Oh wait, he has a girlfriend.
I take a deep breath, winded from my mental tailspin but finally able to breathe again at that fortuitous reminder. He has a girlfriend. The thought settles over me in a calming mist. See? I didn’t screw anything up. He was a safe target to begin with because he was off limits. Because that’s what I do. Go after the guys I can’t have, which must have been what he meant with his bobbing comment. It was some weird, hot-guy player way of telling me he’s already taken. Taken guys bob? Sure they do. His girlfriend would definitely bob. She would know all the stuff the beautiful, cool people do and probably does it better than anyone. I grunt and push back into the main room.
It’s packed, but I’m not surprised now that the main bands of the night are cueing up to perform. Jesse and the Limelight boys have already exploded the room with the start of “Candlelight,” and despite my sour mood, I find my lips slipping into a smile. His voice! Dang, it’s magic. Luke and Holland say it’s only a matter of time before Jesse Everett is a household name.
After touring with Night Shifts Black and Tracing Holland, Limelight is already well on their way to stardom with the insane talent to back it up. Yes, I bought their album. Yes, I’ve listened to it a hundred times. Yes, I will probably crush hard on Jesse once he’s huge and completely out of reach. For now, he’s still a young city boy that can belt a rock anthem like nobody’s business.
The crowd erupts as Jesse lets out a killer run to end “Candlelight,” and his brother Parker fires off the intro to “Everyone’s Favorite Bottle” on guitar. This is one of my favorite Limelight songs, and for a brief moment I forget all about my backstage horror. I close my eyes and start swaying to the beat, mouthing the words along with Jesse. His golden voice filters through me, washing away the drama of the last few minutes, reminding me why music does things to people that words can’t.
My eyes snap open when someone taps my shoulder. Has to be Holland. Oh crap, what if the voodoo princess saw me talking to her boyfriend again? Maybe if I tell her what I said she’ll feel sorry for me and call off the supernatural hit.
I suck in as much oxygen as my lungs can handle and turn around to meet my fate.
I nearly pass out at the most intense statue ever hovering centimeters away instead. Millimeters as his hard, perfect, black-clothed body presses against mine so he can whisper in my ear.
“Come with me?”
Game over.
I’ve secured her by the upper arm so we can get through the crowd together. She has no problem scurrying along, but I can’t look at her until we’re all the way outside.
I worked as fast as I could to finish up my shift tonight. I needed to get to her before she left the premises. I’ve no idea what her plan is, what she does on the island besides being family to Holland. For all I know, she could skip off to some other resort or hideout. Yep, so I went to the ballroom and found her swaying slowly to Limelight’s tunes.
“Where are we going?” she asks now, out of breath. There is no reason for her to be out of breath—not yet—I’m dying to give her a reason.
My immediate thought is: out of here. To the harbor? That’s what I tell her.
“What’re we doing at the harbor?” she asks timidly.
“I don’t know. Up to you. We could look for a shipment of apples?”
She bites her lip to hold back laughter. It doesn’t work. Now she lets out a small snorting sound. Talk about natural! I bite down on my own smile in response.
“Um, sorry. I was... I meant apple pie. You know that, right?”
I’ve waved over a taxi, and I’m busy opening the backdoor for her when she says this. I frown, meeting eyes that shine with embarrassment and humor at the same time. Is she really trying to repair our backstage convo an hour later?
Not sure if I’ve said this about her already but—
Shit, she’s cute.
I scoot in after her and close the door. Give directions to the cab driver, who breaches the gates of our five-star resort and heads onto the scarcely lit road.
“Granny Smith,” I say.
“What?”
“I’m guessing your initial concern was whether my preferred apple pie contained Granny Smith, Macintosh, or Honey Crisp?”
Stunned silence.
“So Granny Smith. Tart, succulent, yet crispy.”
“Are you being sexy right now?” she asks, and that’s when I can’t hold back any more. I break into the kind of belly-laugh I never commit, because life is a serious thing.
