“I’ll prove you wrong tonight,” he says, following me to one of the cars meant to take us back to our hotel. A camera catches up with us down the hall, and I know we won’t be able to shake it off—at least, until I get back into my room.
“What are you doing?” I ask when Mackenna slips into the car after me. He says nothing as we drive away, the cameraman nicely slipping into the front of the car and aiming back at us, silent. Thankfully, Kenna doesn’t press the issue with him here, and neither do I.
Silence surrounds us the entire journey, following the three of us up the elevator, and silence remains even as Mackenna follows me to my room. “Mackenna, what are you doing?” I whisper-hiss.
Alarm, anticipation, burn in me as I open my door.
Always . . .
He flicks his middle finger at the cameraman, then slams the door in his face and turns around to look at me.
“Your room is that way.” I point at the door behind him.
“Tonight, my room is here,” he says with a cocky smile. He also watches my reaction.
Which is to stutter.
“N-n-no. No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it is.”
Suddenly, he scoops me up in his arms and grunts, saying, “You’re heavy, babe.”
“Put me down or get a fucking hernia! God!”
He laughs. “Hernia it is.” He carries me to the bed with ease—the fucking clown isn’t even struggling to carry heavy ol’ me. Then he eases me down on the bed, tugs off my heels, and tosses them to the floor. I bolt, alarmed when I realize where this is going again. Danger!
“Don’t! This isn’t happening again, Mackenna.”
“It’s happening,” he contradicts. “I’m spending the night, Pandora.”
“But I don’t want this!”
He takes my foot in one hand and slides his fingers up my bare leg, a white wolf-smile on his sexy mouth. “Give me ten minutes to prove you wrong. To prove to you how much you do want this.”
I look at his bare chest, feeling his fingers at the arch of my foot, my voice shaky as I say, “I don’t want you here.”
He falls silent, and for a moment I think he’s going to leave, and it fills me with an unexpected panic that only confuses me more.
He doesn’t leave, though.
He shoots me a lopsided grin. “Ten minutes and you’ll be singing a different tune.”
“I don’t sing—you do.”
“You’ll sing like a fucking canary, baby. Lie down,” he says, and the intensity in his gaze goes perfectly with his devil’s smile and attitude.
“Okay. I’ll give you ten minutes. But with clothes on,” I say. “And if you can’t seduce me in ten, you leave.”
He lifts his hands innocently. “I’m not touching your clothes. And consider yourself seduced.”
I relax. Somewhat.
My heart is still beating like a drum.
The bed embraces me as I settle back down, and I don’t know why I don’t protest, except I don’t have energy to do anything but breathe. I have never been more aware of my breath.
In, out. In, out.
When his touch returns to one of my arms, starting at the back of my hands, it makes me tense up. I exhale in a rush as he trails his fingers upward, his touch familiar, delicious. Oh, god, it feels delicious. Soft as a feather, but with the voltage of a gazillion kilowatts.
My eyes want to drift shut as I remember the first time Mackenna touched me. I remember his face, how his sexy mouth would form this perfect smile, and I swear his eyes said that he loved me like Romeo loved that stupid Juliet. I felt his gaze in my heart. Now his eyes are dark and hooded and he’s not smiling, his expression grave and intent as ever as he runs two fingers up my bare arm. My heart can no longer feel his gaze, but I feel his gaze between my legs. In my nipples. My fucking ovaries. I could get pregnant with this gaze.
He slides his fingertips under the sleeve of my top, then runs them back down my arm. “Relax, Pink,” he coos.
His voice has gained a roughness that makes the hairs on my arms prick pleasurably. “My name . . . is Pandora.”
“I happen to know your name very well and I remember you didn’t like it, but you liked it when I called you gorgeous. It made your eyes dark and made you bite your lip, just like you’re doing now, because you wanted me to kiss you. Do you remember that, gorgeous girl?”
