by Amanda Rose
“I didn't say rude shit,” Aspen says, still lying there with the wet compress over his eyes. “Implying that we were doing it was a favor to you.”
“Oh, it was a favor?” I say, cocking a brow and resisting the urge to throw my hot cocoa in his face. Wonder how that'd feel, red hot cocoa on top of the Peppermint Rage spray? I sit there and glare at him while Frost glares at me. I can't decide who I hate more—Frost or Aspen. The former is giving me the closed-off/pompous vibe and the latter the entitled/too big for his britches vibe.
Gross.
I'm going to have a seriously hard time listening to their music after this.
Oh, and also, I want to find out who their publicist is and hire them for my own life because every interview I've ever read from Inked Pages makes each guy out to be an adorable little sweetheart wrapped in hard pecs and too many abs to count.
In reality, only one of them is nice.
“Sorry, but I think scaring the fucking crap out of my parents and making them think I've been kidnapped by some sex trafficking group is a little messed up.” I glare at Aspen as I sip my cocoa and try not to think about the fact that my father's probably called the Minnesota State Patrol to go look for me at the rest stop. Aspen might think his joke is cute and funny, but my dad certainly won't think so.
“Wait, what?” Aspen asks, sitting up and blinking reddened eyes at me. “There's no way that's their first thought?”
“Wouldn't be the first time,” I say as Crispin clicks his tongue and gives his bandmate a look.
“Now you see what you done gone and did, you asshole?”
“I didn't … fuck, I'm sorry,” Aspen says, surprising the crap out of me. He stares at me with his now blue and red eyes, squinting and sniffling against the lingering burn of the spray. “I didn't realize it'd come across like that.”
“You need to learn to think before you speak,” Vale says, his voice warm but spicy, like mulled cider. Just the sound of it's enough to make me shiver. He's sitting on the opposite side of the couch, tucked into the corner between the two bench portions of the sofa, his gold eyes half-lidded. He has this lazy, easy vibe to him, like a well-fed house cat. Vale's quiet and unassuming, but I have a feeling he might have claws between the sheets.
“You talk enough for the both of ya,” Crispin saidsays flinging his hand out toward Vale and Aspen. “Two assholes worth o' jaw flappin'.” He runs his fingers through his wavy brown-blonde hair and casts a look my way that's casual … but curious. As I watch, his gaze trails down the side of my neck, past the shooting star tattoo, and over my bare shoulder.
I find myself swallowing hard, wanting to lick my lips and toss my hair. Crispin is a beautiful, beautiful man. In fact, he reminds me of Chris Hemsworth a lot. Oh god, he's a good-looking son of a bitch …
“So tell us about the threesome?” Frost says, piping up all of a sudden from his place next to Crispin. Hm. Okay, actually I'm changing my mind. I hate Frost more than Aspen for sure. I glance over my shoulder toward the front, where a small window separates us from the front portion of the rig.
The band's manager, driver, and assistant are all siting up there in two rows of bucket seats. The bodyguard—Ana Donner is her name apparently—is currently occupying a special single seat near the door.
I can feel her eyes on me, even though she doesn't speak, sitting there in a green and red jumper with a smiling Christmas tree on the front of it. It's so goddamn ugly that I can't help but stare. Looking at it, it soothes some of the random lust I'm feeling toward Crispin Fox.
“That threesome,” I say, as I glance back at Frost, his dark hair and gorgeous green eyes the perfect complement to his pale skin, an artful amount of stubble on his cheeks and chin, his arms crossed over his wide chest just bulging with glorious muscles. He has tattoos on both arms, too, these sweeping displays of frosty arctic tundras, dotted with wolves, polar bears, seals. It's an interesting concept, nothing like I've ever seen before. According to all the online articles I've read, he grew up in a very remote part of Alaska. Apparently, his mother is a local with Inuit heritage, and his father was an Irishman that died in an accident when he was young. “Is none of your business.”
“You just don't seem like the type to even know what a threesome is,” he continues, and I swear, I almost throw my hot chocolate in his face next. Fucker.
