Cherry Beats

by Vicki James

  Presley moved with delicious timing, the powerful rhythm he built making me see stars and my body tingle. Every time he circled his arse and drove up inside me, my toes curled, and my back arched, pushing onto him as though too much was never enough. My nails dug into his broad shoulders—warm, strong shoulders I’d dreamt about and admired for years. The heat grew and our passion soared, reaching new heights until I became so intoxicated by him, the thought of shouting out my love for him took over every thought I had.

  “Never let me go,” I whispered suddenly.

  “Never,” he panted back.

  I came hard, thighs squeezing together powerfully as my heart clenched in my chest. He soon followed—our breaths the only sound apart from the falling water and the unspoken things we weren’t admitting to one another yet.

  Those seemed to be the loudest things of all.

  I felt it in me.

  I felt it from him.

  “Cherry?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Before we leave this hotel, I want to screw you against every wall this suite has.”

  I ran my fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck and clenched around him, watching as he shuddered in my grip and the goosebumps of his skin rose to life.

  “You may have to consider getting rid of a few people from our room first.”

  “I don’t care who watches.”

  “Well, I do.” I chuckled.

  He squeezed my arse cheeks and rolled me against him, tugging my body impossibly close. “Just give me the word, and I’ll block the whole world out for you. If it’s alone-time you want, I’ll piss people off to make it happen.”

  “With an offer like that, how can a girl refuse?”

  “My plan is to make sure you never say no to me again.”

  “You can’t always have things your own way, rock star.”

  “Watch me.” He grinned, and the look of happiness on his face made me want to throw in the towel, give up the fight, and admit my love for him there and then.

  Two hours later, we’d eaten a room service dinner of the most beautiful steak I’d ever tasted, and we were now sitting on the balcony of the suite. The chairs alone were comfier than my sofa at home, and the hotel had created a wall of greenery that allowed those on the top floor to have some privacy, while also being able to enjoy the view of the Eiffel Tower, alight with twinkling promises of a magical world. Because that’s what Paris offered: magic. Even though we’d only been there a few hours, I already felt completely different to how I had done back home in England.

  Being abroad made things seem less real.

  It was easy to lose yourself in a fantasy like that.

  Presley was opening our third bottle of champagne, aiming it at the night sky before he popped the top and began to refill my glass. I was only on my third. He, however, was drinking it like it was water.

  “How are you not falling over?” I asked, unable to take my eyes from him.

  Dressed in a white Four Seasons robe that was gaping at the chest, he fell into the chair beside me, propping his feet on the small coffee table in front of us and tipping his champagne flute to his lips. I watched the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple, and I watched as he lowered it, sighed in contentment, and turned to face me.

  “Practice makes perfect,” he offered without concern. “Plus, we’re celebrating.” Presley winked, and I couldn’t help but smile.

  After our episode in the shower, he’d cleared everyone out of our suite and then guided me, still naked and shaking from the orgasm he’d just given me, and he’d laid me on the plush super-king-sized bed, spreading my legs wide and losing himself in between them with slow licks and teasing touches that built me up and up and up until all I could do was crash down to Earth with an explosive bang of pleasure. He’d whispered sweet things in my ear, saying how he’d make this the greatest trip of my life and asking me to trust him.

  I do, I’d thought on repeat, unable to get the words beyond my lips.

  “What are you thinking about?” he asked, breaking me from my daydream.

  “How surreal this all feels.” I tucked my hair behind my ear. “I’m in Paris. I’m with you. It’s all happened so fast. It’s crazy.”

  “Crazy can be a beautiful thing.”

  “Totally addictive,” I confessed, beaming proudly.

  “Do you know that when you smile like that, you light up the whole world? I’ve thought about that smile so fucking much while away from you.”

  Turning on my side to face him, I rested my cheek on the back of the chair, cradling my champagne flute into my stomach.

  “Did you think of me the whole time?”

  “Every day,” he answered quickly. “You and that motherfucking Bryan Adams.”

  My laughter fell freely.

  “Everywhere I went, he suddenly seemed to be playing. Drove me damn crazy. It was like my mind had connected to some dodgy 90s radio station I couldn’t switch off. Him, Bon Jovi—”

  “Bon Fucking Jovi,” I reminded him.

  “Right.” He grinned before he rolled his head back, resting it on the edge of his chair, and he looked up at the night sky. “All of those arseholes were reminders of you. Who knew you’d leave such an impression?” He rolled his head my way lazily, never taking his eyes off mine. “You went ahead and made me an addict.”

  An addict.

  He was in the lifestyle to become hooked, and I knew more than anyone how easy it was to fall down that hole around here. I’d drunk every day since he’d come back into my life. I glanced down at the champagne in my grip, staring at the rising bubbles of temptation before I looked back up at him.

  “Am I the only thing you’ve become hooked on?”

  Presley’s small scowl took over, and his eyes bounced over my face. “What does that mean?”

  Lifting my glass in the air, I gently wiggled it from side to side and raised a brow.

  “Are you accusing me of having a drink problem?”

  “No accusing. I’m merely asking if you get a little excessive sometimes… maybe?”