I scoff, but the sound is feeble. I bite my lip, but now it feels wet, and he’s looking intently at it as if expecting me to invite him to kiss me. He keeps touching me with those long musician’s fingers.
Never, ever date a musician. Other men will never compare.
Lithe fingers trace my arms and elbows. My wrists and fingers. Then up my legs. Those fingers brush over me and my tummy caves in from the pleasure.
I’m breathing in, out. In, out.
My tense muscles feel bunched up as he strokes his fingers up my throat. Gah, how to resist? Resist the only guy I’ve ever kissed. Ever loved, ever made love to. I start squirming as his fingers skim over my skin.
“Relax. I wanted ten minutes to change your mind, it’s only been two.”
“Seriously? Only two?” I whine.
He leans over and kisses my collarbone, his breath warm on my body as he starts kissing up my throat, and I remember it all.
Fingers touching me. Perfect Pandora . . .
My fingers curling awkwardly around his cock. How do I . . . ?
Babe, I swear, you move that hand and I’m going to go off.
My heart racing, my body trembling with nerves and the excitement of having Mackenna hot, long, and thick in my hand, looking down at me like a hungry sex fiend. The tip is wet, can I taste . . .
Fuck, don’t move that hand!
The memory creeps up on me, how innocent and hormonal we were, and before I can stop it, I curl my arms around his neck and I gasp into his ear, “Okay, you can sleep here tonight.”
His eyes shoot to my face and he lifts one brow. “Yeah?”
I bite my lip and nod eagerly.
I hear him whisper, “Fuck,” and he shoves his hands under my T-shirt and cups me over my bra, looking down at me and licking his lips as if savoring me. I should not want this so bad, I really shouldn’t.
“Just tonight,” I say. Always . . . I hear in my mind.
But he nods intently and says, “Just tonight.”
I lift my head and part my lips as he kisses a path up to my mouth, and when our lips brush, he groans and keeps brushing across them. I am so aroused by the thought of kissing him in bed that I have to peel my eyes open.
“What?” I whisper breathlessly, my body squeezing spasmodically with want as he thumbs my nipples. “Don’t you want to kiss me?” I wanted to tease him with my kiss, but now I’m the one feeling teased because he won’t take it.
His eyes burn with lust as he pulls his hands out of my top and angles my head to his, his hands cradling the back of my skull as he studies me and murmurs, “I want to do more than kiss you.”
I lick my lips and stare at his mouth. His mouth, which I really want—no, need—right now. I want to ask for what I want, but I’ve already asked him to stay and asking for more makes me feel open . . . so open . . . so weak . . .
I’m not comfortable expressing my feelings, a trait I inherited from my mom. The relationship she and my dad had was almost businesslike. Since he died, since Mackenna left, my only source of emotion has been Magnolia.
But she’s not a danger to me like Mackenna is.
She hasn’t broken me like he has.
So I just grab the back of his head, lift my head, and kiss him. Barely a nanosecond passes before he gets aggressive in return, almost squishing me as he stretches over me with his big body so that his cock is nestled between my thighs. And I feel it. His thick, hard, throbbing shaft. Against my body. Only my jeans and his leather pants separating us.
“This has to come off,” he says and tugs my top upward.
I stop him, pull
ing it back down. “Wait.”
His eyes sparkle in challenge and I smile playfully, trying to do it slowly, to make him anticipate it.
Do it, Pandora. He’ll get even more excited when you take all this away. Think about the blue balls you can give him, a little devil tells me. The same devil who watched me get hurt.
He watches, rapt.
I pull it over my head.
He reaches for the bra.
“Wait,” I again command.
His lids grow even heavier, his jaw tightly clamped as he licks his lips once more. My silver-eyed, hungry wolf . . .
I slowly begin to unlatch and slip off my bra.
His eyes keep darkening and darkening, a muscle working in the back of his jaw as he now watches me unzip.
He follows me and unzips his leather pants.