“You mean because you've known me for all of two minutes?” I ask with a raised brow.
“An hour and thirty-eight, actually,” he says, lifting his phone up and smiling wickedly as he shows me the timer he has going. “I'm counting.”
“Because each moment with me is so amazing it feels like a million years?” I hedge, leaning back and crossing my legs at the knee. Yeah, so, I'm a little awkward and gangly with legs that're too long and yet, I'm a shortie, too. But I can sit and flirt with the best of them. I can recline back into the sea of snowflakes and snowmen and Baby Jesus pillows like a sex goddess.
“Because each moment is torture,” Frost says, smiling tightly at me, his green eyes narrowed in a penetrating glare.
“Torturous because your cock is rock-solid and you think I'm a fox?”
“Torturous because looking at you makes my cock retreat so far up inside my body that I have a vagina.”
“Lucky you—women have more nerve endings in their genitals, and it's a scientifically proven fact that our orgasms release like ten times as many feel-good pheromones as a man's.”
“Good thing because it takes you ten times as long to have one.”
“Only when I'm with someone that performs as poorly as you,” I say, setting my hot chocolate aside and trying to ignore the painfully hardened nubs of my nipples, and the swollen heat of my cunt. “Because you're right—when it takes a man thirty seconds to come, it's a little hard to get off in five minutes.”
I stand up. Not really sure why, but I do.
“You can make yourself come in five minutes?" he scoffs, shaking his head and ruffling up his dark hair with his fingers. If he wasn't such a prick, I'd wonder if he wasn't getting flustered.
“You wouldn't find that so hard to believe if you were as good a lover as you say you are,” I reply, straightening my white tank with the gold glittery stars across it. It's part of some hoity-toity designer's Christmas collection. My dad sent it along with a bunch of other overpriced clothing items in a not-so-subtle bid to get me to dress nice for his myriad of holiday parties this week. “Excuse me,” I say, coughing into my hand, watching as Frost's eyes follow me around the small coffee table and down the narrow hall.
“I bet I could make it happen in three,” he says, and I feel a sweep of desire crawl up my spine. Oh my god … His voice is low and even, tinged with a dark edge. I get the impression that Frost Manderach isn't a pretend bad boy. He's a complete and total asshole.
“I'd like to see you try,” I mutter, my skin prickling with goose bumps as I move down to the bathroom, open the door and slip inside.
I don't lock it, wringing my hands and wondering what the fuck I'm doing in here in the first place.
It isn't because I have to piss. Remember—toilet seat, butt cheeks frozen to the porcelain throne?
No, I just booty called Frost Manderach, the guitarist for a pop rock band that my father listens to. Oh god, the holidays always drive me out of my damn mind, but this is … an interesting development, even for me.
That threesome? That was a spur of the moment thing two weeks ago with these guys that worked in the bookstore I ran. They were bisexual lovers in a committed relationship and on occasion … they liked to bring in a girl into the mix.
So … I'd volunteered.
And fucked my employees; I was a terrible boss.
Just as I'm starting to question whether I imagined the strong sexual tension between Frost and me, he's opening the door and slipping inside.
Uh.
Slipping inside the room, that is. Inside the room. Not me. Not yet.
“This is just a quick th
ing between adults,” Frost says, his pupils dilated, his cock obviously erect underneath his black jeans. I swallow hard as his smell overwhelms me, the sweet and musky scent of sage and pine. Oh, holy lord. He smells like the Balsam Fir incense my dad always special orders in bulk from the Vermont Country Store.
I love that fucking smell.
It's a part of my goddamn identity.
“Purely a biological need being fulfilled,” I say, huffing out my breath and reaching up to gather my brunette hair so I can pull it over my shoulders. “Like … when you're hungry and you eat a sandwich …”
“Shut the fuck up,” Frost says, but before I can protest, he's scooping my face up in his hands and pulling my mouth to his. He crushes our lips together, tossing aside all the typical niceties of a romantic encounter and going straight for the sex.
Works for me.
