by Lee Piper
“Couldn’t give a fuck about what other people think,” Drake rumbles. I open my eyes again, taking in the determined tilt of his chin and the seriousness in his piercing gaze. “It’s just you and me. If you want me to, I’ll own your pussy with my tongue until you scream my name. Right the fuck here.”
His words make me smile. Emboldened, I trace an index finger along the bridge of his nose. “That so?”
“Yeah.”
It brushes his lips, chin, and teases the column of his neck. “I think you’re all talk, ace,” I tease, knowing full well he’s not.
“Try me.”
With a slightly trembling hand, I continue my downward exploration. I skim the length of his sternum, leaning back to give myself more room. Pausing, I think over what he said. “So, you’re telling me you’ll spread my pussy lips and taste my sweet cunt in front of all these people?” I take in the venue and the workers busy inside it. Shaking my head, I murmur, “No, I don’t think so.”
“Feast,” Drake growls, correcting me. “I said I’d feast on your cunt. You’re not a starter, you’re the whole goddamn meal.” Capturing my finger, Drake brings it to his mouth and bites. Hard.
I hiss. He grins.
All my blood journeys south, flooding my center with a roaring, pulsing heat. “Really?” Retrieving my finger from between his teeth, I continue trailing it down his ripped body. It passes over his abs and circles his belly button. When it darts below, I slow my movement, letting my touch linger on the top button of his low-slung jeans.
Drake’s nostrils flare.
I wink. Then, with a quick flick, pop open the top button. With deliberate slowness, I lower the zipper. And that’s all I remember before I’m shoved against the quad box, hands pinned on either side of my head.
“You really want to do this?” he growls against my parted lips. “You want to put on a show for all the sorry fucks in this room?”
“Like you said, it’s just you and me.” I tip my chin. “I don’t give a shit about anyone else.”
Irises the color of deep sapphire dart between mine. Drake’s breath, frantic and choppy, fans my face. The corner of his mouth quirks into a half smile. “Damn. You’re fucking perfect.”
Standing on my toes, I steal his bottom lip into my mouth. Suck, lick, nip. I make it my bitch.
Drake groans. He grasps the back of my knee and lifts my leg, wrapping it around his waist. With a grunt, he thrusts his jean-clad, hard cock against my denim-covered, soaked pussy.
Releasing him from my mouth, I throw my head back and moan. “Yes.”
“Jesus.” He thrusts again. “I’m gonna take you right fucking here if you don’t tell me to stop.” The hand holding my leg skims the underside of my thigh. “Tell me to stop.” It brushes over my damp jeans. “Just say the fucking words.”
Wrapping my arms around his neck, I delve my fingers into his hair and pull him against me. “Never.”
On a muttered curse, he takes my mouth in a punishing kiss. His tongue pushes against my lips, then forces its way inside.
“What the hell do you think you’re doin’ to my niece?” a furious voice bellows through the venue, rebounding off the walls and booming back louder than before.
Oh shit.
Chapter Seven
I freeze. My body locks up tighter than a snare drum as Ray’s voice surrounds us.
Drake pulls back, his breathing still ragged as he warily watches my expression. It must morph from rapture, to shock, to annoyance, and finally resignation—all in the space of a minute. With a groan, he releases me and zips his pants up.
Straightening my shirt, jeans, and then tucking knotted blonde hair behind my ears takes longer than expected. It also gives Ray more time to overthink the situation and jump to the wrong conclusions.
Storming to where we stand, Ray fists Drake’s shirt and yanks him away from me. Then, after glaring at the man who moments ago had me teetering on the brink of ecstasy, punches him square in the jaw.
I cry out.
As though in slow motion, Drake’s head snaps back. Splatters of blood fly through the air, landing somewhere past the cable leads on our right. Drake straightens, hand on his jaw as he wipes it clean. He works his mouth, no doubt trying to assess the damage. Seemingly satisfied with the results, he squares off against my uncle. “I didn’t tell you about your niece and me, so I’ll give you that punch.” His voice drops to a deadly murmur. “But one punch is all you’ll get from me. Try shit like that again and I’ll break you.”
