It’s a statement, not a question. He keeps his four long fingers cupping the back of my head and uses his thumb to trace the line of my neck. “I’m a singer, Pandora. Not an actor.”
One second he’s warning me, looking at me, the next he ducks with that strangely sexy mohawk and brushes his lips across mine. A teasing brush, but enough to set me ablaze.
“Urghm, Kenna . . .”
I don’t like the sound I make. Like I have longed for this for Lord knows how long, but who cares when he’s pushing his tongue through my lips. I’d make that sound again to get him to keep stroking into my mouth.
So I do.
And he rubs in, wet and slick, hot and deeper, lips angling over mine. My world spins and I grab his hard arms and push closer, while his hands settle on my bottom and he pulls me up against his hips. I can feel his big erection against my tummy. But it’s at the wrong place. I want it somewhere else.
I’m ready to twine my legs around him and rub myself against him, when he tears free and sets me aside as though it’s taking a monumental effort to do so. The mountain unable to stay away from Muhammad. “Stay here, babe. Don’t so much as twitch a single of your sweet, long, delectable little muscles. I’ll be back in three songs.”
He steps onto the elevator platform as a counter lights up in the dressing room, counting from 10 down to 0. Then he seems to remember the costume change. Racing into the room, he swears and jerks off his shirt, grabbing a new one from a hanger before he climbs back up onto the platform again.
I cover my mouth. Wet and hot, it tingles, and tastes of him.
“Stay here,” he says again.
His pale eyes glimmer on me, and his feet are braced apart, hands fisted at his sides.
I’m so hot I’m roasting in my skin. I can’t answer. God, what is he doing to me?
The moment the platform shoots back up, I groan in despair. Then I hear his voice above me. Shit. What am I doing? I start pacing, imagining licking his nipple and rubbing him like those dancers did. I’m feeling a little envious of all those people ogling him right now, but most of all, I feel high. With emotion. Desire.
Lust.
I’m still here waiting. Why am I waiting? I can’t think of anything except his nipple under my tongue. Silver eyes. That wig I’m going to yank off him so I can run my fingers over his close-cropped hair.
When there’s finally a huge, huge roar—after like a year!—I know the show is over.
My heart is pounding as I wonder where he’ll come from. After a few more moments, he charges down some hidden side stairs, his body filling the doorway.
Like two magnets, our eyes lock.
My breathing hitches.
Mackenna yanks off the small microphone taped to his back and the earbud in his ear, then tosses them aside.
He starts walking toward me. There are all kinds of cables and contraptions around us, and I back up until I hit a wall with a metal door. My brain feels as scattered as the butterflies in my stomach.
Oh god, I have to let him.
No. I can’t let him.
Panicked for what I feel, I turn and run, frantically searching for an exit. Down here, it’s a labyrinth. I’m dodging cables and equipment, but there is no exit I can find.
Behind me I hear his footsteps gaining on me and then, low and rough with lust: “Pandora.”
He’s at my back, hand on my wrist, pulling me back to him. My heart is pounding helplessly in my throat as I feel my muscles sag at his touch. I let him turn me. I face him, full of dread, want, dismay as I let him slowly press me up against the metal door. He eases his hands into the waistband of my skirt as I grab his spiky mohawk and pull on it. He drags his nose against mine as I toss the wig aside, and I kiss the top of his head because . . . I don’t even know why. Because he’s Mackenna Jones. Infuriating and odious and also . . . an adorable dreamer I once knew, who made his dream come true. The kiss was impulsive, but it makes him groan as though it did something profound to him. I’m shaking with emotion, and he’s shaking with something I suppose is adrenaline.
“Are you wet?” he asks through panting breaths.
“Yes,” I say. And I am. From watching him, with his chest sweaty, and from the feel of his inked skin, warm under my fingers.
“I’m so fucking turned on,” he groans and shoves my panties aside, giving me two fingers. Just like that. They slip in so easily because I’m soaked. I have no control, and I can’t stop myself from throwing my head back and riding those fingers with a circle of my hips. Oh god nothing’s ever felt like this. . . . He bites my lower lip and sucks it into his mouth. It feels hot and wet and good. So good. I bite his lip hungrily, sinking my nails in his scalp.
