Song for Me (Rock Me Book 4)

by Lee Piper

  I clamp my legs around his shoulders, trying to wriggle away. It’s too much, too soon. My pussy is oversensitive and likely to go into cardiac arrest if he doesn’t ease up. “No, stop. I can’t handle any more.”

  Drake wrestles free of my hold, pinning my parted thighs on the bed. I prop myself up on my elbows, needing to see him in all his sinful glory just like he’s seeing me in mine. With a small shake of the head and a look so devious it needs to come with a warning label, he grins. “We’ve barely even started.”

  I collapse back on the bed. Drake chuckles.

  He prowls toward me, filthy determination hardening the length of his jaw while humor softens the skin around his eyes. I scramble up the bed. Not sure why. It’s not like I want to escape him or anything. However, something in his expression promises that he’s going to take something from me. Something important. Since he already has my heart and my body, I’m not sure what else there is to take. It freaks me out. Thus, the backward crab walk.

  Drake’s grin widens, his gaze darkens, and the contrast is so beguiling I’m transfixed. Frozen, I can’t do anything while he crawls up my body, eyes pinned on my face. When his hard frame pins my soft one to the bed, he rumbles low in my ear, “Can’t escape me. Not ever.”

  Shivers erupt, prickling my pores and tingling my skin. “Don’t want to.”

  “Then why were you backing away?”

  “I….” I lick my lips. Drake’s gaze drops to my mouth. He growls. “I don’t know.”

  Quicker than I expect, Drake’s hand circles my neck. His thumb presses against my raging pulse. “Don’t run from me. Understand?”

  “Y-yes.”

  Warm breath brushes my cheeks on his exhale. “Good.” Diving his head, he captures my mouth in a punishing kiss. The word good is repeated time and time again against my swollen flesh. The repetitions grow frantic, more desperate the longer we kiss.

  Teeth bite, tongues dance, and lips worship. The kiss is a culmination of heat, desire, and impatience as we pull each other closer, needing to bridge whatever distance remains.

  Our skin is slick with perspiration as we writhe against one another. My hands dive into his hair, tugging on the loose strands as I moan into his mouth. A low groan rumbles from deep within Drake’s chest. With deliberate movements, his hands slip behind my knees and yank until my knees are pressed against my chest. Eyes pinned on me, he asks, “Ready?” but doesn’t wait for a reply. Instead, with one swift thrust, he impales me with his cock.

  “Drake.”

  “Fuck.”

  My eyelids flutter closed.

  “So tight.”

  “I can’t— You’re too—”

  “You can and you will. Look at me. Christ, look at us. See how I stretch you? See how your greedy cunt swallows my cock? Only sight more beautiful than this is your face when you come.”

  With effort, I peel my eyes open.

  “Watch.” Drake rolls his hips. His hard length, glossy with my juices, disappears inside me. Biting my bottom lip, I take in the sight. The evidence of our connection is reduced to a primal, carnal act. However, it does nothing to take away from the gravity of it. In fact, when Drake groans, dropping his head to mine, the anguished tenor tumbling over my flushed skin defies any belief that this moment is purely physical. No. It’s so much more than that. With Drake Stone inside me, the world is as it should be.

  I am his.

  He is mine.

  It all clicks into place.

  Our panting breaths inhale the same sweat-sweetened air. Hearts pound and blood roars. I have no doubt there are words peering from behind my eyes, desperate to be spoken for the first time. Those same words are reflected back as deep pools of blue gaze down at me. I want you.

  Drake thrusts.

  Sensation swirls in my lower stomach.

  I need you.

  He thrusts again.

  It grows stronger, more acute as the friction mounts.

  I love you.

  He grinds.

  Intensity blooms, sending sparks of pleasure zapping from my core.

  You love me too.

  He rubs my clit.

  “I’m going to come,” I whimper.

  “Me too. Fuuuuuck.”

  When he pinches the swollen bud, I combust. Mouth open on a silent scream, I fall apart in Drake’s arms. My body shakes, my pussy pulses, as torrents of pleasure drown me. Seconds later, Drake’s guttural cry echoes through the room. With hips grinding against my core, he comes so hard, his arms shake.

