Lovely Madness: A Players Rockstar Romance (Players, Book 4)

by Jaine Diamond

And anyway, what the hell kind of date could you go on with a man who rarely even left the house?

  Keep your mind out of the gutter, Taylor.

  No use tumbling in there too damn fast.

  That was what I kept telling myself. But the problem was, my mind was very comfortable in the gutter.

  By the time I got back to the house, the sun was almost down. It was getting dark as I made my way up the driveway. I could see a faint bit of light bleeding from the far front window, through the bushes and trees. The one on the control room. I wondered how late Cary would be working.

  I wondered all kinds of things.

  Some appropriate, some highly not.

  I wondered if we would be friends. If he would ever hang out with me in the evening. If he would ever come outside for more than five minutes, maybe actually use his pool while I was around.

  I wondered if he liked to jog, or if I could get him to venture out into the neighborhood a little. Like maybe after dark or something?

  I wondered if he missed having women around and what he’d be like to kiss.

  I wondered when was the last time he had sex.

  I also wondered if he was straight. Though I was pretty sure I already knew the answer to that. The pool boy comment, for one. And the way I felt around him, for another.

  It was chemical. I could feel the pheromones in the air threatening to choke us both out.

  Though maybe those were mostly mine.

  From the backyard, I couldn’t see any lights on; the studio was entirely sealed off from the backyard with all those layers of curtains. Upstairs was dark, too. I wondered where, exactly, his bedroom was, and if he was going to sleep up there tonight.

  I wondered if he slept enough. His eyes said he didn’t.

  I wondered if he’d be working all night.

  As I made my way into the poolhouse and stripped down for my post-jog shower, I made a strange decision, very consciously.

  I am not falling for him.

  Nope. Totally not doing that.

  I was very assertive with myself on that point.

  Yes, I was curious about him. Drawn to him. Attracted to him. But I was not going to let myself get all wrapped up in another man who was practically bleeding with issues.

  Though it occurred to me, as the water streamed over me, that if I wasn’t already afraid that I could, very easily, fall for him, I wouldn’t have needed to try to make myself such a promise in the first place.

  Promises don’t mean anything.

  That was what Cary said to me, the first day I met him.

  I shivered as the water cooled me off and sank into my bones. I made it quick, shutting the water off and jumping out so I could towel off before I got too much of a chill. The cool shower was invigorating after a good jog and a good sweat. I pulled on a pair of soft, cotton sleep shorts that didn’t strictly look like pajamas, with a bra and a black tank top. The bra was out of courtesy, in case I ran into Cary.

  I want you to feel at home probably didn’t mean Bras are optional when you’re off the clock.

  Then I grabbed my faded old Metallica hoodie. It had a picture of a fist holding a dagger, sticking up out of a toilet, and said METAL UP YOUR ASS. Because I was classy like that.

  I headed out into the yard. It was already cooling off, now that the sun was down. The lanterns all around the pool and gardens were glowing, golden in the night. I saw Freddy dart into the bushes, his bell tinkling, maybe on a nocturnal hunt. Though I imagined he scared off everything down to the last cricket with that bell on.

  The sweet fragrance of fresh grass and blossoms beat the car-exhaust-and-sidewalk-piss smell in the air outside my apartment, any fucking day. Part of me couldn’t believe that I now basically lived here. Cary hadn’t exactly encouraged me to go home on evenings and weekends. It was made pretty clear I was welcome here, twenty-four-seven.

  But there really wasn’t much to do in the poolhouse.

  It was too early to sleep, and I liked to laugh before I went to bed. Fortunately, there was that giant TV in Cary’s living room. The room he gave me a key for and told me to help myself to. And I actually felt pretty comfortable in his house.

  That surprised me, in a way. But today, while I spent the day with him, any lingering reservations I might’ve had about working here seemed to dissolve. The job already seemed pretty awesome, and frankly, so did my boss.