“Kenna,” I moan.
“God, I missed the way you say my name like that.”
Except you know this can’t happen, Pandora, this is going nowhere but a dark, dangerous dead end.
And because I know this, it’s with a strange pain and dread that I stand here, both wanting and not wanting what I can tell by his gaze he’s about to do.
He spreads my arms out and pulls my shirt off. The cool air brushes across my skin, and my nipples pucker as he unfastens my bra.
“Don’t, Kenna,” I suddenly say, stepping back and awkwardly closing my bra.
“Don’t fucking cover up, Pink,” he gruffly commands.
My hands shake as I try to fasten my bra back up.
He chuckles—the sound sexy, male—and tsks as he tugs my bra open again, his fingers brushing my skin as he tosses it aside.
He doesn’t know the regrets and memories roiling inside me as he cups me in his hands. He leans down to kiss my lips, and he smells of mint, his hands warm. My breathing quickens and I gasp when he tugs my skirt up to my hips and drops to one knee, spreads my legs, and takes my ankle in his firm grip.
“One leg up around my shoulders,” he says.
I lift my leg, and he bends over to set his mouth on my pussy. The heat of his tongue as it flashes over my clit makes me moan.
No, no, no. We shouldn’t be doing this.
But he spreads my legs wider by wedging his shoulders in between them, reaching up to let his fingers caress a path up the inside of my thighs. My naked legs tremble as his tongue rushes over my skin.
I reach between my legs and cup the back of his head, arching my back so he can eat me up harder, faster, deeper.
His hunger is palpable in every flash of his tongue, every groan he buries inside me. I writhe. I moan. He lifts his head to look at me, and his eyes are molten, his jaw clamped as though he’s holding something back with brutal force.
“Look at you,” he hisses, taking me in with a sweep of his fevered silver eyes. His lips glisten with my juices. His closely shaven head is still perfect, not rumpled by my hands. I hear a scraping sound as he drags a hand across the back of his head. “Son of a bitch, Pink.” He says something that sounds like me being this vulnerable right now undoes him. But there’s something odd here. Instead of feeling vulnerable, when he drinks me up with his eyes I feel powerful, like I’m all the air on this earth, and all the water, too.
Back on his feet, he pulls me against his body. Every hot, hard, unyielding muscle against me, his body fevered and damp against my bare skin. And he comes at me like an animal—his mouth, teeth, tongue, lips, working up my body. His groans coming from deep inside him like my own, jerked from the very pit of me.
Our hands are all over, mouths all over.
I can feel his thighs against mine, the line of his cock digging into my pelvis. I’m unstoppable. Rabid. I want him closer, I want him in me.
“Hang on tight, babe,” he whispers in that low, after-the-concert gruff voice of his, understanding me, understanding what I need.
I wiggle into position, panting hard.
He reaches between our bodies to peel off his tight, black rocker leathers completely down his thick, muscular legs. I hurry to push my undies down my hips, struggling to kick them off as he s
heathes his cock with a condom.
He lifts me and my body twitches and quivers as he lowers me down on him, penetrating me, inch by inch. I groan again, shoving my hands under his shirt and pulling it up over his head so that he’s naked. He inhales deeply when he can’t go any farther. He feels so thick that all of a sudden, I’m ready to burst.
I suck on his nipple as he fondles my breasts in the most delightful ways. His teeth sink into my earlobe and tug as he starts thrusting, the delicious drag of his cock stimulating all my nerve endings.
Our mouths become voracious, and his sudden rhythmical thrusts tell me he means business and I’m open. The way he grabs my hips and moves me on him, setting the exact rhythm he wants, is like I was made just for him to fuck and god, he’s so . . .
So much stronger than before. Bigger than before. Thicker than before.
I can’t think . . . can’t breathe . . . he’s hot, hard . . . ooh, god, I need this. I never knew how much until his arms are tight like clamps around me. And he’s inside my body. His tongue flashing into my mouth.
