by Jo Raven
Something was still wrong, somehow. He didn’t know what, maybe because he was on his seventh drink and a bit buzzed.
Elfie wiped her delicate mouth with the back of her hand and set the drink on the end table. He was just buzzed enough to let all the old stuff fall away, but certainly not drunk enough to sleep.
When he had arrived at her room and she’d stepped into the hallway in that gilt dress with her golden hair glorious around her shoulders and falling to her waist, he had kissed her gently but had wanted to drag her back to his room right then, wrap his hands in that hair, and hold her down while he had her.
They had eaten at the nightclub, and he hadn’t been able to stop watching the way that her mouth moved when she tucked strawberries and bits of meat between her full lips. When they were dancing, he almost managed to keep his hands off her, but his fingers traced her body because he couldn’t help himself.
He had decided to take it slow tonight, but his body wanted to jump her.
Tryp set his drink down and ran his fingers under her jaw to her sharp chin, lifting her face. Her cornflower blue eyes seemed a little too big as he came in for the kiss, but she slid her arms around his neck and dragged herself against him.
His arms wrapped around her lithe body, and the sweet orange juice in her mouth tasted like sugar after the harsh Scotch he’d had. Tryp ran his hands over her dress, smooth under his palms, grabbing her like he’d wanted to at the nightclub. Her cool fingers sneaked under his shirt, and he gasped and pulled back at the tickling. Too much. He was used to being drunk for this.
He stood up and swung her legs up into his arms so that he was carrying her. He double-checked with one eye that the door to the bedroom stood open and took her in there. After he’d showered, while he’d been waiting for her to call, he’d made a playlist of sweet stuff, maybe some sappy stuff, stuff that had too much guitar and too little in the way of drums, and left it playing on a deck by the bed, and he’d lowered the lights. If they hadn’t ended up here, or if he’d gotten wasted and she poured him into bed, it might have smacked of desperation, but what the hell. Worth the risk.
Her lips sucked on his and he groaned deep in his chest, and her hands were on his cheeks. He laid her on the bed and stripped off his shirt before climbing in with her. Her eyes swept over his body as the bed bent toward him, and he could almost feel her looking at him.
Yes, all that ink, everywhere.
Yes, all that muscle, because he was the drummer.
Yes, he was going to use it all on her.
He crawled on top of her and rolled big swaths of her golden hair around his hands.
She gasped, just a little, her throat working under his lips, and he straightened because he didn’t want her to cry again, he would do anything to keep her from crying again, but she flipped both her arms around his neck and pulled him back down.
He rolled sideways, lying beside her, and her breathing went back to normal. Well, she was breathing hard, and he smiled to himself. Hell yeah, she was breathing hard against his lips, but her inhale didn’t quiver.
He ran his hand over her stomach, the gold silk of her dress catching on the drumming calluses on his palms, and when he reached the hem, he slid his hand up her bare leg to her hip.
She rolled toward him, kissing him with one hand on his shoulder while the guitar music flowed around them, and his hand slipped around to her bare ass.
Between her lack of panties and the way her breasts had shivered under the thin silk of her dress, she had been naked under that dress all night. He could have shoved his hand under her dress and gotten a palmful of naked woman at any minute, the whole night.
Oh, he loved surprises like that.
He rose up, going after her neck and shoulder again, shoving her dress strap down her arm and chewing on her lightly. She gasped, but there wasn’t a tremor in there this time, not when she molded her body to his like that. He was already hard and straining at his jeans, just from the necking and the light scent of feminine sweat and perfume on her. He buried his face in her neck, wanting to breathe her in as much as taste her skin, and he pressed her body tight against him, feeling all her curves.
Her arm left his shoulder and she was fumbling behind her waist, but Tryp had already found her zipper. Instead of letting her take it off, he yanked himself away from her and she fell on her stomach, “Oh!”
He pushed off the bed, jumping on her and raking his teeth over the nape of her neck. She arched her back, raising up, not fighting him but pushing herself against his mouth, and he slid his knee between her thighs.
While she was up, he grabbed her under her stomach and pulled her back against him, rubbing her ass on his erection through his jeans. He was already so hard, tight in his skin, and the view of her naked ass against his crotch made him fumble with the zipper on the small of her back.
He had meant to go slow, but his body was betraying him. He wanted her now.
He dragged the zipper down, loosening her dress, and the straps fell down her arms. She slipped the silk over her elbows and twisted in his arms, looking back over her pale shoulder. “Like this?”
Maybe next time.
“No.” His voice grated like he’d sung an eight-hour set. “Turn over.”
She flipped in his arms, and her eyes widened. She held her breath.
Was it when he was on top? Was that it?
Tryp grabbed her neck with his mouth and moved down her body, stripping her dress off her legs as he shimmied down her.
As soon as he wasn’t looming over her, she moaned and grabbed him again, hanging onto him with her thin arms.
He could work with that.
In time, maybe he could work on that.
His mouth found her breasts, and she grabbed him around the neck harder, pulling him to her.
He responded to her roughness, running his tongue over her nip until it hardened into a peak and moving to the other one to get that one, too.