  Throughout it all, we keep our eyes open.

  Throughout it all, we watch the other fall.

  Throughout it all, desperate lips clash and greedy hands grasp. Closer. Always closer than before. It’s like we weave ourselves into the fabric of each other’s existence, one gasp at a time.

  And in the quiet aftermath, when heady breaths fill the quiet room, I make a promise to myself. Nothing will stop me from making a life with this man. Not even death.

  Chapter Nineteen

  There’s a gentle rap at the door. “Um, guys?”

  Exhausted, I lie immobile. Garnering the energy to reply takes too much energy. Energy I don’t have. I’m spent. My body lies in a tangled heap on the bed, heavy with weariness. I’m half sprawled across Drake’s chest, his ribs expanding and contracting in time with deep breaths. I’m thankful for the strong arms wrapped around my liquified body. Without them, I fear I’d melt into a puddle and evaporate.

  The rap turns into a decided knock. “Guys. I know this isn’t the best time, but it’s important.”

  Drake turns to me, eyebrows raised. I try to raise mine as well but can only muster one, and even then, it barely moves. Hey, I tried.

  The knock is more insistent. “Please, it’s… it’s Ray. He’s hurt.”

  I shoot out of bed, scrambling into my clothes before my head has a chance to catch up. When it does, I’m sure it’ll lecture the heck out of me. Probably starting with, You idiot! He stole your money and drank it all, before leading on to, Family doesn’t do that shit. However, I don’t give the second and third thoughts a chance to slow my harried movements. I’m too intent on ignoring the bone-weary tiredness while wrestling into my shirt and jeans.

  Once fully dressed, I wrench the door open. I can only hope Drake’s covered by the bedsheet, otherwise Willow’s going to get one hell of an eyeful. “What happened? Where’s Ray? Is he okay?”

  Willow wrings her hands, expression stricken. “I’m sorry. I know you and Drake were—” She gestures to the room behind me, grimaces, then drops her hand. “You know, enjoying your sexy time. I didn’t want to interrupt but—”

  Gripping her shoulders, I give a gentle shake. “Willow, focus. What’s wrong with Ray?”

  She shakes her head, auburn hair tumbling about her freckled face. “Um.” On her deep exhale, red bangs fly into the air before settling against her face again. “I don’t know all of it, just that he’s hurt pretty bad. He didn’t want to go to the hospital, so he was brought back here.”

  “He can’t afford the insurance.”

  Her smile is sympathetic. “Security found him and then started looking for you. They noticed you weren’t in your RV, so they asked around to see where you were.”

  “Where is he now? Is someone with him?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know if someone’s with him, but he’s in his van.”

  I shift past her. “Thanks.”

  “I’m coming too.”

  “Wil, it’s fine. I can do it.”

  A small hand grips my arm, slowing my steps. I glance over one shoulder.

  “I know you can, but I want to be there for you. It’s what friends do.”

  I don’t have time to process the whole friends thing. Not because I don’t think we are, but because Drake choses that very moment to step outside the bedroom. “Wait up.”

  His ruffled hair is all kinds of gorgeous. The rumpled T-shirt and jeans with top button undone complete the fuck y
es, I’m a sex god look. If I was in the right frame of mind to ogle him, I would. As it is, my gaze rakes his body once, likes what it sees, then focuses on the real issue at hand: Ray.

  With a cursory nod, I spin on my heel and the three of us barrel through the narrow hallway. When I get to the entrance of the tour bus, it’s to notice Reid ready and waiting. He doesn’t say a word but falls into line as I make my way outside and across the parking lot.

  The closer I get to Ray’s RV, the more my stomach tightens, as though in preparation for being kicked. It takes the length of the parking lot to steady my nerves, but eventually my internal pep talk does the trick and I’m relatively calm. However, navigating the door handle is tricky. Not because it’s locked or anything, but because my hands forget their purpose in life. Seems gripping and turning aren’t functions they’re good at under stress. Eventually, I manage to open the damn door and fling it aside.