  But obviously, what I’d seen so far wasn’t the whole picture. I knew that.

  I let myself in through the French doors and turned on a lamp. I went out to the foyer and looked at the doors to the studio.

  They were open.

  I went over and peeked up the long hallway inside the studio. The door to the control room was ajar, dim light spilling out. I couldn’t hear any sound. I wondered if Cary had headphones on.

  I went back into the living room and sat down on the couch, and after some random button pushing figured out how to work the TV. He had Netflix, and I decided to watch some politically incorrect comedy—my favorite. I searched comedy specials, found Bill Burr and put on I’m Sorry You Feel That Way. And I turned it up pretty loud.

  I curled up in the corner of the big couch, cuddling underneath my hoodie, laying it over me like a blanket.

  Maybe ten minutes in, I heard Cary. I looked up to find him standing in the arched entranceway.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, not sorry at all. “Is it too loud?”

  He studied me for a moment and maybe, just maybe, the barest hint of a smile touched his lips. He leaned a shoulder on the wall. “What are you watching?”

  “My favorite comedian.”

  He looked at the screen. “Who is it?”

  I paused it with the remote so I could gape at him appropriately. “You don’t know who Bill Burr is?”

  “I don’t really watch stand-up comedy.”

  “What?”

  “I mean… I saw Eddie Murphy Raw when I was a kid.”

  “You need to sit your ass down on the couch, boss. Right now. Laughter is medicine for the soul.”

  I didn’t wait to see what he thought of that. I just resumed watching.

  After a moment, Cary came over and sat down on the enormous couch with me. He was at one end, and I was at the other. We couldn’t have touched if we wanted to.

  But we watched comedy together. And after a while he did laugh, a little, kind of under his breath.

  I probably watched him as much as I watched the show. I’d seen this one before anyway.

  And Cary Clarke laughing was something to see.

  It was late, like after two in the morning, and I couldn’t sleep.

  I lay flat on my back on the bed in the poolhouse, staring at the ceiling, unable to turn off my brain. I knew it was the nerves and adrenaline of being in this new place, starting this new job. I had nothing to be nervous about. I knew that. I’d aced my first day and Cary and I got along.

  I just had all this restless energy left over, that my jog didn’t seem to dissipate.

  One of the things I loved about my apartment building, and was kinda missing right now, was the rooftop. It was accessible from the sixth floor, right above mine, and I sometimes went up there at night just to listen to the sounds of the city and look at the stars.

  But there were stars here, too.

  I got up, pulling my sleep shorts and tank top back on. I didn’t bother with the bra this time. It was the middle of the night. I looked around for my Metallica hoodie, and when I couldn’t find it, I realized maybe I’d left it in Cary’s living room.

  After Bill Burr, he’d gone back to work in the studio. I’d watched a bit of another comedy special, almost dozed off, then dragged myself off to bed. I’d slept for a bit, then woke up and couldn’t fall back asleep.

  I dug another hoodie out of the closet, pulled it on and went out into the backyard in bare feet. I put up my hood and dug my hands into my pockets. It was cool but not cold. The golden lanterns around the pool and gardens had gone out an
d the yard was dark.

  It was a clear night and when I looked up, I saw stars smattered across the sky. They were dim, and maybe it was my imagination but it seemed like I could see more stars here than from my apartment downtown. Maybe just because it seemed so much darker in this quiet residential neighborhood, even though I was in the middle of the city.

  I laid myself out on a lounge chair by the pool, and looked up at the stars. Way better view than the poolhouse ceiling. I tried to clear my mind and count the stars. After a while, I realized I kept losing track and had to start over, which meant I was probably close to falling asleep.

  I almost got up to drag myself back to bed, but I didn’t.

  Then I heard a noise. I jerked, wondering if I’d fallen asleep. I sat up and looked around in the dark.

  Cary was standing at the French doors in the living room, inside, and I heard the click as he locked them for the night. He looked out, seemed to look across at the poolhouse, which was dark. He didn’t see me out here in the darkness. He turned away from the windows.

