European Tour (Rocking the Pop Star Book 1)

by L. V. Lewis

  “Let me help.” He leaps off the bed and meets me in the middle of the floor, wrapping me in an embrace and claiming my lips before he does the honor of unzipping me.

  There’s so much damn furniture in this room we could be occupying, but we kiss, grind, and make out in the middle of the floor as if it’s been too long since either of us had a good fuck and we’re afraid that lying on the bed might make the lust go away.

  I love that he isn’t gentle, treating me as if I’m some kind of porcelain doll like Connor did in the beginning. Turns out Connor wasn’t so gentle after all in the end. Annoyed, I push thoughts of the past away.

  Brody tugs my hair and that helps me to focus on the here and now. With my head back, he has easy access to my throat. He sucks the delicate flesh on my neck like a starved man. I may need concealer tomorrow, but it’s a small price to pay. I’m thrumming between my legs as if his lips are there instead.

  He raises his head and his eyes lock on the location of the bed. He backs me there and devours my mouth with his own again. I taste him and the faint flavor of beer on his tongue.

  My lips are swollen from his ravaging, but I don’t care. I’ve needed this since Connor’s last tentative attempt at making love to me seven months ago.

  My legs touch the bed and there is nowhere left to go.

  Brody peels off my bra. I wriggle my panties down seductively. Together, we remove his briefs.

  We’re a mass of naked limbs on my bed, licking, sucking, and causing a riot of sexual havoc on each other.

  He likes to bite. He nips me with lips covering the sting of his teeth in places I never expected. My chin. My nipples. My elbows. My sex.

  His tongue soothes every bite. His mouth works me with the fervor of a man confident in his sexual abilities. I grasp Brody’s head, my lower body rolling to meet his mouth, because I need the orgasm that’s zipping through me like I need air to keep breathing.

  I go limp.

  He raises his head and grins down at me. “Got any new adjectives for me, Ms. Samuelson?”

  “Fuck.” I say it like it has two syllables.

  “Close enough.” He rolls a condom onto his spectacular erection and impales me before I can complete another thought, let alone utter any additional words. When did he secure that prophylactic?

  I manage to mutter a surprised, “Oh!”

  Brody stops moving. His brow is furrowed. “You have done this before, right?”

  Being so enthralled by how he’s filled me, I have trouble choosing words. “I… Yes. Of course.”

  He pierces me with his blue eyes. “Are you sure?”

  “My ex and I didn’t get together much. We both traveled. A lot. Can we not talk about this now?” I say with not even a modicum of patience. I need him to get down to business. Also, I’m not comfortable having a conversation during sex, especially not those that include talk about whether or not I’ve really had sex before, and explanations about my ex’s inability to take care of business.

  Brody looks uncertain, but there is no reluctance as he begins to move again. “More thrusting, less talking. Gotcha, birthday girl.”

  “You really thought I was underage?” I laugh so hard, I almost swallow a grape whole. Della left us a fruit and cheese tray from the party in the fridge, which Brody retrieved after we took another leisurely stroll over each other’s bodies. We’ve achieved some kind of record on my part concerning numbers of orgasms had in one night.

  Brody is drawing lazy circles around my breasts after having eaten grapes and bits of cheese off them.

  “Have you seen yourself, Sky? Without any makeup, you really look like a child.” He declares.

  “That’s because I’m naturally a ginger,” I say matter-of-factly. “The paleness distracts you.”

  He props himself up on one elbow. “You colored your hair black?”

  “Technically, it’s dark brown.”

  “Either way, why?”

  “Skylar the pop star was supposed to be goth, but my label thought that would be too severe, especially since my songs tested better with pop fans.”

  “So now you color it to keep the Skylar persona alive for your fan base?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Brody shakes his head. “The shit artists do for fans.”

  “Didn’t you ever do anything to please your fans?”

  He stiffens and starts to pull away, but I move closer and don’t allow him to leave.