  Ray’s van is dark. The curtains, once a pastel floral, are now a murky brown. They’re tightly shut and dust flickers in the shadows, dancing in stagnant air. The strong, stale scent of whiskey clings to the decrepit furniture and sticks to the grimy windows. My heavy boots clamber across the patchwork linoleum, the years of alcohol adding their own protective layer to the otherwise rickety floor. With purposeful strides, I move straight to the rear of the shoebox-sized RV and enter Ray’s bedroom.

  Any evidence of my aunt is long gone. The rose bedding is no longer, the plump cushions have disappeared, and the aroma of flowers is nowhere to be found. In its place is a comatose body sprawled across wrinkled and stained bedsheets, the stench of desperation surrounding it like a fog.

  His face is unrecognizable.

  “Ray?” My question fades between the cracks in the walls. Needing to see for myself that he’s still breathing, I run to his side. Dropping to my knees, I growl, “So help me, old man, you’d better be alive, or I’ll kill you myself.”

  There’s a faint, garbled groan. It’s pitiful coming from a man his size.

  However, the noise has me clutching my chest and rubbing my forehead in relief. “Thank fuck.”

  Once my heart rate is under control, I take in my only relative. He doesn’t look good. One eye is swollen shut, the skin surrounding it a deep, angry purple. Dried blood encrusts the broken ridges of his cheeks, and the deep indents on what remains of his cheekbones are evidence of either an insane right hook or knuckle-dusters. His lips are cracked and bleeding, and, if the cuts to his mouth are anything to go by, he’s lost a couple of teeth.

  “What happened to you?” It’s meant to be an exclamation, a forthright demand for answers. Sadly, all that comes out is a faint whisper with a sob attached to the end.

  Ray blinks his good eye open. He moves his mouth as though to reply but closes it again soon afterward. He groans, agony lacing the outbreath.

  Unsure what to do, I turn to Drake.

  “Grab some cloths, warm water and shit. We’ll clean him up, then see what we’re working with.”

  I nod, thankful for the direction. “Okay.”

  I’m no stranger to fights; it’s all part of life on tour. The combination of crowds, music, and alcohol always ends in some form of conflict by the time the house lights are switched on. Often, security throw people out as soon as the first punch is thrown, while at other times, it takes a brawl before the instigators can be torn apart.

  Hell, even I’ve been in a few fights. I can handle my own. I’ve rarely come out of one worse off than my opponent. So all this blood is freaking me out.

  Willow clears her throat. “I’ve got some aromatherapy oils and healing crystals in the tour van that’ll help. Want me to go get them?”

  Even though I doubt they’ll do much, I’m grateful for the gesture. I offer her a small smile. “Yeah, thanks.”

  She nods, pats Drake on the shoulder, then slips past him.

  Reid remains motionless, surveying the scene. It’s as though he’s trying to piece together what happened by tracking Ray’s injuries one cut at a time.

  Standing, I wipe my hands on my pants. My gaze darts between my uncle and Drake. “He’s going to be okay, right?”

  The stoic lead singer is still watching from the entranceway. He casts an expert eye over the crumpled body on the bed. To his credit, he doesn’t scowl or glower. There’s nothing to show his hatred for Ray. Since the last time they met, they wanted to kill each other, the fact Drake’s here and willing to help says everything about his loyalty.

  I love him. So much.

  “Reckon it looks worse than it is. We’ll need to check him carefully for any internal bleeding though. If there’s any chance of him bleeding out, we’re calling an ambulance.”

  Next to him, Reid nods.

  Knowing he speaks a lot of sense, I agree before moving past both of them to the microscopic bathroom. There, I rummage through the cupboards, searching for any linen I can find. I’m not sure how much of it is clean, and most have holes in them, but they’ll have to do. Next, I get some warm water and scrounge around in the tiny cupboards for antiseptic that isn’t out of date before returning to Ray’s room.

  Ray’s moaning when I get there, clearly in pain. Drake and Reid are carefully inspecting him, murmuring to each other as they work. When I place the water and antiseptic on the small side table, they continue as though I’m not there. “What’s the damage?”

  Their eyes remain fixed on Ray while they move his limbs this way and that. With more care than I’ve ever seen from the drummer, Reid lowers Ray’s right arm, placing it gently on the bed. “Nothing’s broken. Not his arms or legs anyway. Might have a few fractured ribs. Four of his fingers were dislocated.” He gestures to Drake. “Pretty boy put them back in.”

