She hesitated. “What if it gets messy?”
“I’ll buy the hotel,” he quipped. “Get over here.”
She flattened the towel across the bed and shrugged out of her robe, pulling the covers over them. He caressed the back of her neck and pulled her mouth onto his while his hand reached between her legs, and she twitched.
“Relax, babe.” He teased her with slow, deliberate strokes before his middle finger disappeared inside her. She gasped, tilting her head back as he deepened the kiss in sync with the curl of his knuckles. The covers lay in a heap, and she stole a glance at his arousal—thick, rigid, demanding. Her fingers trailed down his chest, but he caught her wrist before she could go lower. “You first—always,” he murmured, his voice rough with need.
As the tension mounted, she spasmed, and he eased his finger out. “I love you,” he rasped, latching onto her nipple as her core clenched. His lips and hands worshiped every inch of her stomach before he parted her legs.
She lifted her head. “Cary! No . . .”
He looked up and nodded. “I want to.”
With a sigh she flopped her head onto the pillow and didn’t argue when his tongue stroked—slow, even, leaving no inch untouched. She arched her back as he sealed his mouth over her sex, and she erupted like a dam breaking, releasing the tension in a flood.
“Fuck me,” she said, spreading her legs.
He smirked, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth. With a slow, deliberate stroke, he dragged himself over her, teasing. Then he gave her exactly what she wanted.
No tenderness. No sweet nothings. Just need—feral and unforgiving.
He drove into her, each thrust rocking her body. The bed lurched beneath them, the headboard slamming the wall like gunfire.
CHAPTER 30
CARY
“You should’ve seen this guy,” Cary grumbled to Vegas the next day, leaning against the tour bus. Just thinking about Tyler’s ex made his blood simmer. “What an idiot.”
“Yeah, I met him when they were dating. Total tool. I used to call him Stanley, but he never got it.” Vegas laughed as they climbed aboard the bus.
“His band sucks,” Cary muttered, dropping onto the sofa bench. “Don’t you think?”
“Can’t say.” Vegas sat beside him and pulled a deck of cards from the inside pocket of his leather jacket. “Never saw them play.”
“Trust me. Worst band I’ve seen in a decade—” Cary crossed his arms. “And I don’t exactly haunt dive bars.”
Vegas glanced sideways. “You okay?”
“He called me old. In front of Tyler.” Cary huffed. “Screw that indie rocker.”
“You sound jealous,” Vegas said with a smirk, shuffling the cards like a professional.
Cary rolled his eyes but didn’t answer. “And the doorman at the bar called her Mrs. Kingston.”
“He doesn’t know you,” Vegas said, dealing a hand.
Cary stiffened. Muscles coiled beneath his shirt. That creeping, familiar prickle crawled up his neck—the one that told him he wouldn’t like what came next.
Vegas frowned. “Come on, man. You? Married?”
“Why not?” Cary shot back. “Tyler and I both want a family—no matter what that asshole thinks.” He glanced out the window. The bus still hadn’t moved. “We’re waiting until my tour’s over, but I hate waiting.”
“I’m aware.” Vegas scratched his jaw. “Don’t take this the wrong way. You know I don’t get involved in your shit.”
Cary narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“Think about it. Tyler—alone in Vancouver with a baby—while you’re out here doing . . .” He flipped the ace of spades onto the table. “This.”