  “I should fucking hope so.” He laughed. “If I was doing all of this sober, it’d be Hell.”

  “But you can stop any time you like, right?”

  Leaning closer, he draped a hand over the arm of the chair and licked his lips. “Alcohol? Easy. You? Not a chance.”

  I found myself smiling like all those girls that had been through him before me. He had that power. He held that witchcraft in the palm of his hands, ready to unleash it and blind us all with his charm any second he deemed fit. I also found myself tipping my glass to my lips and taking a very big drink for myself.

  When in Paris…

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Three days whizzed by in a blur.

  Radio interviews.

  Sex in the back of a limousine.

  Private parties in the hotel suite.

  Blogger interviews.

  Sex in a maintenance closet of a Michelin star restaurant.

  Private parties in exclusive clubs.

  Press interviews.

  Sex on the balcony of our suite.

  Private gatherings at celebrity mansions.

  We were living in excess: money wasn’t a problem, cheap wine was on tap, and all our morals had been left in London. Presley seemed lighter than air, and I allowed myself to become caught up in the cloud of it, bobbing along at speed, not knowing where this was taking me or where I would end up. I’d never really done the young, girly holidays or the mental club scene days, so I reasoned with myself that this was my youth gone wild. This was my time to enjoy life. This was my time to let my hair down. I was young, and where I’d once dreamed of being older, responsible, and in control, suddenly I wanted all the freedom that youth allowed you to have, both physically and morally.

  If this was my one shot at living in the fast lane, I was going to take it—consequences to be calculated at a later date.

  That night, Presley and the guys w
ere due to play a show at Le Zenith, one of the largest music venues in the city of Paris according to Julia, and one she was excited for Youth Gone Wild to be playing at… again.

  “Are you nervous?” I asked Presley, who was tugging his jacket into place before he pushed a dark grey beanie hat onto his head, positioning it perfectly so it showed a spattering of his famous blonde locks.

  “Why would I be nervous?”

  “I don’t know.” I was busy pushing my foot into my Doc Marten, while also wondering if I looked good enough wearing my leather trousers and an over-sized cream jumper that fell off one shoulder. “It seems to me like this show is a big deal, that’s all. Julia keeps reminding us we can’t be late. Rhett seems to be bouncing.”

  “Rhett’s always bouncing.”

  “Today more so than usual.” I stood up and tugged on my jumper to make it sit right.

  Presley came in front of me, pushed his hands into my hair and pinned it up at the back of my head. “As long as I get to create the music, I don’t care where I am.” His eyes drifted to my bare shoulder, lingering there. “Do me a favour, will you?”

  “What?”

  He gathered my hair into one hand, holding it up, and he brought down his free hand, trailing a soft stroke of his thumb across my skin. “Wear your hair up tonight. This shoulder is teasing me, and I like it. I want more of that.”

  I never knew how he did that: seduced me with such simplicity. The tone of his voice enough to make my knees go weak.

  “Okay,” I whispered, smiling back at him. Presley dropped a soft kiss to my bare shoulder and then began to guide me out of the room, my brain left somewhere behind me as I rolled on the wave of excitement he drowned me in.

  We arrived at Le Zenith in the early afternoon, where the guys were guided into the stadium to begin their sound check. You didn’t have to be a music lover to appreciate the sight of it but being one anyway sure as shit made that one of those wildest experiences of my life.

  The sounds echoed around the empty arena, and all I could do was grin like a fool as I looked around at the empty seats, knowing what those fans were going to experience later that night. There was so much activity. It wasn’t just a village that got the band on the road—it was a city… a whole damn country. Men and women marched back and forth, new equipment being rolled in until I wasn’t sure where they were going to put the latest pieces. Lights were tested. Rhett came to life on that stage, even without an audience. Coops, Big D, and Hawk took it in their stride, walking around the stage slowly with smiles on their faces as they made jokes back and forth. But even in the background, Presley shone. He could have been in a dark corner, trying to hide from the world, and every pair of eyes in that room would have chosen him to stare at. He wasn’t a natural entertainer like Rhett. Presley was a performer. He lived for those beats. The sound of those sticks hitting his drums was his oxygen. It was hypnotising.

  “Fascinating, isn’t it?”

  I spun around to see Uncle Dex standing there with his hands pushed into the depths of his jean pockets, a smug smile on his face as he rocked back on the heels of his boots.

  “Dex!” I threw my arms around him.

  “Woah.” He laughed as I pulled away. “A young woman hasn’t looked that happy to see me in a long time.”

  “What can I say? It’s nice to see someone whose name I actually know.”

  “Paris burning you out, Tess?”

  “No,” I half-lied, hiding it behind a smile that at least felt genuine. In truth, I was becoming exhausted, wondering how long I could keep this up without ageing ten years and being able to rest a finger in the lines of my crow’s feet. “It’s amazing. Manic, but amazing.”

  “A bit different to Hollings Hill, right?”