He looks at one pointed, hard nipple, then the other, leaning over to take one tip between his teeth, tugging as he shoves down his pants and I kick off mine. Moaning, I rub instinctively, skin to skin. This wasn’t planned—all this sex—but I haven’t had sex in so many years and I just . . . oh. His groan. His groan kills me as he engulfs my other breast in his hand and murmurs, “You enjoy that little striptease?”
“Did you?” I shoot back.
He tugs the nipple harder, almost to the point of pain. “How much do you think I want you?”
“Judging by . . .”—I rock my hips—“I’m guessing a lot?”
He laughs against my breast and it makes his laugh that much hotter. “I want you a hell of a lot more than a lot.” He lifts his face, then his gaze looks haunted. “Pandora . . . ,” he says as if it’s the beginning of something else, his thumb ring running up my rib cage. “What happened?” He studies me. “What happened?”
I close my eyes and breathe deep as a thousand words slam into me. You fucking left! You broke my heart. I weathered my mother alone. I lost my will to live. I lost what we could have had.
“Hey, hey, look at me,” he says, turning my head by the chin. But I can’t look at him.
I can’t.
Suddenly, there’s a noise outside and a knock. “Hey! Dora! DORRRRA! Hey! We’ve got the alcohol! Open up, bitch!”
I groan.
“That Liv and Tit?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Dude, you’re friends with those two vipers? They want your head on a stake.” He sounds annoyed as fuck. And now, with this interruption, actually so am I.
“Any other girls around I can hang with? No. So yes, we’re friends.”
He sighs and edges back, then quietly stands. No. No, no, no! I think, panic rushing through me as my body is rocked with shudders of need.
“You want me to go?” he asks.
No. No, I don’t. I don’t.
But once again I sit here, watching him, speechless, and he’s watching me back. “Nod your head if you want me to stay,” he says, softening his voice.
His hands are flexing at his sides as if he’s anxious for my answer. I motion my head, and I’m not sure if it’s a yes or a no. He sighs, then slips his T-shirt over his head. As he heads to the door, panic grips me. He’s not coming back to bed.
“Mackenna!” I yell to stop him—at the exact moment he yanks the door open.
“Take the party elsewhere. She’s got company,” he growls low in his throat.
And slams the door shut in their faces.
I blink, my heart completely motionless in my chest. He turns around to me, his eyes like flames on my skin. “One day, you’ll beg for it.” He jerks his shirt off again.
My heart pounds as he crosses the room. “In your dreams, Mackenna,” I bluff.
He only laughs softly and shakes his head. “You’re stubborn, I’ll give you that. But you’ll wear down.”
“Never.”
He leans over and, suddenly, all his male weight is hovering over me, his lips pressing to my ear in the most tender kiss I’ve ever felt.
“No, babe. Always.”
ELEVEN
THERE ARE BULLIES AROUND, AND BY “BULLY” I DON’T MEAN ME
Pandora
The band makes it to a rodeo bar in west Texas. Olivia, Tit, and the other female dancers are flirting with a group of cowboys, and they haven’t so much as glanced in my direction, which leaves me in the guy section—where the Vikings are treating me like some long-lost sister. The only good thing about this is that my new official, and very first, fuck buddy seems to be a little jealous at my side.
“Hands,” he growls when Lex sets his hand on my knee while flexing the length of his arm and showing off his snake tattoo.
“Fuck, you’re kidding, right?” he asks, his eyebrows drawing low over his violet eyes.
“It look like I’m kidding?” Mackenna answers with deceptive softness as he slides his hand proprietarily under my hair to lightly caress the back of my neck.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I scoff, but I’m secretly delighting in this development as I squirm to get free from his hold.
Nobody has ever—ever—made me feel as wanted, protected, and, well . . . annoyed as Mackenna.
But I’m just rolling with it because, well, tonight I feel more of the former than the latter. Maybe because of all the orgasms? He has that ability to relax me with a couple of those . . .