She was writhing under him and panting with little gasps. Between the scotch and her intoxicating body, Tryp couldn’t think straight or even remember his plan to go slow, and he yanked the buttons open on his jeans. He couldn’t stay away from her skin and mouthed her stomach while he tried to push his jeans and underwear down, but the cloth snagged on his straining erection.
Elfie was holding his shoulders, her fingernails just digging into his skin, points of pain that revved him up harder. “Please,” she said.
“You bet. Give me a sec.” He tugged at his black underwear but his blood wasn’t rushing to his fingers or his brain.
“You might have to go slow.”
He spoke into her flat stomach, feeling her satin skin with his lips. “Don’t know if I can, sugar.”
“Just, um,” a moan undercut what she was saying as his mouth found her breast again. “I haven’t, before.”
“You will this time.” He almost got his underwear off the head of his dick.
Her voice caught in her throat. “No, I’ve never done this before.”
Tryp stopped. His hands and mouth froze. “You’re a virgin?”
“Yes. Just go slow.”
Tryp leapt backwards, pushing himself off her and the bed with all of his limbs. He stumbled backward, flailing madly, and smacked his spine and skull into the wall. “What the hell?”
Elfie snatched the comforter and clawed it over herself. “Don’t stop!”
He yanked the buttons of his jeans over his hard dick. “Your first time should be with someone you love, who loves you, not a drunk, dirty rocker.”
Elfie fell backward on the bed, curled into a miserable ball, and burst into tears.
Oh, man. This was not right.
Creepy Virgin Monster
Elfie curled up and cried.
She’d psyched herself up for this all night and the horror in Tryp’s dark eyes and the disgusted tone in his voice when he’d said virgin shamed her. He could have said creepy virgin monster in the same tone. Foreign hormones
and energies wracked her body.
The bed shifted behind her. Tryp’s dark baritone voice asked, “Elfie, are you okay?”
Her body revolted him. There was something wrong with her. She just knew it.
He stroked her hair. “I’m sorry I jumped like that. I was just so wound up.”
“It’s okay,” she sputtered. “It’s okay.”
“You should have told me.”
“Evidently not.”
His hands squirmed underneath her, and she glanced down to see what was going on. He lifted her, bedspread and all, into his lap, and cradled her against his broad chest.
She ran her hand over his skin, stained deeply with vibrant ink. She couldn’t feel the tattoos at all, but a faint velvety burr tickled her palm.
He said, “I don’t want to hurt you like that.”
“It hurts for everybody,” she said, laying her cheek against his round pec. “It’s normal. It’s just a second.”
“It’s not,” he said. “It’s brutal, and it’s cruel.”
What he was saying didn’t register in her head because his hot skin against her face burned through all her thoughts. His skin was right there, so warm, so tempting. His heart beat under the heavy muscle, and his body pulsed with it. That dark, masculine scent clung to him, and if she turned her face, she could pick up more of it. She inhaled, breathing him in.
She pressed her lips to his chest.
Under her mouth, Tryp sucked in air. “What are you doing?”
“I just want to touch you.” Her hands stole up around his neck, caressing his wide shoulders, and she pulled herself up to his neck.
He smelled so good, like oranges and spices, and that musk, something darker, and she drew a deep breath under his jaw and felt him shiver under her hands and lips.
“Elfie, I’m a man, not a saint. You don’t know what you’re playing with here.”
“I’m not playing.”
His hands crept up her back, pressing her closer to his body. He choked out, “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Please, Tryp.”
He groaned and rolled over on her, towering above her, and for a second she didn’t even care how he blotted out the light and consumed the world.
He ducked his head, and his hot mouth hit her neck. She grasped him, pushing the comforter away as hard as she could, trying to feel his skin against hers again.
She yanked the last of the bedding out from between their bodies. His hard abdominals pressed her body, and his blazing skin slid on her. He slipped lower, teasing her breasts to aching peaks again, and every gentle tug of his mouth heated her down to her core. Her body clenched like a hard fist.
His mouth dipped lower to her belly, and she pushed her hips at him, wanting him, not even knowing what she was doing.
His big hands found her hips, held her body, and he took one long, slow lick down her center.
Wildfire ripped up her body and she arched off the bed. She was sure she cried out but couldn’t hear herself over the roaring in her head. His hands held her hips and pulled her back down to his mouth, fluttering his tongue over her folds and swirling at her until her fists were knotted in the sheets and her body went rigid as he teased her. He was so light and gentle, and her body coiled tighter and harder until one rough swipe of his tongue shoved her over the edge and spikes of ecstasy shot through her. A cry ripped out of her throat. She pulsed, inside and out, her arms jerked and her legs drew up as he pushed at her with the throbs, feeling her orgasm and forcing her to ride it longer.
His mouth backed off, and she let out a long, shuddering breath and couldn’t seem to breathe back in.
Tryp crawled up her body and held himself above her, a giant to her smallness. He bent his arms and kissed her gently, his dry lips touching hers, and then he dropped to the side and held her while the last of the pulses rolled through her.
She shivered, pressing herself closer to him.
He stroked her shoulder. “Were you okay with that?”