  It took the mention of my hometown for me to realise how little I’d thought of it while out here in France. “So different,” I answered softly, letting my hands fall by my sides before I turned back to look at Presley and the guys discussing something on the stage. Presley’s arm was aimed high at the lights above as though he was offering an idea or having issue with something.

  “His dad would be so proud,” Uncle Dex said quietly, and it immediately made a lump form in my throat.

  “How old was he, Dex?”

  “Jimmy?”

  I turned to face him. “That’s his dad’s name?”

  “Yeah.” He smiled. “And depending on what day you asked him, Jimmy would tell you he was named after Jim Morrison, Jimmy Page, or Jimi Hendrix.” Dex laughed.

  “Another music lover?”

  “Every child’s passion usually has something to do with their parents, whether they want to admit it or not.” He nodded at the stage where Presley was gesticulating something to the rest of the band, his arms pointing in this direction and that like he was in charge, for once. “Presley is all Jimmy. In mind, heart, soul… on the stage.”

  “Jimmy played in a band?”

  Dex pushed his lips out and nodded, his smile fading as memories made his eyes glaze over. “There wasn’t anything Jimmy couldn’t play. Drums were his first love, but give him a guitar, a keyboard, a damn trumpet, and the guy could get it to make whatever music he wanted it to make.”

  “What happened?” I dared myself to ask, imagining a young Presley looking up at his father with admiration and respect.

  “Not my story to tell, Tess.”

  “Sorry,” I muttered with embarrassment.

  “No need. You care for my nephew. It’s natural you want to know about his life, but that’s his story to share.”

  I turned back to Dex. “Do you think he will? Share it with me, I mean…”

  “I’m surprised he already hasn’t. It’s obvious what you mean to him.”

  “It is?”

  Dex rolled his eyes. “Little bit.”

  “Look who made it!” Presley cried, his face alight with happiness as he jogged forward, a sweaty mess, and for once, not wearing his leather jacket which was draped over the stool behind his drum kit. The sight of his muscly bare arms made me want to shiver with excitement, every prominent vein in his forearms my personal addiction. My weakness. My porn.

  The men embraced hard, a few slaps on the back followed by mutters of insults that only told me how much they loved each other.

  “You knew he was coming?” I interrupted, giving Presley a look that clearly said Thanks for the head’s up, arsehole.

  Presley responded with a smile before he leaned over and sank his teeth into my bare shoulder, growling hungrily as he wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me closer.

  “I can’t concentrate. What is it about this little bit of skin that gets me so hyped up? Fuck, you smell good, too.”

  “Presley!” I gasped, looking back at Dex apologetically and pushing on Presley’s chest. Dex and Presley laughed, and Presley eventually backed off, running a hand through his hair and holding it in place at the back of his neck.

  “I flew Uncle Dex over,” he told me, shrugging a shoulder. “Missed the fucker.”

  “Ah, my sweet nephew and his poetic words.” Dex tilted his head to one side and smiled proudly.

  “Plus, I thought shit was about to get hectic around here. Julia and the crew will be busy tonight. I didn’t want you standing around alone, not knowing everyone,” Presley told me.

  It was my turn to roll my eyes and fold my arms over my chest as I tried to control the weight of my smile.

  “So, I’m here to babysit?” Dex asked in mock horror.

  I nudged his shoulder with mine, winking his way. “Don’t worry, Dex. I’m sure we can find some trouble to make and fun to have along the way.”

  “My kinda girl.” He grinned.

  “You know she’s taken, right?” Presley glared at Dex.

  “I don’t see a ring on her finger, son.”

  When Presley turned to look at me, his smile grew, and his eyes narrowed.

  The feeling that one look left me with was breathtaking.


  The band’s sound check ended an hour or so later, and everyone headed backstage where private chefs had set up room after room of food for everyone involved. This wasn’t some thrown-together snack of hotdogs and hamburgers. This was as sophisticated as the Michelin star restaurant we’d visited in Paris. Caterers had set up tables of vegetarian, vegan, organic, and even gluten-free food. Beside the bottles of alcohol was a full table filled with water. Private rooms had been cordoned off for the band alone, and inside those rooms were specialist tour doctors who were there to check blood sugars, blood pressures, and the hydration of the band.

  “We can get vitamin shots whenever the fuck we like,” Presley said as he led me through the backstage area, pointing in different directions to give me the full experience.

  I looked around in complete awe. Anything I’d ever imagined about current rock star life had been left back in the eighties and nineties. These guys weren’t living The Mötley Crüe life where the only shots they ever had came in the form of heroin. Modern life on the road allowed them to party hard while knowing they’d have someone there waiting off the side of the stage with a headache pill and two hands to offer a massage. There were therapists, masseuses, physios…

  You name it—the band had it.

  “Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t always this way.” He side-eyed me, lips twitching. “Before we made the big time, we hit the scene hard. After our first taste of tour life, though, Dicky demanded we started taking better care of ourselves.”

  “That makes sense.” I nodded, grateful to see this side of everything. My imagination had clearly taken me down some darker paths that I was only just beginning to acknowledge.

  “Want a protein smoothie?” Presley pointed to another bar that had been set up where a young guy was currently whizzing ingredients together in a blender.