  “I don’t mean to pry,” I say. “If you’re ever inclined to tell me more about your musical past I’ll listen. And I won’t judge.” I lean in and kiss his lips, because they are full and sexy like a young Mick Jagger’s. Brody’s got better skin, though, and of course is generally more handsome all around.

  Work is going to be so much more pleasant now that I get to put teeth to the fantasies I’ve been having about Brody. I feel like a kid in a candy shop and I’m well on my way to having multiple cavities.

  “How did you know that I would like it rough?” I ask. Connor never had a clue, but Brody moved right on after that first hesitation and fucked me like he meant it. Both times.

  “I was observant, and you spoke Friday night about debauchery and shame.”

  “I’m so glad you knew, because it’s embarrassing to have to ask for something like that.”

  He tips my chin up, raising my eyes to his. “You should never be afraid to ask your lover for what you want.”

  “Some men are strange. They want The Madonna for their significant other and Mary Magdalene as their mistress.”

  “Is that what Connor wanted?”

  I nod, suddenly shy that we’re actually having this conversation, but Brody doesn’t let me hide. He maneuvers until he’s looking into my eyes again and holds me there.

  “You’re a Catholic girl, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Guilt will eat you alive. Let that shit go, baby.”

  “Easier said than done. I think it’s ingrained in you at baptism. The moment they make that cross on your head as an infant.” I frown.

  “I’ll bet your mother even sent you to a Catholic school when you were young. Yeah?”

  “Yes, and when my career got too busy for me to attend, she hired one of the nuns to homeschool me.”

  “We have religious-based backgrounds in common. My grandparents did the same thing to me. My dad taught me to play guitar the same way he was taught by my grandfather. In church. My grandparents wanted me to use my”—he makes air quotes— “gift only in the church.”

  “And you rebelled against that.” A statement more than question.

  “Yep. A few of us from the neighborhood formed an underground rock band. We practiced in the basements of my friends’ homes whose parents didn’t have a fundamental problem with rock and roll.”

  “How did your grandparents find out you were a rocker?” I’m fascinated by his story now, and I need to know more.”

  His features darken like they do when he shares any reference to his past. It makes me sad that he had to go through so much as a child, but not sad enough not to be curious.

  “Our high school had an annual battle of the bands contest to pick an amateur band to play at prom. My friends and I were cocky little shits, even as sophomores, so we knew we could take any other band for the title.”

  My eyes are riveted on his face as he recounts the story.

  “We went up against six other bands and won. As is customary for the winning band, our names and a group photo went into all the local papers, radio, and TV.”

  “And your grandfather found out?” I say with a sigh.

  Nodding, Brody sits up on the bed and brings me with him, holding me in the crook of his arm. “My grandfather was furious. He bullied me for a solid hour, trying to get me to quit the band. ‘Come before the church,’ he said. ‘Confess your sins. Tell them how you were tempted, but you have no intentions of playing the devil’s music at that dance.’”

  “The devil’s
music?”

  “You have to understand, my grandparents were part of an uber-conservative Protestant denomination. Everything normal teenagers did was of the devil. The prom, he said, was an opportunity for young people to sin under the guise of socialization. ‘That dancing you do,’ he would say, ‘is pure fornication with clothes on.’”

  Brody laughs, but my throat feels like it’s about to close.

  I thought I’d been served up a healthy dose of Catholic guilt at a young age, but he’d been choked on the protestant variety. I swallow convulsively, trying not to allow the tears welling in my eyes to fall.

  “After he finished his tirade, I went to my room, packed a bag, grabbed my guitar, and left. My bandmates were great. The ones whose parents were cool with us playing allowed me to couch surf, stay in their guest rooms until they were needed, or sometimes grab a floor in one of their homes until my grandparents reported me to social services. But I refused to go home with them, so I took my savings from working at a burger joint that summer and bought a bus ticket to LA.”

  I clear my throat in an attempt to speak without giving my emotions away. “H-how did you survive?”