  My expression must show my shock because when I turn to him, Drake shrugs. “It’s happened a few times before. I know how to do it.”

  Shaking my head at what he’s had to endure, I go about washing off the blood from Ray’s face. He hisses a few times, meaning the antiseptic is doing a stellar job of sanitizing the wounds, but other than that is quiet. I can sense him thinking though. It’s the weight in the room resting heavily on my shoulders that tells me. It forces my movements to slow, making each action more arduous. “Come out and say it, Ray,” I murmur, my voice low. “You know you want to.”

  Silence.

  Then, a croaky, “I’m sorry, Har. So fuckin’ sorry.”

  The cloth I was holding lands with a splat on the grimy floor. Blindly, I reach for it, not taking my gaze off the broken man on the bed. The same one who, for the first time since ever, apologized. “Are you dying? For real? Is that why you said you’re sorry?”

  Ray chuckles, then holds his side and groans. “Fuck.” Once the grooves on his face ease and it doesn’t look like he’s going to hurl, he responds. “I’m not dying, kid. Beat up is all.”

  “You’re more than beat up, Ray.”

  He waves away my comment then grimaces, dropping his swollen hand.

  “Want some ice for that?” I gesture to his swollen joints. No doubt the ones that were dislocated.

  “Nah. Later.”

  We’re both quiet for a moment. Wanting to keep busy, I replace the soiled cloth with a newish one.

  “It’s my fault.”

  I pause, my hand suspended midair.

  “If I wasn’ at the bar, they wouldn’ have found me.”

  With slow, deliberate movements, I go back to wiping blood, grime, and who the fuck knows what else off his arm. However, my hand trembles when I do, so I lower it to my side. Calm the heck down, Har. This isn’t Armageddon. Ray doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He’s probably got a concussion or something.

  I take a deep breath. “Who wouldn’t have found you, Ray?”

  The question is pointless, really. We all know who he’s referring to. Must be why Ray doesn’t answer. Instead, he licks his dry lips, curses, then mutters, “If I’d been sober, none of this would have happened. I would’ve had savings
so ya wouldn’ have needed the cash. I’d have took care of ya instead of spendin’ all ya money.”

  As much as it’s a relief to hear him accept responsibility for the shitstorm he created, the fact he stole from me still burns. So fucking much. Part of me wants to scream, yell, tear the entire place down. It wants to rage until Ray finally understands how much damage he’s done. The other part of me refuses to let on about the carnage he’s caused. It doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing my pain. Show no weakness and all that.

  Caught somewhere in between, I clench my jaw, flex my fingers, and wait.

  Ray coughs, holds his side, then hisses.

  Is it bad that I like the pain flitting across his features? That I get satisfaction out of the furrow between his eyes and the grimace at his mouth? Maybe. Reckon it’s justified though.

  When my uncle finally gets his breath back, he mumbles, “I know who you borrowed from. As soon as I saw the cash, I knew.” He pauses. “Wasn’ gonna take it at first. Was checkin’ to see how much you had. Curious was all. You never talk money. Was gonna let you have your chance. This life holds you back; I know it. Even though you didn’ say shit about the money and it hurt like a bitch that you kept it from me, I was glad you finally took life by the balls.”

  He closes his eyes, quiet for a moment. “But on the anniversary of your aunt’s death, I couldn’ take it no more. The hole in my chest hurt so fuckin’ bad….”

  Forcing myself to remain silent is hard. Somehow, I choke back the burning indignation and let him continue.

  “I needed to numb it, Har. God help me, I’d have put a bullet to my head otherwise. Pain got that fuckin’ bad.”

  Hearing Ray talk about contemplating suicide really brings home how difficult this past year has been on him. He lost the best part of himself when my aunt died and has been wandering aimlessly ever since. It doesn’t make his actions okay, but it helps me understand why he behaved the way he did.

  Callused fingers grasp my wrist, holding it in a viselike grip. When I glance up, Ray’s expression is pleading. “You’ve gotta forgive me, kid.”