“Good luck, asshole,” Ray slurs.
I force my way between the two raging bodies, pushing them away from each other. “Stop!” Glaring at my uncle, I poke him in the chest. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
He grabs my wrist and yanks. “Don’t give me cheek, girl.”
“Get your fucking hands of her,” Drake warns.
Ray’s stare narrows as he dares Drake to do his worst. I have no idea what the fire-wielding lead singer is capable of, having only seen glimpses of the danger lurking beneath the good-humored façade. However, I know what my uncle can do, and even when rolling drunk, he’s lethal.
Calming both of them down is priority. “Drake, it’s fine. He’d never hurt me. Would you, Ray?”
“Course not.” He lets go of me and staggers a few feet away. “Can’t say the same about the fuckstick you’re protectin’ though, Har. Bet he’s used hundreds of women. They’re probably regrettin’ opening their legs for him now.” He vaguely gestures in the direction of the seething mountain of testosterone nearby. “From what I heard, pretty boy can’t hold a tune. Fuckin’ waste of space.”
“Motherfucker.” In two strides, Drake is nose to nose with Ray. “How ’bout you listen for yourself rather than rely on secondhand intel, jerkoff? Then, you’ll know for sure I’m the best singer going round. You haven’t worked at a single one of our shows. Reckon it’s time for you to hear how good me and my band really are.” He leans back slightly, tipping his head to one side and scanning my uncle’s disheveled appearance. “Or am I keeping you from getting wasted in a piece-of-shit dive bar somewhere?”
Ray tips his chin up and narrows his gaze.
“You reckon I’m a waste of space?” Drake’s voice turns deadly. “You’re fucking pathetic, old man.”
“Get this dickhead out of here, Har,” Ray throws at me. “I’m gonna put my fist through his face if you don’t. You’re lettin’ him get away with disrespectin’ family. Won’t have it.”
I cross my arms and level him with a flat stare. “I’m not lettin’ him do anything. He’s a grown-ass adult, just like I’m a grown-ass woman.”
“Debatable.”
Drake’s eyebrows furrow until they’re dark slashes crossing over a steely gaze. By the looks of it, he wants to tear Ray in half. The furious lead singer’s body is frozen in place, fists resting close to his sides. The knuckles are a stark white. Even from where I stand, I can see the blue veins crisscrossing the tops of his hands like a roadmap to hell.
He’s too still. I don’t like it.
Reaching forward, I grab hold of his arm. Ribbons of muscle are taut beneath my palms, and it’s a relief to feel a raging pulse hammering against my fingers. At least he’s still in there somewhere. The deadly veneer hasn’t overtaken every part of him yet. Gripping him, I murmur, “Don’t. Let me handle this.”
Wrenching his eyes from Ray, Drake searches my face. The fire in his gaze teeters on the brink of inferno status, causing heat to burn my cheeks. My lips tingle, and even the back of my eyelids singe when I close them. There’s no respite from his intensity.
Drake’s breathing is ragged. He sucks in lungful after lungful of air, probably trying to calm the heck down. When gasping inhales ease to rhythmic breaths, I open my eyes again, hopeful he’s under control.
He watches me.
I watch him.
Kindling smolders between us.
After a long moment, he gives a terse nod. �
��Fine. You deal with it.”
“Pussy,” Ray mutters from a few feet away.
That’s all it takes. Drake darts past me and has Ray in a choke hold before I can yell for him to stop. “Give me a reason to put you in the ground, motherfucker. I’m begging you.”
“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” Ray gasps, his face a mottled red and purple. “Then there’d be no one to stop you from shoving your dick where it’s not wanted.”
“You don’t know what Harper wants.”
“And you do?” Ray sneers. “Kid, you haven’t a fuckin’ clue.”
“Wrong.” Drake’s hold tightens. I watch in horror as my uncle’s bloodshot eyes bulge from his sockets.
“Drake! You’re hurting him!”
“Nah.” He doesn’t look my way. Instead, his glare remains fixed on the man who’s changing color faster than flashing police lights. “He’s fine. We’re just having a chat is all.” He quirks a sardonic eyebrow. “Aren’t we, Ray?”
