“That’s your father talking, Jacine. And I’m damned tired of listening to him.”
His hips pressed into mine as his mouth descended on mine, hungry and demanding as if to prove a point. His velvet tongue teased my lips encouraging me to take him in, stealing my ability to breathe.
Jersey’s hand squeezed my breast and then fluidly my nipple between his thumb and forefinger spreading fire through my body.
This was wrong. Illicit. And so damn good I didn’t want him to stop. My hand strayed to his straining bulge. Damn, he was big, and he moaned as I stroked it through his jeans.
Without warning, he lifted me and spun me around then set me on the edge of the conference table.
“What are you doing?”
He smiled at me. “I’m hungry.”
With his arms, he threw my legs over my shoulders and then pushed the hem of my dress to my hips.
“Mmmm,” he said as he eyed my black lace panties.
His tongue was on me and around me sucking my clit through the panties, and my head fell back. He lashed and nibbled as he growled shooting a vibration through me that snaked up my spine. Then in one swift move, he yanked at the panties, literally tearing them off me with a snap. His head went between my legs again continuing his rampage, as if he was trying to claim me. His tongue found my folds and speared me, lashing back and forth.
He pulled back as I gasped, wanting and needing more.
“You taste so damn good,” he said. “I can’t get enough.”
Jersey dipped his head once more between my thighs, latched his mouth on my clit and lashed it unmercifully. I gasped and moaned while I clutched at his long, dark hair that swung wildly as he played on stage giving up his passion in song. But here he was giving his ardor to me, only me, his singular audience, and at this moment his most ardent fan, and I screamed out his name as relentless pleasure blazed through me like a fireball streaking the night.
Or I would have if someone didn’t rattle the doorknob trying to get in.
Damn if this didn't turn out to be the most frustrating day.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Rory
The pretty make-up artist powdered my nose, gushing over me, as some women do because I play the drums. When I was in my early twenties that stuff turned me on, but now, meh. Too many anonymous women in equally nameless hotel rooms rubbed the shine off casual sex for me. I’m not looking for anything permanent, mind you. But to feel a connection with a woman, someone who desires you for you, instead of your image would be welcome.
But with my face flashing a big neon sign that says, “Here’s a big star,” that isn’t likely to happen.
“Five minutes, Mr. Holmes,” said a production assistant carrying an iPad as he walked by the room.
“I think I’m okay,” I said as the make-up artist raised the large powder brush to my face again.
“Sure, Mr. Holmes. Good luck on the show tonight.”
I would need luck because on stage would be my old bandmates from Banshee, Cole Kane and Jersey Dys, two people who could not stand each other.
It was stupid, what happened. Cole and Jersey, in a late-night drunken poker playing, went too far. Both of them had money, so that meant nothing in a poker game. So when the Jack Daniels started talking instead of their brains, Jersey demanded some real stakes for the cards laid out on the table.
Sometimes Jersey doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut.
Cole suggested that they put the ownership rights for the songs they co-wrote on the table. Jersey agreed. They wrote up their little agreement on a napkin, which Cole idiotically hangs framed in his home office.
Cole’s cards won the hand.
And that’s when the fight started.
It culminated in a nightmarish suit in civil court at which I had to testify. Neither man spoke to me for years after that.
Banshee was dead before the judge returned his verdict.