We aren't going to see each other ever again after today, so what's the harm? I wasn't kidding about that sandwich thing either. If I'm thirsty, I get a drink of water. If I'm horny, I … screw a random rockstar on his tour bus.
Frost puts his hands under my ass and lifts me up onto the countertop, stepping between my thighs and pressing the hard bulge in his jeans against my white leggings. He grinds against me as we kiss, moving his hips in a way that tells me this is going to be good.
Beyond good.
Phenomenal.
Our kiss breaks apart and he pauses for a moment, his eyes half-lidded, his breath feathering across my wet lips.
“You're a much better kisser than you are a stalker,” he says, and I grab him by the waistband, dragging him even closer.
“Let's hope you're a better lover than your rude and unintelligent commentary implies,” I say, ripping his jeans open and sending the button flying across the room. Oops. Whatever. He's rich, right? He can just go out and buy some more three hundred dollar jeans.
“I can't believe I'm doing this,” he mutters, shoving his pants down over his ass, revealing a pair of way-too-tight black briefs. But, oh, the way they cup his family jewels? Beautiful. My star-covered hand slides down the flatness of his t-shirt, feeling his hard muscles begging for skin to skin contact underneath. I cup his junk with my hand and massage it, groaning so loudly that Frost reaches up his own tattooed hand and clamps it right over my mouth. “Shh,” he purrs, “screwing random girls is Vale's thing, not mine. I don't want this getting out.”
I flick my tongue against his palm and this time, he groans.
“Shit,” Frost murmurs, pulling open the drawer next to my left leg and digging around inside it. He comes up with a condom and tears it open with his teeth, slowly dropping his hand away from my mouth.
“You're not supposed to use your teeth,” I start, but he just rolls his gorgeous green eyes and clamps his hand right over my mouth again. Normally, that move would just piss me off, but … no, no, it does piss me off, but I'm totally feeling this whole hate-fuck thing we have going on right now.
Frost holds the condom package between his lips for a moment, uses his left hand to shove his underwear over his cock, and lets it spring free between us.
Oh.
Wow.
Definitely a sight more impressive than the dudes from the bookstore.
“Mm,” I murmur against his palm, leaning my head back against the mirror, my eyes heavy and half-lidded. I'm so enjoying myself right now. And I'd thought my car battery dying at the rest stop was a bad sign for how the holidays were going to go?
This is a much better way to start my vacation.
Well … my permanent vacation …
My heart twists and clenches in my chest, but I shove away the bad feelings for later. Now's not the time. No, now is not the right moment to let myself get wrapped up in things that I can't change.
Frost uses his left hand to free the condom from the package, letting the wrapper full to the floor and then deftly sliding it down the perfectly straight length of his cock. It's quite the pretty penis, if I do say so myself.
“Still into this?” Frost asks, panting a little, like he's going to go fucking crazy if I say no. Good. Because I'm feeling the same damn way. I make him wait in agony for my answer as he yanks my boots off and then peels both my panties and my leggings down, tossing them aside and onto the—thankfully—closed seat of the toilet.
I nod and he groans so loud that I put my hand over his mouth.
He doesn't seem to mind, using his left hand to guide himself to the hot wetness between my folds. My sex is swollen and desperate, wanting the hard length of him buried inside me now. Thankfully, he doesn't disappoint.
Frost positions the head of his shaft against my heated core, meets my eyes … and then drives his hips hard into me.
We both groan so fucking loudly, it's obvious even with each other's hands clamped over our mouths that we're in here and up to no good.
I slap my left hand against the wall and hit the fan. The sound helps but … but then it doesn't matter because I'm throwing my arms around Frost's neck and burying my face into the sage and pine scent of his neck.
After releasing my mouth, Frost takes me by the hips, digs his fingertips hard into my flesh and drives himself into me with a frenzy that mimics our angry back and forth in the living room.
Wiggling my body, I adjust myself just right—because I have a point to prove in here.
Three minutes, huh?
I wrap my legs around his ass and position my body so that each forceful movement of his hips rubs my clit just right. I bite this man's sexy, muscular neck lightly, my teeth pressing into his skin. I know he likes it because his entire body shudders with pleasure against me, his grip tightening even more, fingertips digging into my ass.
