by Rowe, Lauren
“That’s right. Birthdays equal getting shitfaced. No exceptions.”
“Happy birthday.”
“Thanks. You were invited to the party.”
“I was busy.”
“Yeah, I bet. I saw the video. You’ve been drowning your sorrows tonight, I presume?” I gesture to the big bottle of booze on the ledge.
She takes a long swig from her bottle. “Fuck Malik. I don’t want to talk about him.”
“Fair enough.” I bite my lip. Shift my weight. Stare at her tits. And, finally, address the elephant in the room. “So . . . you’re single now?”
“I’m very, very single.”
Hot damn. My eyes drift to her naked body again. And I swear I have to suck on my teeth, vigorously, not to physically drool down my chin at the sight of her.
“Eyes up here, Adrian,” she says. And when I comply this time, she smiles and says, “So, are you finally ready to apologize for being an asshole to me?”
I pull a face. “Which time?”
She snorts. “Let’s start with your diatribe in Atlanta and work our way from there.”
“Nah. You deserved Atlanta. If anyone needs to apologize for being an asshole in Atlanta, it’s you.”
“Me?”
“Laila, you read me the Riot Act in front of everyone on the tour—and, in case you didn’t realize this, honey, you’re the opener.”
She rolls her eyes. “Okay, I admit I might have been a little out of line to—"
“A little? Come on. Nobody’s here. Admit you blew it. I had to say what I did. You were way out of line.”
She twists her mouth. “I admit I shouldn’t have said what I did in front of people. I should have pulled you aside and said it all in private. But I don’t regret what I said. All of it was true. Really, all you had to say to me was, ‘Hey, let’s step outside to talk about this.’ Or, better yet, ‘No problem, Laila! I’ll try to be more punctual and professional from now on, as a courtesy not only to you, but to every hardworking person on the tour, not to mention my fans!’ And I would have said, ‘I’m sorry I snapped in front of everyone. That was totally unprofessional of me.’”
“It was.”
She throws up her hands. “Yes, but I picked a poorly timed fist fight with you, Savage. And in response, you pulled out a freaking Uzi!”
“Whatever, dude. We could go ‘round and ‘round about what happened in Atlanta, and who was the bigger asshole, until the end of time. It would be you, by the way. But what’s the point?”
“I literally hate you.”
I chuckle. “Or, we could stop arguing about this, and agree to disagree, and, instead, move on to you answering a very important question for me.”
She tilts her head, clearly intrigued. “What’s the question?”
I squat down, leveling my eyes with hers. “On the night your boyfriend cheated on you for the entire world to see, do you want to sit here, naked, in a hot tub, arguing with a guy who’s got a big ol’ dick and knows how to use it . . . or, do you want to agree to a temporary cease-fire with said guy, long enough to have the best revenge sex of your life?”
Her blue eyes gleaming, Laila bites back a wicked smile. She runs a fingertip across the rim of her bottle like she’s teasing the tip of my cock. And every nerve ending in my body feels it. She says, “If I say yes, nobody can ever know.”
I flash her a look like I’m deeply insulted. “You’d be ashamed for anyone to know you’d fucked The Great Adrian Savage?”
She replies with a look of her own that says, Well, duh. She says, “After the way you treated me in Atlanta, with everyone watching? Hell yes, I’d be ashamed for anyone to know I fucked you. Honestly, I’d be mortified.”
“Says the girl who’s been dating Malik Wallace for at least two months,” I toss out. “But, whatever. Fine. Nobody will ever know.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
“It’d be revenge sex—a one-time thing that would never happen again,” she declares. “Afterwards, it never happened.”
“I get it, dude. No need to say it five different ways. Although I want to be able to tell one trusted person.”
“Kendrick?” she asks.
I nod. “I tell him everything. Plus, I think it will help him let go of any lingering crush he might have on you.”
She juts her lower lip. “Poor Kendrick. He’s the sweetest person in the world.”
“Don’t feel sorry for him. He dodged a bullet. You’re a psychopath.”
To my surprise, she laughs. “True.”
“Too bad for him, you’re a psychopath who only likes assholes, eh?”