“Oh-my-God-yes,” she gasped.
He settled back a little. “I was wound up because it’s been six days since I’ve busted a nut, but you’ve gone a whole lifetime without someone taking care of what you need, right?”
And, embarrassing, again. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“But you liked it.”
She nodded against his shoulder. “It was amazing.”
Tryp grinned. “Never had any complaints.”
They lay entwined, and the pink-tinged fog in Elfie’s head cleared. “But aren’t you—”
He glanced at the alarm clock. “It’s almost four o’clock. We’ve got to get up in eight hours.”
He slapped his iPod, and the soft music faded.
“Oh, the rigors of being a rock star.” Elfie started to untangle her arms from around his waist.
His head popped up, and his confusion creased between his dark eyes. “Where are you going?”
“Back to my own room. You don’t want me here all night.”
“Come on.” His lazy smile almost defeated her common sense. “Stay with me. You can sleep in one of my tee shirts. I think I have a clean one.”
“I don’t want to do the walk of shame in the morning.” And she sure as hell didn’t want Mitch, Joseph, or any of the other technicians to catch her doing it.
Tryp pushed himself out of bed. His tight jeans were snug over his butt, and she watched him walk across the room. More tattoos, black tribal slashes, scrolled over his bare back and pointed down to his tight waist.
He asked, “Where’s your keycard?”
She dragged the sheet up her naked body. “In my purse. Why?”
He flipped open his suitcase and retrieved a tee shirt, giving it a furtive sniff before he tossed it to her. “I’ll get your stuff. You can walk out of here tomorrow like you’ve been rousting the drunk drummer out of bed, just like usual.”
Wasn’t actually a bad plan. “You sure?”
“I hate sleeping alone. If I die, no one will know until the morning, or later.”
He said that when he was drunk, too. He must think about that a lot, and Elfie wanted to reach over to him but he was still poking around in her purse.
He came up with her room’s keycard between his fingertips. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”
He glanced at her gold dress crumpled on the floor, grinned, and snagged it.
“Hey!” She lunged, holding the bedsheet over her boobs, and tried to grab it back, but he snatched it away from her fingers.
His grin widened. “Now I know you’ll still be here when I get back.”
He walked out, slinging the dress over his shoulder like a trophy, and Elfie shrugged his tee shirt over her head. If she wanted to escape, the tee shirt hem was nearly to her knees, two inches lower than the gold dress’s hemline. A radio station’s call letters were printed in red and black across the front.
She dragged the covers over herself again.
She didn’t want to go anywhere.
Confession
In the five minutes that Tryp was gone, Elfie fell almost all the way asleep because it was four o’clock in the morning. The technicians’ sleep-schedules weren’t nearly as shifted as the musos’ were.
When Tryp came back, he was dragging her whole rollie suitcase, and he hoisted it onto the luggage rack by the television console. “I wasn’t sure what you needed.”
“So much for trying to sneak out,” but she smiled at him from the pillows.
“So leave it here.” He clicked off the light and climbed into the other side of the bed. “When the concierges put it on the bus, it’ll be delivered to my hotel room tomorrow, too.”
She pried her eyes open a little. “What’re you saying?”
“You dump my drunk ass into bed at night, and you haul it out in the morning. You might as well save a few steps.”
She was way too sleepy to have this conversation. “All in the name of efficiency, huh?”
&n
bsp; “Yeah. Rhiannon is shacking up with Jonas. Nobody cares.”
Oh, the other technicians would care.
“Rhiannon seems nice,” she said, and she meant it. The redheaded muso had thanked Elfie just last week for something, and then hugged her.
Musos didn’t hug techs. Elfie had hugged her back and skittered away.
“Yeah, Rhiannon’s cool.” Tryp reached over and held Elfie’s hand, his dark eyes blinking as he almost fell asleep, even though he was still wearing his jeans and no shirt.
Jonas’s admonition echoed in her head. “Did you have a thing for her?”
“Nah. She’s cute, and we’re friends, but she looks like a fluffy ginger cat to me. Some of my sisters looked like she does.”
“How many sisters do you have?”
His eyes opened a little more, not blinking any more but watching her from under his lashes. In the dim room, his dark eyelashes and eyes looked like he was hiding something. “A lot.” He paused, and he looked her straight in her eyes, searching. “Dozens. At least thirty.”
That was weird. “Were you in an orphanage or something?”
He propped himself up on his other elbow and didn’t let go of her hand, and he didn’t look away from her gaze. “Everything was normal until I was six, and then my real dad died. My mom met this guy on the internet—”
And thus many horror stories have started, but Elfie didn’t want to interrupt Tryp, not with that serious, fragile look in his eyes.
“—And we moved to a small town on the Utah-Arizona border, where she married him in a spiritual marriage ceremony and became his fifteenth wife.”
Elfie felt her mouth fall open. “Polygamists?”
When Warren Jeffs, a polygamist cult leader, had fled to Texas to temporarily escape prosecution in Utah, the local media had gone nuts. Normal local Mormons had been interviewed, viciously denouncing polygamy and everything the cultists stood for.