“Fuck you,” my uncle gasps.
Drake laughs. It’s deep, low, and laced with a sharp edge I’ve never heard before. Trepidation tickles the space between my ribs, warning me danger is near.
With harried steps, I reach Drake’s side. “Let go of him.”
“No.” His hand tightens, and Ray’s neck turns a deep shade of purple.
“I mean it, Drake. Let him go.” I try to push his arm away, but I might as well be rolling the Statue of Liberty up the Matterhorn. “Drake!” When shaking him doesn’t do a freaking thing, I cup his jaw between my hands and turn him to face me. “Please,” I beg, my eyes darting between his. “Don’t do this. Let him go.”
He blinks.
“Please,” I repeat.
As though rousing from a dream, Drake shakes his head, freeing himself from my hold. He turns his attention to Ray, shock registering on his features when he notices the hold he has on my uncle. After ripping his hand away, Drake takes a hasty step back, teeth clenched tightly together.
Beside me, Ray doubles over, gasping for breath. Even though I should probably go over to him, rub his back or some shit, I don’t move. Despite everything he’s been through, today and over the past year, the old goat will probably outlive us all. Besides, I’m content with hearing his wheezing breaths. Apart from a few bruises, mainly to his ego, he’ll be okay.
It’s Drake I’m worried about.
Dropping my voice, I murmur, “Hey, where’d you go just now?” I try to keep my footsteps quiet as I pad closer. I don’t think sudden noises would be a good idea.
With eyes downcast, Drake doesn’t respond. He’s too focused on the hand that clamped down on Ray’s windpipe. The same hand that would have killed him had I not begged him to stop. Slowly, as though in a trance, he raises it. With the palm facing downward, he continues lifting until long fingers hover in front of his own face. Then, he quirks his head to one side, abject fascination sketched across his features as he studies his hand like a scientist would a test tube.
It’s perfectly still.
There’s no tremor, no tremble, nothing to give away the fact that seconds ago, Drake almost committed murder. Heck, the guy could perform open heart surgery, he’s that composed.
What in the ever-loving fuck?
Blinking, he lowers his arm.
I have no freaking idea how to respond. I mean, seriously. What is there to do? To say? Something tells me, is everything okay? won’t cut it. Neither will the hug I don’t want to give him. He’d probably shrug it off anyway. Hell, he’d probably escape handcuffs even if they were slapped over his wrists by a cop with thirty years’ experience.
Drake’s eyes flick from his hand to my face.
Reckon backing the fuck away is the best way to go. I take the smallest of steps backward.
His nostrils flare.
Tension uncurls in my stomach.
“Don’t.” He gives me a warning glare.
From the moment we first met backstage, I knew there was something Drake hid from the world. There was a jagged edge I recognized. A razor-sharp danger simmered beneath his jovial façade, and I knew that if provoked, it would bubble to the surface before boiling over and searing everything in its path.
At first, I thought it was a replication of the anger I carry inside me. After all, it’s easy to find what I want to see in Drake. Whenever we’re together, I allot one of his expressions a name, an emotion, a memory my subconscious refuses to relinquish. If I stare hard enough, my entire life story is written in his eyes. Before long, he owns every part of me because it’s me I see projected back. Only, now I’m beginning to realize my mistake. The person before me is dangerous. He’s ruthless, callous, and more than a little cruel. He’s nothing like me.
So, why aren’t I moving further away?
Why is my heart slamming against my chest, demanding to be released from its cage? Why is blood hammering in my ears, drowning out every sound except Drake’s name? And why, for the love of all things holy, are my nipples the hardest they’ve ever been?
I need psychological help. Clearly, this is the start of a mental episode. I’m freaking the fuck out and need to be committed.
Drake’s gaze flits between mine, a predator hunting its prey. “You’re scared of me.”
It takes a while to get my tongue working again. “No, I’m not.”
Silent, he shifts closer. The same hand that almost squeezed the life from my uncle delves into my hair, grasping it in a tight hold. Yanking me toward him, he growls, “I don’t believe you.”