She doesn’t correct me. She merely says, “I get to tell one trusted person, too.”
“Naturally. Who?”
“Aloha. She’ll scream at me. Tell me I’m a predictable idiot. She doesn’t like you very much.”
“Why not? I’m amazing.”
“She thinks you’re a player.”
“Pfft. Tell her to get in line, sister. Any other conditions, terms, or stipulations, Fitzy?”
She ponders that for a moment. Or, at least, she pretends to. “No. That’s it. I’ll probably hate myself in the morning, but I have to know.”
“You have to know what?”
Her expression turns wicked. “If those famous shots of you in the shower were real or Photoshopped.”
I waggle my eyebrows. “There’s only one way to find out.”
She pauses. “Do you have a condom?”
“I sure do.”
“Okay, then.” She pushes out her incredible tits, opens her thighs underneath the water, and purrs, “Then you’d better get your annoying ass in here, before I change my mind.”
She doesn’t need to ask me twice. With my dick as hard as a stone, I rise to standing and begin peeling off my clothes. When I get down to my briefs, and lodge my thumb underneath the waistband, the look of molten lust on Laila’s face reflects my own desires back to me. Every cell in my body on fire, I slowly pull my underwear down, freeing my hard shaft and eliciting a sharp intake of breath from Laila.
“No Photoshop there,” she purrs with appreciation. “Damn, boy.”
I slip into the water across from her and she immediately rises and greets me. Without hesitation, she grips my dick under the water, while I take her stunning face in my hands, beyond excited to finally kiss the lips that have entranced me for so long . . .
But it’s not meant to be.
Laila jerks back, saying, “You’ve been smoking.” And when I nod, she adds, “We shouldn’t kiss, anyway. That’s way too intimate a thing for one-time-only revenge sex.”
I’m disappointed, but such is life. I should have known.
I drop my hands to her bare shoulders and guide her to sitting, while she maintains her firm grip on my dick. My heart pounding, I smile and say, “Kissing that dirty little mouth of yours isn’t what I’ve been fantasizing about doing to it, anyway.”
She returns my smirk. “You admit you’ve been fantasizing about me?”
“You’re not the only one who gets off on the idea of hate sex, Laila.” With that, I reach down between her creamy thighs in the warm water, slide two fingers gently inside her and my thumb over her clit, and proceed to massage and finger her, methodically, without variation or mercy, while tracing her gorgeous lips with my free hand.
Soon, Laila’s eyelids begin fluttering. A soft, husky groan rises up in her throat. As her eyes roll back, she takes my finger into her mouth and sucks on it, hard, voraciously, like it’s giving her life—and a moment later, her body seizes with an insanely sensual orgasm that sends me to the very brink of release myself.
“Time for your penance,” I choke out. My breathing ragged, I step up onto the bench, place my feet on either side of her seated frame, and shove my cock at her mouth, nonverbally commanding her to suck it. Thankfully, she follows instruction well, and takes my full length into her mouth without hesitation. Immediately, she b
egins sucking me off with enthusiasm, like she’s auditioning for a managerial position at a brothel.
Muttering profanities, I grip Laila’s sandy hair to steady myself. To keep myself from losing it and shattering into a million pieces. Is there anything hotter than getting blown by the same dirty little mouth that, only days ago, told me to fuck off? If so, I can’t imagine it. Not in this lifetime, anyway.
But when my pleasure threatens to boil over, I decide it’s time to move along. As much as I’ve fantasized about coming into Laila’s mouth, many, many times, I’ve been dying to split her body in half with my cock, even more.
Shaking with adrenaline and arousal, I pull out of Laila’s mouth and moan at the sultry sight of her. Her full lips are slightly swollen from her voracious effort. And the effect is insanely sexy. Her blue eyes are as ravenous and hungry as I’ve ever seen them. In short, she looks the hottest she ever has to me. And that’s saying a lot.
“Come with me,” I choke out, taking her hand. I guide her out of the hot tub and lead her to a nearby lounger in a cabana. After grabbing a condom from my pants on the ground and getting myself swiftly covered, I return to her in the dark shadows of the cabana, spread her smooth thighs as wide as they’ll go—so wide, her pussy looks like a blooming flower on the cusp of losing its petals—and plunge myself inside her, growling feverishly as her body molds to mine.