  “I had enough money to stay at the YMCA at first. When that ran out, I slept in parks, in abandoned buildings, cars left open by their owners…anywhere I could. I got a job at a restaurant shortly after my money ran out, and I began to frequent the bars with live music on Sunset Strip. Once I played, most bands would give me a shot playing regional gigs with them.

  “Two years later, a couple of my bandmates joined me after they graduated. We quickly made a name for ourselves at the local clubs. Then a music producer heard us one night in a Seattle club, and within six months and a few days shy of my eighteenth birthday, we had a contract, a following, and the rest—as they say—is history.”

  “But something else happened to bring that all crashing down?”

  “Yes, something else happened,” he says.

  His blue eyes are shiny with tears, which gives them a Photoshopped 3D effect.

  I realize, sexual attraction aside, I could fall for this guy. Maybe I’m a quarter of the way there already because of everything he is above and beyond hot and exceptionally good in bed. He’s kind, sensitive, has a passion for music—which he’s currently quashing for some yet-to-be-divulged reason—and he isn’t intimidated by my mother. I find that one reason alone to be chief among my reasons to elevate him from P.A. and current crush—in my mother’s eyes—to significant other.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  He hasn’t given me any indication that he’s looking for anything lasting. And I’ve just plunged myself headlong into a casual sexual relationship with my employee.

  What the hell have I done?

  SEVEN

  BRODY

  DAY NINE

  Monday is busy because it’s the day before we fly out to London, but the team manages to complete all the tasks required of the day and Sky dismisses us all early. In an effort to be discreet, I also leave when everyone else does, but return half an hour later as we planned.

  Greetings unnecessary, Sky pulls me into the door by the edge of my t-shirt and kisses me, her soft hands roaming through my scalp as my hands cup her firm, round ass. I certainly appreciate what her discipline for exercise and dancing has done for her muscle tone.

  “I’ve missed your lips,” she murmurs. “It was all I could do not to kiss you while everyone else was still here.”

  I hold myself in check, because Sky has a candid way about her that makes me feel like the little boy in grade school with his first crush on a girl. The sex between us is good enough to make me want to say dirty things to her all the time, but acknowledging my crush by putting sweet words to my thoughts could be dangerous.

  “Is this our appetizer before dinner?” I say before I kiss her back, opting for a benign response so as not to give her any ideas that I can’t back up with action. Of course, romancing her wouldn’t do either of us any good in this situation, because we would part ways after the tour.

  She drags her lips away from mine with a bit of reluctance, and I stop waging the internal war with myself over how to proceed without becoming a horny moron over by boss.

  “Actually, Della has that covered. We have about fifteen minutes before dinner is served, then we’ll have the house to ourselves again.”

  Sky takes my hand and we move into the kitchen where I get the privilege again, of smelling some of the best home cooking I never had.

  “Hi Brody.” Della smiles, flashing even white teeth, and speaking to me as if I didn’t just leave the premises a half an hour ago.

  “Hi Della,” I say with a grin.

  “I’ll set the table in a few minutes,” she says to Sky, then busies herself putting the final touches on dinner.

  “Why don’t we set the table?” I suggest.

  Sky is all for it and we get everything together in half the time it would’ve taken Della. By the time, we’re done, she’s bringing out the first of her delectable courses to the table, where I’m having a chilled Pellegrino and Sky’s sipping wine.

  This time Della doesn’t leave immediately after serving us. “I’ll get everything cleaned up before I leave tonight. I’ll be leaving for Seaside tomorrow.”

  Della’s family lives in that quaint California town, and now that Sky will be away for six weeks, she’s going for an extended visit.

  “Thanks, Della,” Sky says. She stands to give the woman who I’d guess has been like a real mother to her than her own, a long hug. “I’m going to miss you…and your cooking while I’m on the road.”

  “I’m gonna miss you, too, Ms. Skylar,” the older woman says.

  “Let us help you,” Sky says as they part.

  “You’ll just get underfoot in my kitchen. Now go on and entertain Mr. Brody.”

