She smirked. “I’m getting to that.”
He lowered his head, teeth grazing her nipple as he touched her breasts. Fully hard, he gripped her hips as she sank onto him. She moved slow at first, then faster, their bodies falling into rhythm. Pressure coiled deep inside her, tightening around him until he groaned, almost driving her over the edge.
“You feel so good,” she said.
“I can’t take it.” He held her waist steady. “Slow down a minute.” But she didn’t stop and he wrapped his arms around her back and his pelvis jerked. “Fuck. Sorry.”
“No apologies.” She giggled. “Just make it up to me. I mean, when you’ve recovered.” He lifted her from the floor and carried her to bed. “I’m fine, really. I was just teasing.”
“I need to see you come again,” he begged.
He slid his fingers inside, seeking the spot that made her unravel. Pressure built as he stroked with purpose, then a sharp cry escaped—her release was shattering, soaking the sheets beneath them.
“That’s my girl.” He shook his dripping hand.
She sat up and covered her mouth. “Cary! The bed’s soaked.”
He laughed. “You’re welcome.”
After they showered Tyler wrapped a towel around her chest and leaned against the doorframe as Cary combed product into his hair. He was whistling a tune she recognized but couldn’t quite put a finger on. It wasn’t one of his hits.
“You know, you can’t keep Kim forever,” she said. “I’ll want her back for my girl band.”
“How’s that going?” He lathered shaving cream over his stubble.
Has he ever grown a beard?
She googledCary Kingston + beard, and a few images popped up, but she preferred him clean-shaven.
“The Oh Claires?” she asked. “It’s going great. We have some real interest from the States. Allie’s working on setting up their showcase.”
“You’re a force to be reckoned with.”
She widened her eyes. “Wait until I start managing Nadie.”
“I take it you’re not telling Sebastien?”
“No, but it wouldn’t matter anyway. He said he’d never manage a woman.”
“Shit!” He nicked himself with the razor. “He said what?”
“Are you okay?” He nodded, so she continued. “He said he doesn’t want to manage”—she made air quotes—“catfights and mood swings.”
“It’s worse than I thought.”
“People in the industry call him Sebastard.”
“Really?” He walked out of the bathroom, pressing a tissue against his chin. “That’s pretty funny.”
“Funny? It’s hilarious.” She wrinkled her brow. “What’s that song you were whistling?”
“It’s Bert’s song.” He twisted a towel into his ear. “It’s been in my head all day.”
“It’s called ‘Happy Merry Christmas.’”
“Do you think he’d let me record it?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Ask him.”