I fuck her hard. So hard, I almost fuck her off the lounger. She digs her nails into my shoulders and keens like an animal as I move on top of her, and every sound she makes sends me higher and higher.
“Let me get on top now,” she gasps out. “I come when I’m on top.”
There’s not a doubt in my mind she’d come like this, and any other way I might fuck her, as long as she’s fucking me. But now isn’t the time to argue. I’ve got only one shot to convince this woman to do this with me, again and again throughout the rest of the tour, so I’m going to let her have exactly what she wants.
We rearrange ourselves, until Laila is riding my cock while I’m massaging her clit and telling her how insanely gorgeous she is. How good she feels. And in no time at all, she whimpers from the depths of her abdomen, digs her nails into my chest, and comes so hard, the rippling sensation of her muscles gripping my dick snatches every drop of air from my lungs, while threatening to pull the cum from my balls.
Somehow, probably thanks to the booze in my system, I’m able to hang on and keep going. I jolt to sitting and frantically begin devouring her breasts and nipples. I’m a hurricane of lust now. A crazed and rabid animal, and so is she. She pushes me flat onto my back again, and begins fucking me with a kind of fervor I’ve never experienced before. She’s not holding back. And I can’t get enough.
As she moves, I grope her ass. Grip her hips and move my body with hers. Sweat is pouring off me, mingling with the water still dripping off me from the hot tub. She’s glistening, too, giving it her all.
Finally, when I’m sure enough time has passed and touching her clit will only feel good to her again, I start massaging her the way I’ve already surmised she likes the best. Little circles in a slow and methodical fashion. And soon, my sexy little freak has an orgasm that’s so powerful, so forceful, so hot, it’s like her body is physically milking the cum from my balls.
As I let go and surrender to bliss, stars momentarily blind me. Without a thought in my head, other than “I want,” I sit up and grip Laila’s stunning face in my palms, dying to kiss her. But, once again, same as before, she turns her head and denies me.
Quickly, I drop my palms and lie back, remembering the deal. Trembling, I rest my forearm over my eyes, my body and mind reeling in equal measure. That was the best sex of my life. By far. And that should be enough. I shouldn’t want more. But I do. I want to kiss her. I want to taste her pussy, from every angle. And then I want to fuck her, again and again, in every position, in every new city.
But first things first. I’ll make her come another ten times, right here in Phoenix.
“Come to my room now, Laila,” I gasp out. “We’re just getting started. Let me eat your pussy till it’s time to board the buses.”
She looks amused. “It’s been a long day.” She pats my cheek. “And the buses leave at eight. Thanks for that great revenge sex, though. I really needed that.” With that, she slides off me and pads over to a chair, to a white fluffy robe draped across its back.
I sit up onto my forearms. “Let me make you come again and again, Laila. We’re just getting started tonight, baby.”
“No, we’re done. I told you—one and done.”
I scoff. “Come on, Laila. Haven’t you heard, revenge sex is a dish best served . . . repeatedly and often, with a guy you can’t stand?”
Laila chuckles. “I don’t think that’s the expression.”
I’m encouraged by her smile. “You’re finally single—and we’re stuck together for the rest of the tour—and you’re turning me down? Who else are you gonna fuck for the next month, if not me? Someone in the crew?”
“Maybe.”
“Bullshit. You don’t want anyone else and neither do I. We’ve both wanted this for a long time. So, let’s do this.” I sit up completely in the lounger as she finishes putting on her robe. “Laila, come on. We’ll have smoking-hot hate sex in every position, in every city, for the rest of the tour. And when the tour is over, we will be, too.”
Laila flashes the same dismissive look as before. “I told you, quite clearly, honey. This was a one-time thing that will never happen again. I was curious . . . and now I know.” With that, she tightens the belt on her robe and begins striding away, tossing over her shoulder as she goes, “Don’t be late for the buses, Adrian.”