Nothing else matters but this—his breathing, my breathing, his grunts and my groans, my body wrapped around his. I’m wrapped to his body, my arms, legs, even my neck, curled into his, my whole body clinging to him. He knows just what to do, with his mouth, his lips dampening the skin on my neck, my jaw, my ear, then meshing with my mouth.
“You feel so . . .” I bite back the word “right” and instead push my lips hard to his. Our teeth gnash, then he pulls free and stares into my face with burning eyes as if he’s high on me, plowing me fast and faster, watching me gasp as my breasts bounce.
He rasps, “Come,” and comes hard and fast as it starts for me. His cock jerks inside me three times, and the breath hisses out of him as his muscles clench and tighten against me. He grasps me to his body and continues pumping as we shudder together.
It takes us minutes to recover, neither of us moving. I’m still clutching him, but when I realize how clingy I must appear, I lift my head from the crook of his neck and open my mouth to speak. Mackenna presses his finger to my lips. “No, babe,” he says, his voice both tender and chastising.
My brain is still buzzing. Feeling lusty and strangely playful, I open my lips again, and I bite down on his finger with a smile. He clenches his jaw and his eyes flash, almost like he’s remembering the other times I did that. Then without warning, he leans over and bites down on one of my fingers too. Like old times . . .
Ouch! I playfully protested. You’re going to snack on my finger? Really?
Oh, stop complaining. Here, take mine . . .
A strange emotion tightens my chest, and it hurts. Gently, he rubs his finger against my tongue, and I do the same.
“You taste like sweat,” I say, with a mock grimace.
“You taste like sugar,” he husks out, his lids heavy.
I pull my hand free and he continues gazing at me, waiting for me to say something. I’m trying to pull up my walls, but I’m failing miserably. “I . . . ,” I begin.
“Don’t ruin it,” he says, setting his forehead on mine and sighing, “but you’d be surprised to know what I’d give to hear this mouth tell me how it really feels about me.” He rubs the mouth he’s speaking of with his thumb ring and my nipples harden again.
“I expressed it with vegetables, remember?” I say, unable to rein back the lust in my voice.
“Hmm, yes, a memorable experience.” He gives one last nibble to the tip of my finger, holding it by the base and kissing the pad before letting me go.
It was such a genuine act of tenderness, I surprise myself when I nuzzle his throat, still feeling oddly playful as I drop one last kiss to his lips, wanting to surprise him by saying something he’d never expect to hear. “I really like the way you come.”
He grabs my head and looks at me in shock. “You being serious right now?” He searches my face.
I lick my lip and love that his eyes fall there. I’m feeling the best I’ve felt in a long time as I peer up at him through my lashes. My body is lax against his and I feel . . . good. Happy. Content with the world. He smells like a man—like the only man I’ve ever been with. He smells of my memories and my dreams, and my childhood and teens. Of the boy who drew me out enough to make me feel carefree.
He frames my face and searches my expression with complete intensity, his textured voice prickling across my skin. “I don’t just like the way you come, baby—I get off on it. The way you fight your orgasm but it takes you over and you can’t keep your eyes open. The way you can’t bite back the sounds you make, and you grip me like you don’t want to let go. Do you feel me?” he demands in my ear, clutching me close. “I’m stiffening up inside you and you’re still slick and hot, like a fist around me. Do you feel me?”
I close my eyes and shudder as he begins caressing me under my top with one long-fingered hand, relaxing against me as he slides down against the metal door and we stay there for a while.
A flick and the scent of tobacco filters through my daze, and I angle my head to see the tip of a cigarette glowing in the dark as he gives it a hit. He expels the smoke quickly and offers it to me. “What is it?” I ask, narrow-eyed.
“Camel. Just normal tobacco. I’m not into drugs. Guess they ruined my fucking life already through my dad.”
The smoke trails out of his lips and I watch it, impulsively bending to inhale it. I cough and laugh, and he laughs and slaps my back. He smokes several cigarettes in a row and I wonder, dazedly, if this is his life. So I ask, “This is what your life is like?”
He looks at the mess around us and smokes lazily. “Yeah.”
