Page 119 of The Comedown

He’s getting there.

“You’re mad you can’t touch me but not your fans?”

“You don’t want me touching them!” he accuses with a hip-buck of his own that has me sliding backward another inch, my fingers digging into his flesh through his jeans to keep me in place—out of his reach.

“Not like that. Not sexually. I mean spiritually, with your music. With your presence.”

Quietly, he says, “I don’t want anyone connecting to that music.”

“Why?”

“Because my music fucking blows.” Under me, his body buzzes with unspent energy. “I write lyrics, good lyrics, and then my label rejects them and tells me to write different lyrics. Catchier lyrics. Lyrics that’ll sell out. So, I do. I write absolute trash, trying to see how bad I can make them, and they eat it up, asking for more. More, more, more, always fucking more. Then they make me use producers that’ll make my tracks how they want them to sound on the radio, not how I hear them in my head. And they try to put me on tours with people whose idea of a good song is a corny-ass hook on repeat for ninety seconds. Night after night, city after city, I gotta get on a stage and perform those same fucking songs to people that want a ‘connection’ to me through them. It’s a fucking joke. I’m not even connected to my lyrics. I got nothing for them. I got nothing for anyone.”

That’s not true.

“What about your contract? Can’t you get out of it?” He’s matched with a label he had no business being matched with. Not all of them are that bad.

His tone turns almost wistful as he says, “It’d have to be the fuckup to end all fuckups.”

I twist around, seeing his head drop back, staring at the ceiling as both his shoulders droop.

Is that the reason why he acts out so much? In hopes of breaking his deal?

I’m off his lap for a second, then I’m straddling him, kissing his Adam’s apple, swirling my tongue around and around before moving to the opposite side of his pot of honey.

“Free one of my hands,” he begs, his hips thrusting up into me. “Just one. I need to touch you. Feel how wet you are.”

“I’m wet. That’s all you need to know.”

“No, it’s not,” he growls, lowering his head so fast I have to rear back to avoid his lips on mine.

We study each other through half-lidded gazes, and I tell him, “It’s not your pussy.”

“The fuck it’s not.”

Behind my back, he kicks out one of his legs, swinging it over to rest the ankle on his other thigh, and he uses the leverage to push his calf into the small of my back, shrinking the distance between our fronts.

“I ate that pussy so hard last night, I can still taste you on the back of my teeth.”

His jaw dropping open, he runs his tongue over each and every one of his teeth—front and back.

“If that’s all it takes, then—”

“Talk about other motherfuckers tonguing your pussy right now, I dare you. I’ll rip this goddamn belt apart so fucking fast, Collette.”

The calf at my back continues guiding me up his thighs until I’m sitting directly on top of his cock. My pussy clenches in anticipation, holding back what feels like a waterfall, and I start to lose my grip.

In a last-ditch effort to remain in control, I order, “Put your mouth on me.”

With one last push from his calf, Julian gets me close enough to lick at my lips, once, twice, three times, the desperation shifting from him to me and back to him again until I’m not sure who wants it more now.

Our mouths dance with each other’s in their own game, and I reach down between us to free Julian’s stiff, velvety cock from the hole in his boxers. His groan reverberates through me, settling in my chest as a thick purr.

My hand stroking up the top half of his cock as my pussy rubs the bottom half, I chuck his chin with mine, telling him, “I won’t sleep with anyone else.”

Eyes closed, Julian’s parted lips graze mine as air pours out of him in spurts. “Because you’re mine.”

“No.” I still every part of my body, willing Julian to look at me.