Once I’ve reined myself in, she’s got her nose tipped up against the window and is scrutinizing each streetlamp. Angrily too, by the looks of it. Yep, she has crossed her arms. Tightly over her boobs. I swallow hard.
“Sylvia,” I murmur and reach over to stroke her upper arm.
“Yeah?” Her voice is young and petulant. She’s willing to listen though.
“I was going to say that you’d know it if I was being sexy with you, but I realize now that that’s not true.” I suck my lips into my mouth so I don’t chuckle. It’d mean one mad Miss Teen World if I laughed again.
“You’ve got a girlfriend,” she projectiles at me.
“I... what?”
“Oh right, you think you’re so smart and I’m stupid. One: I know more about apples than you ever will; two: you’re sexy the whole time whether you say that you are or not, you jerk.” She gasps at her own words, but then she continues, “Three: you’ve got a freaking voodoo goddess of a girlfriend with all that long black hair and pretty eyes and everything, and she hates me and if she kills me with her dolls, I swear to you that my sister and her boyfriend—”
She gasps really loudly now. “Whoa, I didn’t mean to say any of that.”
“Hmm.”
“So sorry. I’m not crazy or anything.”
I look up and find her chewing on her lip. She thinks this is crazy? Child’s play. I’m not going into detail on the level of crazy I’ve grown up with in my clan.
“So, I have a voodoo-savvy girlfriend? Please elaborate.” I lean over and open her door. She’s unsure at first, but then she gets out. I pay the cab driver and request that he return in an hour. By the time I’m done, Sylvia has made it out to the pier. Half-an-inch gaps separate the floorboards out there, and I worry; Sylvia’s heels are thin. I don’t want her to hurt herself.
I catch up quickly and grab her by the elbow. She sends me a shy glance, but then she returns her attention to the horizon and the moon at the very end of the pier.
“Long, black hair, you said. Do you mean Aishe?”
“That’s your girlfriend’s name?”
I can’t stop myself from touching her cheek with the back of my hand. It’s smooth. Soft. “I don’t have one.”
“Get outta here. I saw you with her in the green room, and then she was with you backstage, and then... and then... she was going to talk with me about you—I know she was—but she left instead. She was with The Thalias too, when they performed.”
“Okay yeah, that’s Aishe.”
“Freaking pretty name too.”
Did she just growl a little? Fucking beautiful.
“She’s my cousin.”
“Nu-huh?” She swings to me so fast that she stumbles and I have to catch her. She stares. I let her. She studies my face, gaze running from my bandana, over my wild, black half-long hair. Eyes squinted, she studies me, eyes, nose, mouth. Then she actually extends a finger and draws my eyebrows with it.
“Oh yeah.” She breathes the words out, and it’s the hottest thing. “You look the same. So similar. Really? You’re not with Aishe?”
“No, I don’t date relatives.”
“Eww, gross,” she says, and I shake my head, smiling.
“You were the one implying it, not me.”
“Hairsplitting semantics.”
I bring both
hands up and cup her face. “Sylvia.”
“Yees?”
“Do you like the view?” Eyes on her, I jerk my head toward the moon.
“I do.” Sylvia’s focus doesn’t shift from me though. I step closer. Bend just enough to peck her lips with mine. She lets out a gasp, a sob—whatever that was, it makes me hard. She angles her face up, eyelids fluttering like they’re about to close, and if that isn’t a free-for-all, a kiss-me-for-real, then I don’t know what is.
Oh I’ll kiss you, baby.
His lips.
Mercy, I can’t breathe. Even as I want them, need them on me again. He feels like a cologne commercial, tastes like a stallion. Not a stallion, that’s weird, but suddenly there’s an army of ridiculously sexy polo players charging through my head. They have nothing on what this guy can do to me with one kiss.
