whirled away.

  “Hey!” the man said. “Can I get your help for a second?”

  Syria turned back around, trying to avoid looking at the woman splayed out in a lacy black bra and matching thong. “Me?”

  The man held up a large flat silver disc. “My assistant couldn’t make it, and it’s too breezy to put this reflector on a stand. Would you mind holding it for a minute?”

  Syria hesitated. She’d never had a professional picture taken other than at school. The man had a ton of equipment spread out. Lenses, a tripod, two big cases, and a flash on a stand weighted down with sand bags. She set her keys and blanket in the grass. “Okay.”

  The man held out his hand to shake hers, his arm tan and lean in the rolled-up sleeve of his button-down shirt, pale blue, a near-perfect match for his eyes. “I’m Anthony.” His grip was firm. “I do boudoir photography.”

  Syria glanced back at the woman, who was adjusting the strap of a black stiletto heel, nonplussed that she was showing so much skin. “You often shoot out here?”

  “I insisted,” the woman said. “I was tired of all the chaise lounge shots and cheesy backdrops.”

  Anthony shrugged. “I do what my clients ask.” He handed Syria the disc.

  “What do I do?”

  “See where the sun is?” He pointed into the sky. “Your job is to reflect that light onto her face, so we get a little extra sparkle.” He moved the disc around. “Can you see the light as I move it?”

  Syria couldn’t see anything. “I don’t think so.”

  “Look at her belly.”

  Syria blushed as she stared at the women’s pale flat midsection. She hoped she looked half as good when she got to that age.

  “Do you see the bright spot?” Anthony asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Now watch it move.” He tilted the disc and the light moved up the woman’s body to her face.

  “I get it now.”

  He handed her the reflector, and she angled it like he had, starting on the belly, and moving up to her face.

  “Perfect,” he said. “Much better light. You learn fast.”

  Syria warmed over with the compliment. It was the first nice thing anyone had said to her that day, thanks to Nurse Calhoun.

  Anthony picked up his camera. “Sharon, draw that knee forward. Perfect. Now shoulder back.” The woman adjusted, and Syria could instantly see the improvement. Her thigh was leaner, not that it needed to be, and her boob popped out more prominently, creating a shadow of cleavage.

  “The trick,” Anthony said, taking a few steps toward Sharon’s head. “Is to make sure we emphasize the best parts.” He snapped a few shots. “And de-emphasize anything we don’t want to draw attention to.” He glanced down at the woman. “Not that anything on you isn’t perfect.”

  The woman laughed. “Photoshop those stretch marks or I’ll torch your studio.”

  Anthony smiled. “Threats will get you everywhere.” He took a few more images. “Chin up, eyes closed.”

  He knew what he was doing. The rapport kept the woman relaxed, and the new position switched the focus from her body to her face. He circled her, taking shots from several angles. Without moving the woman, Anthony was getting a number of completely different looks. Syria wished she could see his display to know how he was cropping her.

  “So when do I get naked?” she asked.

  Syria almost dropped the reflector. Couldn’t they get arrested for that? She looked around frantically to see if anyone was watching.

  “Whenever you like,” Anthony said.

  “Here in the grass?” Sharon looked thoughtful. “That sounds delicious.”

  “Let me get a few more of these,” Anthony said. “Lay flat now.”

  The woman moved to her back. He reached down and fluffed out her mid-length blond hair, perfectly processed with even, balanced highlights. Syria did very little to her own wild black mane, unable to afford much more than a SuperCut to trim the ends every few months.

  Anthony moved down the woman’s body, suggesting changes to her position, but was careful never to actually touch her other than her hair or her shoe. Interesting. Despite her crazy show of skin and extremely sexy look, he was completely professional, complimenting her regularly, but not in a skeezy way. Just simple little phrases, like, “That looks perfect.” Or “Let’s showcase those amazing legs.”

  He stood over her, shooting down. Syria assessed the light she was reflecting and felt like it was over-emphasizing the size of the woman’s nose by adding an extra shadow. She shifted over and held the reflector higher.

  Anthony glanced over at her. “Excellent change. You have an eye for it. Have you done this before? Or maybe you’re an artist?”

  Syria shook her head. Anthony clicked a few more shots, then stepped aside. “Okay, Sharon, let’s do this thing.” He picked up a silky white robe.

  Sharon sat up and slipped the robe on, then worked beneath it, tugging off her bra and thong to toss them in the grass a few feet away. Syria held the disc close to her body, resting her arms, and hoped her flaming face wasn’t too obvious.

  “Shoes or not?” Sharon asked.

  Anthony turned to Syria. “What do you think?”

  She glanced back at the woman. “Shoes make it more formal, like a photo shoot in a magazine. No shoes make it like you stumbled upon her, something natural and spontaneous.”

  “Nice observations. What do you think, Sharon?”

  “I want to look like a centerfold,” Sharon said.

  “So shoes it is.” Anthony led her closer to a tree. “We’ll start here.” He looked around. A man was wa
lking across the top of the hill, a backpack on his shoulder. “We’ll wait this guy out.”

  He and Sharon chatted amicably about when he’d show her the proofs. Syria watched the other man anxiously, wondering if he might stop to watch and if they’d go on anyway. Obviously Syria hadn’t stopped them by her arrival.

  But he moved on and the valley was theirs again.

  “Let me set up the shot first so I can work swiftly,” Anthony said. “Hug the tree, knee cocked out, look over your shoulder.”

  “Still on the face?” Syria asked. The new position would make it hard to reflect the right direction.

  He glanced at the sun. “Not possible here. Let’s rim light her.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Kick a little light from behind her onto the curve of her back so we get a highlight.”

  Syria moved around Sharon, watching the sun, and angling the disc while Anthony moved his flash and tripod. “Here?”

  “Perfect, but switch to the gold side.”

  Syria glanced down. Sure enough, the disc was silver on the front and gold on the back. She flipped it over. The light had a different color on the white robe, warmer toned.

  “That’s it. Okay, Sharon, we’re ready. Take it down slowly, then toss the robe so it’s out of the shot.”

  Syria’s heart sped up as the woman slipped the satin off her shoulders, letting it fall to her elbows, caught on her ample breasts. She glanced at the crest of the hill again, but no one was around. Her heart was beating in strange places, her throat, and between her legs. Sharon shook her head, letting her hair fall down her back, and when she looked at Anthony again, it was pure lust.

  But Anthony was completely unaffected, snapping shots as though she were a part of the tree. “Chin up a little. That’s it. Now let it go.”

  Sharon shrugged again and the robe slipped to her wrists. She took it in one hand, held it out for a couple shots, and tossed it Syria’s direction.