Frost slams our bodies together against the vanity, my orgasm starting in my clit and reaching white-hot fingers of pleasure up through my belly and into my breasts.
“Grab my tits,” I groan and Frost rushes to comply, shoving his hand up under my shirt and squeezing me hard through the lace of my bra. He pauses a moment to move my tank top out of the way, finding my white push-up bra with the glittery gold stars all over it.
And oh.
He looks excited about it.
Frost tears the lacy cup down and out of his way, dropping his head to my chest and biting down on my nipple—harder even than I bit his neck.
My head falls back against the mirror again as the pleasure completes its circuit from my cunt to my brain. My orgasm hits me so hard that I let out a sharp scream of pleasure, my body locking down around Frost's and freezing him in place. The squeezing of my muscles is so powerful that his body succumbs to the demands of my own, and he comes with a deep, guttural sound, almost a sob.
My pussy flutters like a butterfly, muscles teasing Frost's shaft as he finishes with three hard, final thrusts, his breath panting out like he's just run a marathon. I think I sound the same way, breathy and tired and satisfied.
“Told you,” I whisper in his ear as he lifts his head up and then turns to look at me.
“Told me?” he whispers back, raising a dark eyebrow. A few glorious beads of sweat dot his forehead, and I have the weirdest urge to lick them away. Eww, gross. If he were my lover then … that'd be one thing. But I don't even know this guy. “I just proved I could make you come quick.”
“What?!” I whisper back, feeling my mouth fall open in shock. “No, I was proving that I could make myself orgasm fast—even with a shitty lover.”
“Oh, like that wasn't some of the best sex you've ever had,” Frost scoffs, and I laugh, making him groan as my muscles tighten around his softening cock. But it doesn't feel that soft, like maybe … he could get it up again soon? Wow. Okay, so that is impressive.
“Best sex? That was like two seconds long,” I growl back and he narrows his green eyes on me.
“Good god, woman. First, you challenge me to give you an orgasm and then you complain when I do!”
“I said give me an orgasm, not blow your load and end it before it
really got good,” I snap back as Frost pulls out of me, slides off the condom and chucks it in the trash. I see then … that he's hard. Well, like half-hard. How is that even possible?!
“You like what you see?” he asks me, leaning back against the glass wall of the shower with a smirk. Even this room is decorated so some of Frost's smooth sexuality is diminished by the bright red and green garlands above his head. Although I do quite like the white Christmas lights filling the room with a warm glow.
“The decorations, no,” I whisper flicking my eyes to the side and then looking back at Frost's cock, the head shiny with his seed. “But that, yeah, I hate to admit it, but I am impressed.”
I slide off the counter and grab my leggings, turning away from the cocky arrogant bastard with his cock hanging out of his pants. If I keep looking … I'll do it all over again. With my eyes downcast, I slip first one leg into my pants and then …
Feel myself get pushed up against the counter—hard.
“Are you sure you're done?” Frost whispers in my ear, smelling like sweat and man and sex. And underneath it, his pine and sage scent still burns. One set of smells is a turn-on, and the other, comforting and soothing. It's a nice mix. A tantalizing mix.
“I …” I start, but let's be honest—one of the most beautiful men on the planet is standing behind me, his hard body pressed up against mine. Lifting my gaze, I meet his eyes in the mirror and I want nothing more than his hard cock between my thighs again.
Aaaaand … I'm on my way to my parents' place. Oh god. I'm going to look like a ruffled sex goddess when I walk in and find my family sipping champagne from tiny flutes and eating designer gingerbread cookies.
I open the same drawer Frost used earlier and pull out another condom, passing it back to him. He watches me in the mirror the entire time, opening the condom slowly and sensually, like it's part of the sex act, too. My boobs … okay, boob is still hanging out of my bra and my cheeks are flushed, lips swollen. Frost looks about the same—minus the boobs, of course. He has rippling pectorals that I feel like I really need to see …