But right now it’s not his eyes that have my attention. It’s his hands that are locking his mouth against mine. Dang this guy can kiss. I’ve never experienced anything like it, the way his lips, his tongue, explore mine with an expertise that launches my imagination a thousand steps ahead. I’m already in my hotel room, peeling his shirt off his perfect body, unhooking buttons, gasping at hidden surprises beneath. And, oh crap, the panic, because I’ve never done that before and he totally thinks I’m an expert hookup.
At least I shaved today.
No! Stop!
It’ll be too humiliating, that moment when he wants me to bob for apples or whatever.
Something in my lower region physically aches when I pull back, throbs as my fingers meet hard muscle against the grip on his shirt. I’m pushing and clinging to him at the same time, tortured by what I want but too afraid to pursue. He will be disappointed with what I can offer. He will but… I groan in frustration.
He doesn’t comment on my withdrawal, just traces me with those eyes. That gaze that makes me burn with a lust to remove clothing. To touch. Gosh, I want to touch. Everything. Right now. Oh, screw it.
I let go of his shirt to run my hands up that chest I’ve been eyeing all night. Solid, warm. Up his neck, pulling, pulling because I need his lips on mine again. I don’t even care about apples. He likes Granny Smith, fine. I can do that, whatever it is. I’ll do anything to finally allow my body to explode with these sensations rocking me into unknown territory. I want his jeans off.
His kiss is harder as he unleashes a glimpse of what I could have if we go further. He could incinerate me with a hunger I didn’t even know I had. I gasp as his hands surge down my back, pressing us together, forcing me to make a choice. Let go or let him go.
There’s no way I’m letting him go. Not a woman on this planet would do that right now. Well, except maybe his cousin because eww.
“Shandor, wait…” He should know. Know what, though? Gosh, I’m such an idiot.
“You learned my name,” he murmurs, husky voice triggering that annoying throbbing again. Or maybe it’s the way he’s not easing his hold, feathering kisses down my neck until I’m pretty sure I forget I was speaking. I breathe a sharp inhale when his fingers sift into my hair, tugging gently, then harder to expose my lips to him again. Another kiss, this one almost painful in the way it sparks a need for more.
“Your cousin,” I whisper.
“My cousin?”
“She said your name.”
“Yeah?”
“Mmmhmm.” That’s it. I have nothing else when his hands slip from my hair and curve toward my waist again. They’re on my hips now, tickling the skin just above the hem of my low-rise shorts. His fingers press into my curves and carve a firm path north along my ribs. O.M.G. I know where they’re headed, and my lungs stop functioning.
My brain is screaming at me now. Warning me that I’m about to accept an invitation I’ll regret.
No, not me.
Him.
He’s the one who will regret this.
I want it more than anything because there’s no way his fire will leave me disappointed. He’s the one who will find himself stuck with a clueless apple-bobber. Still, I don’t know how to deny myself, not when I’m literally shaking from what he’s doing to my body.
The evening air breathes on sensitive skin as he pushes beneath my bra. I feel myself melting into his touch, practically whimpering when his thumb runs over me, exploring. And that’s my gasp, begging his hands to introduce me to more. I have to experience him too and slide my grip over the flexing tendons of his arms that work my skin. I discover unyielding power, and with it an urgent craving to uncover the rest before recalling that we’re in public. Even though his position is shielding the most scandalous view of our contact, we’re still making a scene in a place with expectations of etiquette. Holland had warned me about local customs, about running around in inappropriate attire, though I doubt it was because she thought I’d engage in public foreplay with a guy I just met. At least I know his name now. Part of it. Does he even have a last name? Shandor could definitely be one of those one-name deals. I need to know.
“Do you have a last name?”
His hand stills, mid-massage, and the smile that follows makes my cheeks warm.
“Um, yeah. You?”
“You already know mine. That’s not fair. What’s yours?”
“Anyone ever tell you you talk a lot?”
“Just tell me.”
“What, is that your rule for a hookup? First and last name?”
“Why can’t you ever answer a question without being a jerk?”
“Xodyar,” he says in amusement.
“Huh?”
“My last name?”