I’d shake my head if I could. “Doesn’t matter what you think. It’s the truth.”
And therein lies the problem. I’m not scared of Drake Stone. I should be. I should run away and put as much distance between us as humanly possible. But the thought of leaving him brings with it such an overwhelming sense of loss, I ignore the idea.
Drake’s gaze drops to my parted mouth. “You sure about that?”
I take in the cut of his jaw, the line of his lips, the angle of his cheekbones, and the color of his irises.
Then, it hits me.
What if the person I see in Drake is still me? What if I’m stronger, more powerful than I give myself credit for? What if, like Drake, I can reach out and take whatever the fuck I want? After all, isn’t that the true definition of freedom? To act, think, and speak however I choose?
So, what if, rather than try to kill a man, I own my story? Sure, it’s tattered and ripped in places. There are stains that smudge the words and blur the meanings hiding behind them. But it’s not finished yet. The narrative isn’t over. Rather than accept the ending, I could rewrite it. Mix it up. Finish with a bang.
What a strange time to have an epiphany.
Drake’s hold on me tightens. A sharp sting prickles the back of my neck as the strands ensnared in his grasp pull against my skin. The pain snaps me from my thoughts, and his face comes into focus. “Answer me.”
Reaching out, I press my hand against his chest. Rapid-fire beats pound beneath my palm. They tell me everything I need to know. “Yeah,” I murmur. “I’m sure. I’m not afraid of you.”
After a long pause, he lets out a slow exhale. Dropping his head, he presses his forehead against mine, breathing out an anguished, “Thank fuck.”
Pillow-soft, his lips whisper across mine. I clench my eyes shut, inhaling his touch, wanting it closer, needing to bury it under my skin, filling the darkest parts of me.
Only, before I’m ready, he breaks away again. “I’m gonna head out for a bit.”
“Why?”
He smiles. It’s small, a tiny quirk in the corner of his mouth. But it’s there and I see it. I want to steal it and tuck it into my back pocket. Keep it with me always. “Need to get some air. Won’t be long.”
“Make sure you’re back in time for sound check,” I remind him.
“Make sure the stage is ready and I will be.” He trails a finger along the curve of my jaw. I don’t hide my shiver. He doesn’t hide
liking it.
Without meaning to, I bite my lip. Drake gives me one last heated look before turning and striding away. He doesn’t acknowledge my uncle on the way out, doesn’t even check him as he walks past. With shoulders back and that familiar swagger in each step, Drake’s a picture of confidence. He could take on the world and win.
Like me.
Chapter Eight
“Fuckin’ psycho,” Ray mutters. Clearly, he’s not feeling the same warm fuzzies I am about the lead singer. Fair enough. The guy did try to kill him before waltzing out of here like nothing happened.
Ray rubs his reddened skin. Drake’s finger marks are stark against his ruddy complexion. He’s going to be a mess of black, blue, and purple tomorrow.
“Don’t start,” I warn. “If you’d kept your mouth shut, none of this would’ve happened.”
“He was manhandling you!”
“Bullshit. We were kissing. Deal with it.”
With a humph, Ray crosses his arms. Well, he attempts to. It takes a few tries before his coordination kicks in.
Jesus Christ. The man’s a drunken mess. I should’ve known by the way he was itching for a fight. Ray goes one of two ways when drunk: he either gets angry or depressed. I’ve lost count of the number of fights I’ve stopped. And let’s not forget the gallons of tears I’ve dried that weren’t mine. A forty-year-old man sniveling into a tissue isn’t my idea of a good time. He needs better coping strategies.
Scrubbing one hand down the side of my face, I sigh. All the positivity and purpose Drake injected into me is slowly seeping from my body. Before long, nothing but tiredness will remain. “What’s the real issue here, Ray? You pissed I didn’t make you coffee this morning? Surely you’ve figured out how to boil water by now?”
He burps, staggers to the left, then burps again.
Maybe not.
I look past the drunken idiot and survey the stage with a weary eye. There’s so much to do. Even with Drake’s help earlier, it’s going to be a stretch getting everything ready before the band arrives for sound check.