What the fuck? I just offered this woman a no-strings month of hate sex with me—with me!—a guy half the female population on planet earth would do anything to get with—and she’s not taking me up on it? Despite the fact that we just had the hottest sex two people can possibly have?
“I’ll text you my room number in Vegas!” I call to her. “Come to my room after tonight’s show!”
“Not gonna happen!” she yells back.
“It’s happening tonight!”
“One and done!”
“Tonight and every night for the rest of the tour!”
There’s only silence now. No footfalls. No reply.
“Laila?”
But she’s obviously gone.
Exhaling, I get up and grab my clothes off the ground. I dry myself off with my shirt and throw on my pants. And then, I grab Laila’s bottle of whiskey, plop into a nearby chair, and stare at the starry night while drinking and replaying what just happened, over and over again, in my head. I knew it’d be hot with her, but that hot? Good lord. When we really got going, it was like she was a junkie, chasing a high. A hate sex high.
I freeze with the lip of the bottle against my mouth. Now, that’s a hit song.
Hate Sex High.
My heart thumping, I grab my phone and record a flurry of voice memos. Some initial lyrics, a melody for the hook, an idea for the dirty, raunchy beat. Finally, when I get enough recorded to keep the song from slipping back into the ethers before I’ve arrived in my room to nail it down, I throw on my shirt and sprint out of the pool area, all the way to my suite on the far end of the hotel. Once inside the room, I rip off my damp clothes like a madman, grab my guitar, and start writing “Hate Sex High” in earnest, feeling like a man possessed.
When asked about my songwriting process in interviews, I often say it feels even better than sex, when it’s going well. But after fucking Laila the Unicorn Freak, the Hate Sex Addict, the woman who just rocked my world like none other, I know my usual comment isn’t entirely accurate. Now that I’ve had hate sex with the one and only Laila, I know the more accurate statement is that songwriting, when it’s going well, feels better than regular sex, and almost as good as hate sex with the hottest woman who’s ever walked planet earth, Laila Fitzgerald.
Seventeen
Laila
Las Vegas, Nevada
As I speed-walk across the sprawling lobby toward the elevator bank on my way to Savage’s suite on the twentieth floor of our Vegas hotel, I chastise myself for giving in to temptation. I shouldn’t be heading to Savage’s room. Not right now. And not at all. The plan, as of mere hours ago in Phoenix, was for me to resist Savage and his insanely delicious fingers and cock, that incredible body, those soulful, burning eyes and cut jawline, for the rest of the tour. On principle. To teach that rockstar cliché a lesson about the way he reamed me in Atlanta in front of everyone. To let him know his abundant charms have absolutely zero effect on me.
Ha.
I’m so mad at myself right now. And yet, powerless to change course. At least, if I was going to give in to temptation, which I swore to myself I wouldn’t do, then self-respect demands I wait at least a full week to do it. At a bare minimum. Not mere hours. And yet, here I am, speed-walking like a middle-aged mom with a Walkman across this expansive lobby, on my way to Savage’s room for Round Two, feeling like a hungry dog who’s just heard the dinner bell.
Walking away from Savage on that lounger this morning, and not taking him up on his offer to head to his room, was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life. But I did it! And I was so damned proud of myself! And now, here I am, not even waiting until after tonight’s show to admit I’m hopeless.
I tried to resist Savage when I got his text a half hour ago, telling me his room number and begging me, literally, to let him eat me “from every angle” after tonight’s show. Upon receiving that text, I put my phone down on the nightstand in my hotel room and muttered, “Nope. You have zero effect on me, Savage.” But when I felt my resolve quickly crumbling like a beachside cliff, I stuffed my phone into my pocket and marched downstairs to the lobby, intending to spend the next few hours before soundcheck in the casino. What better way to distract myself?
But, unfortunately, I ran into our tour manager, Tracy, in the lobby, before making it to the casino. And that’s when she mentioned Fugitive Summer had just finished an interview and that all the members of the band were heading to their respective rooms to chill for a bit before soundcheck. In that moment, I felt possessed by a demon. Incapable of waiting a second longer to let Savage make good on his offer to eat me from every angle. I knew, whether I liked it or not, I was a goner.