“Geez. Shandor Xodyar? Where are you from? Jupiter?”
“Basically,” he smirks.
I thread my brows, waiting for more, but he just shrugs.
“Ugh. That’s it? I let you touch my boob.”
He laughs. “Oh my god. Are you even real?”
“I’m just saying—it’s not like I asked for your credit card number.”
He shakes his head, still chuckling. “I know. It’s not that, it’s just… There’s no easy answer to that question.”
“What question? Where you’re from?”
He nods. “I’m a Gypsy, Sylvia. I’m from everywhere and nowhere.”
“A Gypsy?” My eyes, crap, they’re widening in a way that’s going to reveal how little I know about Gypsies. But how freaking amazing does that sound?
“You’re picturing it, aren’t you?” His expression dances as it scans my face in the moonlight.
“Picturing what?” I stammer, because I totally am.
“A horse-drawn cart. Pots and shit clanging together as it bounces along a dirt road.”
Do you have one? No! I can’t ask that. He already thinks I’m fourteen.
“No, I wasn’t,” I lie.
He doesn’t look convinced and leans close again. “Have you ever had sex on a bed of hay, Sylvia?” he whispers, and I almost choke.
Oh crap, sexy apples must be a Gypsy thing.
I was going to watch Bo and the guys perform tonight.
Who am I kidding? No, I wasn’t. They’ll perform two more nights. They can wait, together with Tracing Holland and Night Shifts Black. Sylvia’s the one who can’t wait. Or I can’t wait for her.
I’ve thrown in the towel on this one. After that kiss, soft lips and tongue and stuttering breath, I definitely need more and not delayed gratification either.
“Of course I’ve had sex on a bed of hay,” she says to me, tipping her head up. “Who hasn’t?” She’s still flushed from our kiss, fanning herself. She rounds her mouth in a silent whew once she’s done replying.
“You have now, have you? Where did that happen?”
She tips her head higher, half-staring, half-glaring at me down her nose. “Back in Canada, of course. For Christmas. I mean, Thanks
giving.”
“Thanksgiving hay-love-making is a thing there?” I draw my teeth over my lower lip, and her gaze sinks to my mouth.
“Uh-huh,” she squeaks. Cute little liar.
“Well, been there, done that, then. Nothing new under the sun for you,” I say as the lights of our taxi dip down the road to our pier. “Ready to go back?”
A flash of disappointment crosses her features, but then she nods and walks with me. I reach for her. Lay my hand gently over her neck and lead her to the car.
To be fair, I did offer to take Sylvia back to her room.
She declined.
I did offer to take her to find Holland.
She declined.
I gave her a last option before this one: to help her look for Jesse from Limelight, a friend, apparently.
And she declined.
That’s when I stopped giving her options and sent a quick glance around the backside lobby before I swept her into me and kissed her again. She sighed. Goddamn she sighs so prettily.
“Come with me,” I whispered, which worked, because here we are in my room.
“Are you sure about this?” I ask now. My voice is gravelly. Those little shorts she’s wearing have driven me crazy since the green room, and I’m dying to unzip and roll them down.
I steady her chin between my thumb and forefinger, crowding her against the French doors. It’s hard for her to speak. Might be because I pull her lip into my mouth and swirl my tongue over it.
“Yeah, I’m sure,” Sylvia gasps though she doesn’t sound sure. Her body knows what it wants though. There’s nothing subtle about the way it arches, her hips steering the move.
“You want me?” I hiss, letting go of her face to press us together where it counts. Another moan sieves from her, but those eyes go wide as if she’s not sure what’s going on. Sylvia’s arms tighten around my neck though, nails teasing me.
“Do you want me?” I repeat.
“I think so...”
Think?
“Can I convince you?” I push against her. Kiss and push her in a slow, steady rhythm against the wall. With each shove, her breath hitches. I thrust harder, lifting her on her toes in an excruciating simulation of sex.
Sylvie + Shandor (Rocker Shenanigans Book 1) Page 4