  I got up to show myself, to go ask him if he wanted to join me, maybe. But then I hesitated. What time was it?

  Come look at the stars with me.

  It seemed silly. Intrusive. It was the dead of night and he’d already spent most of his day and his evening with me. Surely he was sick of me by now, and wanted some sleep.

  I watched him walk back through the living room. It was dark, except for the light in the studio that was bleeding in, dimly, through the foyer beyond. And for some reason, I drifted toward the doors.

  He stopped as he passed between the couch and the coffee table, and I stopped, several feet away from the doors.

  He reached to pick something up off the table. Something small. He turned it over in his hand and seemed to study it carefully. I couldn’t really see his expression or his eyes, just his face in dim silhouette.

  He put whatever it was back down on the table, gently.

  I wasn’t sure why I was standing there, watching him. But I didn’t move. I barely breathed, like he might hear me or something.

  He turned and looked at the end of the couch, right where I’d sat while we watched comedy on his big screen a few hours ago. He reached to pick something up off the couch.

  My Metallica hoodie.

  A warm prickle went through me when I realized what it was—like he was touching me.

  He held it in his hands, like he was feeling the soft fabric, gently. Then he lifted it slowly. He held it to his face, maybe inhaling the scent. Then he lowered it and just held it, standing there a long moment.

  I didn’t budge. I didn’t breathe. I could practically smell the hoodie myself. Feel it in his hands, like it was in mine.

  And then I remembered, the lipstick that had fallen out of the pocket. It rolled on the floor and I put it on the coffee table. Was that what he’d found on the table?

  He sat down all at once, on the coffee table, like his body was suddenly too heavy.

  He hung his head for a moment, and ran a hand through his hair.

  That was when I knew I should back away, stop staring, stop spying.

  But I just stood, mesmerized.

  He rubbed my hoodie gently in his hands.

  I swallowed, and my throat pulled, dry. My heart was beating too hard as strange things happened in my body. The nervous feeling of watching him when he didn’t know I was watching. The anticipation of what he was going to do next.

  The question: Why was he holding onto my hoodie?

  I watched him slide over from the coffee table to the couch. He sat right at the end of the couch where I’d sat while we watched TV. But he didn’t turn the TV on. He leaned forward on his knees, his head hanging. He just sat there, leaning on his knees.

  Then he laced his hands around the back of his neck like he was exhausted. Or, like he was wrestling with some monumental decision that was going to change his life forever.

  My heart thumped, my whole body vibrating with the frantic beat.

  Then I saw his shoulders shift, his arm moving as he reached down between his legs. The obvious movement as he started unzipping his jeans.

  I sucked back a breath. I knew what he was doing.

  I wanted him to do it.

  He shifted his hips, then leaned back, reclining against the couch. I followed the silhouette of his arm, down, to his hand. He’d taken out his cock.

  My whole body flushed with heat.

  He was hard. I could see the shape of him. Darkness against the deeper dark, flashes of detail as the dim light spilled across him, as his hand slid up, then down.

  His cock flexed, standing up straighter.

  I saw the thick shaft, the slight curve, the juicy head, and my mouth watered. The flesh between my legs gave a hungry pang.

  I glanced at the silhouette of his face. His mouth drifted open.

  I wished I could hear him.

  I couldn’t believe this was happening. Right before my eyes.

  I was watching, and I had no intention of leaving, even as the guilt rippled through me. My heartbeat was too strong, and it pounded my feet to the ground.

  Stay.

  Watch this.

  Cary ran his free hand up his stomach, pushing up his T-shirt to bare his ribs, the hard expanse of his chest. Then he drifted his hand over his chest. He dragged his fingers over his nipple, then down his stomach. Then he grasped something and dragged it over his bare chest.

  My hoodie.

  He draped it over his chest and left it there.