  No matter how much I’ve told her to call me only by my given name, she’s old school in the matter of respecting what she considers authority. Della winks at me, and I’m not altogether sure whether it means she knows what we’re about to be up to before we leave for London, or she’s rooting for Sky and me over the long haul. Either way, it makes me a bit uncomfortable.

  “Okay,” Sky says.

  We leave Della to her tasks and meander to the stairs. When we get to the foot of them, Sky turns to me with a mischievous grin. “Winner’s choice for whoever gets to the top first,” she says, then takes off.

  It takes me a few seconds to get my ass in gear and run after her. My legs are longer and I could’ve overtaken her at any moment, but I give her the advantage and she laughs when she reaches the landing just one step before me.

  We’re both winded, but not too much to kiss and laugh at ourselves through our labored breathing.

  “What did I lose?” I ask with a fake pout.

  She giggles, “Just the right to decide what we’re going to do when we get in my bedroom.” She backs toward said bedroom as I advance, loosely embracing her, our legs entangled and lips engaged all the way to the door.

  Once inside, we quickly discard our outer wear, but then we slow down when we’re in our underwear. I hoist her up around my waist and carry her to the bed where I unceremoniously drop her there.

  Fuck, she looks gorgeous lying there, dark hair splayed out on the duvet.

  “So, what’s the winner’s choice?” I say, as I work her panties off, drawing the lace down her legs, inch by inch. As I reach her ankles, she answers.

  “Oral,” she says.

  I lean down and take her lacy underwear in my teeth and rip them off her feet. In the same motion, I spread her knees wide. The glistening perfection before me is the best dessert ever.

  “You want me to fuck you with my mouth?”

  Before she can answer I press my hands on the inside of her thighs, hold her open and drag my tongue from back to front, landing on her clit where I circle it with my tongue, then suck it as if I’m going to eat her up.

  She gasps, then
whimpers, grasping my hair and yanking it hard, holding my head as if she fears I’ll let go. “Brody,” she says on an exhale.

  The way she tugs my hair breathes my name galvanizes me and I lap her up like a delicacy. When I dive deep, she yanks my hair again. “Oh, that feels good…”

  The raspy tone of her voice turns me on and I feel that tugging on my hair in my balls. I like it rough, too, and Sky gets that with no urging from me.

  I partly disengage my mouth and tease her slick, wet flesh with a finger all the while nibbling at her clit with lips covering my teeth. When I circle her clit with the stiff tip of my tongue again, she shatters. Her entire body trembles and then shakes as if she’s detonating like a bomb.

  She cries my name in a staccato fashion as she simultaneous draws me closer and pushes me away. Orgasms will do that to you sometimes—make you want more when you can’t handle it. A knot of lust, envious of her release, has built up in my stomach and my cock throbs and my balls ache, eager to be inside Sky now.

  Her beauty is enhanced as she comes down from her orgasmic high. She grins up at me as I hover over her, then she scrambles up onto her knees as I reach out to bring her up to face me. We kneel on the bed sharing a kiss that mingles vestiges of her essence between us. I gasp and look down as she frees my cock from the constraints of my underwear.

  I hiss when her soft hand grips the base and squeezes. She deliberately slides her palm up and down my shaft, all the while watching, enraptured, and licking her gorgeous lips. Finally she sweeps her tongue out and licks the slit, then closes her lips around the bulbous head.

  Jerking involuntarily from contact, I bury my fingers in her hair as she draws me in deeper into her hot mouth. Once she gets going, it kind of goes downhill from there.

  It takes a couple of times of her fumbling through it and asking me how it feels every second or two, before I realize she has severe performance anxiety for some reason.

  I stop her mid-blow to get to the bottom of this—cock throbbing for release, blue balls and all.

  “Why do you question every move you make?” I ask gently.

  She ducks her head. “I’m afraid I’m doing it all wrong, and you’ll secretly think I’m horrible at fellatio, but won’t tell me, and you’ll be at a party or something without me, and a groupie or two will offer to blow you. And you’ll be like, sure why not, because my fuckbuddy-slash-boss sucks at giving head.” She takes a deep breath after that spontaneous outburst, and I laugh.