“Do you like it?”
He shrugs.
Suddenly I realize that even if he still wanted me, even if he hadn’t broken my heart, there would be no room in this life for me. And if there were, I wouldn’t see Magnolia. He chose this over me. And I choose mine over this.
It makes me sad.
But I don’t want him to know that, so I groan and squirm free from the heavy arm he holds around my shoulders, saying, “You’re sweaty.”
“So are you.”
I try to put some distance between us, but he puts the cigarette out on the cement floor and looks at me, dragging his hand through his hair before laughing. “Do I have to be inside you to be touching you? Do you need to be fucked to be touched, babe?”
“I hate displays of affection. They’re silly.”
“Nobody’s here but me. And this is silly.” He tugs the pink strand of my hair with a playful smile.
I sigh and yield to the impulse to press against him, acutely aware of our shoulders touching.
“Living with the band gets too noisy almost,” he says as he studies the ceiling, absently playing with my hair and making me feel childish and wonderful, just like he used to before. It worries me—a lot—but not as much as I love feeling childish and wonderful.
“Do you get away to be alone sometimes?”
“Not as much as I’d like.” He drags his hand over his hair again as he meets my gaze in the dark. “I think about you, Pandora. About us.”
We look at each other for a moment.
My lungs—what is up with them today? It’s an effort to pull in air, and all the while I’m trying to disguise it.
“I guess every time you make a choice, you wonder if you made the right one,” he explains to me.
“And . . . ?” I ask, needing to know his thoughts more than my lungs need the oxygen.
“And what?” he prods.
“Was it the right one?”
“You tell me,” he shoots back, his eyebrows slanted slightly in assessment.
“No, you tell me.”
“No. Because it wasn’t really my choice.”
I stare back with my own frown because, suddenly, it’s too much. This conversation. Him saying he didn’t choose to walk away. Fuck that!
“Mackenna, I can’t do this.” I try to rise, but his hand clamps on my wrist to stop me.
I’m so hypersensitive, the touch sizzles down my nerve endings. “Kenna,” I say, and my voice falters.
Will you come to me tonight?
Always . . .
God, I wish I could get a brain enema and wash my every memory away so that it stops hurting like this, but instead, every memory of our past is with me—with us—as he starts laughing over my quicksilver temper, tugging me back to him. “Come here,” he coaxes.
I’m humming with so much feeling it’s indecent. Thrumming with life. It’s too much, it’s not enough. It’s torture.
He’s torturing me. Prolonging the moment until I finally, finally, fall—straight into his lap. Then his hand spreads against the back of my head, his lips on my neck. The gesture is soft. Tender. He follows the arc of my throat and shoulder. Words, thick and sexy, reverberate against my skin. Spilling in my ear. “God, I can’t get enough of you. You’re such a vixen.”
He speaks it reverently, so reverently my heart hardly hears the words. Just the tone. And it is beating somewhere in the sky. But I want it back in me. He broke it and I’m not letting him take it away. I can’t let him take it away.
I want to cry but I rarely do—not even when he left. I cried when I lost my virginity because I was happy. I cried when my father died because I was sad.
Your father doesn’t deserve a single one of those tears! my mother screamed. He betrayed us. You won’t shed a tear for him, do you hear me?
When I lost Mackenna, I kept hearing those same words. My mind replaying them for me, over and over. He betrayed you. You won’t shed a single tear for him.
I make an angry sound and try to get free, but I can’t believe how easy it is for him to stop me, and more so . . . how very much I actually want him to stop me.
Is that why I came? Because I wanted to see if he gave a shit? To see if he’d even try to get a little piece of me back? That thought worries me more than anything right now, and it gives me the strength to pull free and leap to my feet, stepping quickly into my jeans.
“You’re going to pretend you don’t want this?” he asks me devilishly as he jumps back into his leather.
“It wouldn’t be pretending. It’s a chemical animal attraction, nothing more.” I turn around and straighten my clothes before heading to the same stairs he’d appeared through. I hear his footsteps behind me as we head upstage, where roadies and team members are cleaning up.