  Then he lifted one hand to press it to his eyes, like he was blocking out everything except what was in his head. His other hand stroked, up and down his thick cock, squeezing. I could feel the tension in my own body, the dry thickness in my throat when I swallowed. The fierce pounding of my pulse in my head, and between my legs.

  I couldn’t hear him. He couldn’t hear me, my raspy breathing in the dark.

  But I could see his pleasure.

  It was the only time he removed his hand from his eyes: to watch himself come.

  I watched, too, as his whole body went rigid. His mouth opened again in a soundless breath as he ejaculated, the thick spurts spilling over his fist… I couldn’t quite see them, but I could imagine, as I watched the slow, jerking movements of his body. The way his head fell back against the couch and his hand gradually slowed, then stopped moving.

  His chest silently heaving as he clutched my hoodie to it.

  Chapter Ten

  Taylor

  Rock N’ Roll Is a Vicious Game

  I woke up with the feeling of Cary next to me in bed.

  He wasn’t there, of course. It was another dream.

  I kept seeing him laid back with his fist around his cock, his mouth open in pleasure. I could feel his heat. I could hear him moan.

  I could see the thick spurts of his come pouring over his knuckles.

  I could practically taste it.

  I groaned, rubbing my face and rolling over.

  Obviously, when I got back to the poolhouse last night after watching him masturbate, I’d made myself come. Immediately. I wasn’t sure I’d ever come that fast in my life. The overwhelming visual display of what I’d just seen had me torqued up so high I was shaking by the time I collapsed on the bed, and pretty much as soon as my fingers got working down there, it was all over.

  Afterwards, I realized the blinds on the bedroom were partway open. But it was dark. I didn’t turn on any lights when I stumbled in. And Cary definitely wasn’t out there in the dark, watching me. I checked.

  The only voyeur around here was me.

  I sighed and pushed myself up out of bed. I’d had a shitty sleep, because I kept waking up aroused. Dreaming about it again and again.

  As I forced myself to shower and eat some cereal, I kept seeing it.

  Oh, God. That visual.

  I would never be able to unsee it and I didn’t particularly want to.

  However, I felt guilty for wat
ching something that was meant to be private.

  At least, it probably was. He didn’t shut the curtains over the French doors. But he also didn’t turn on any lights in the living room. It was the middle of the night, he looked outside first and saw the complete darkness of the yard and the poolhouse, and obviously he thought he was alone.

  And it didn’t exactly seem like he’d planned to do it. More like he was on his way to bed for the night, but got distracted by my lipstick and then my hoodie… and couldn’t not do it.

  Because he wanted me?

  Either that, or he just reaaally liked the smell of my hoodie.

  Shit. How was I gonna look him in the eye?

  It wasn’t what I’d seen that was the problem. It was the fact that I’d spied on him to see it.

  Should I tell him?

  How?

  Hey, you know last night, in the middle of the night, when you looked out the window and thought you were alone because the whole world was dark and asleep? Well, I was right outside in the dark, and I watched you smell my hoodie and touch yourself, and I watched you come, and it was the most exciting moment of my life thus far. I hope you don’t mind.

  Yeah… I’ll just pack my things and go.

  Yeesh.

  Would he be embarrassed? Upset? Would he fire me?

  He had every right to.

  If I was a guy, standing outside my female boss’s house in the middle of the night, and I watched her masturbate like a Peeping Tom from the bushes, pretty sure that would be grounds for dismissal and very possibly a sexual harassment lawsuit.

  Hardly made it okay just because he was a man and I was a woman.

  I was his employee. I was on his property. And he did not know I was there.

  Unless… he ended up liking the idea that I was there?

  Fuck me, but I was so aroused at the thought. I had to get myself together. I was just hoping he wasn’t in the studio already when I walked in. I wasn’t quite ready to face him yet.

  I made my way into the house—where my Metallica hoodie was mysteriously gone from the living room—and into the control room. And there he was, sitting at his desk.