“Hands, Lex,” he growls again, gently squeezing my nape, and I don’t know what it is about his bossiness today, but does he not remember that all there is between us now is sex? He sounds like he sounds in bed.
But he also sounds jealous. He hasn’t got it through that hard skull of his that I don’t mind Lex’s hand on my thigh. It doesn’t give me head-to-toe shivers like Mackenna’s hand on the back of my neck. Right now, in fact, the hand on the back of my neck makes me feel so warm, my bloodstream feels like fire through my veins. Every cell in my body, every pore, is buzzing at the touch, awakened by the way his thumb ring runs up to stroke behind my ear. What do I do with myself when he has such an effect?
Do him again tonight?
Do him until you’ve had so much of him you’ll never want him again?
“Dude, I get it.” Lex finally pulls his hand away and sets his arm out on the table to allow me a full view of the snake curling around his wrist and up his muscled arm.
“I was born the year of the Chinese snake. Symbol is always with me now,” he explains to me.
“Wow,” I say, and Jax, who sits across the booth, opens up his palm, and I can see a snake curling around his thumb too. I lean across the table to investigate while Mackenna’s hand slides down my spine and rests on my butt, where he gives it a little pat.
“So, you’re all into Chinese symbols?” I ask, very much aware of how Mackenna’s hand has slid up my butt to my waist, hooking into my waistband to sit me back down.
I shiver when he slips his fingers under my top, skin to skin, and I think now is a good moment to remind him that I don’t make out in public—and he’s making me want to do just that—but when I turn, the way he’s watching me, the way his silver eyes sear me . . . it makes my thoughts scatter.
“Danger,” that little voice keeps whispering in my head.
I’ve been kicking him out of my room every night, but only after we’ve fucked a couple of times. If he thinks he can use me, and my room, just to get away from the cameras, he’s wrong. If he thinks we’re cuddling after, he’s wrong. But when he leaves, shaking his head at me like it’s a mistake to send him away . . . then I lie alone in bed, not liking it one bit.
“Is your symbol Chinese too?” I ask him now, nodding toward his forearm and the inky, runelike symbols on his tan skin.
His tattoo niggles at my curiosity, and I’m determined to find out what it means.
He smirks. “It’s Kenna-ish. It’s a whole other language. Some say it’s a religion.”
I roll my eyes and cup his wrist, pulling his arm to my lap for me to examine. “What is it? What does it mean?”
“Hell if anyone knows,” Lex says.
br /> I brush my thumb over the symbols, and it’s only until about a minute of silence has passed that I realize Kenna is eerily still. When he speaks, his voice has deepened, as if my touch and the light way I brush my thumb over his tattoo are far more than a caress to him.
“Means I’m an unlucky bastard,” he leans to whisper in my ear, then, even closer, “Your hair smells of coconut.”
When he looks into my eyes as if expecting an explanation for this, I’m having trouble coming up with something saucy. “It’s the oil I moisturize my hair with, a little drop to any shampoo I use.”
I realize how close we are. One would say we look ready to do each other in public, as if we didn’t do each other several times last night. In fact, every night . . . for the past week.
He’s stroking my nape, and I’m stroking his tattoo, both of us staring, not with animosity, and not with lust. Okay, yes with lust. But also with a lot of curiosity. As though this getting to know each other again is proving far more interesting than either of us imagined.
I feel as though whatever is happening in the bar is secondary. I feel as though the world revolves around the impenetrable bubble of me and him. Nothing matters but his hand holding me by the neck, and his strong, muscled forearm under my palm and fingers.
He’s noticeably relaxed—I guess that happens when you have ten orgasms in two days—but I feel supermushy, and it’s very unlike me. It’s like I’ve been craving him, his contact, his affection, for so long, the intimacy of such a simple act is turning me to putty.
Worse is, he seems just as hungry for this. Edging his body closer, he suddenly presses a kiss into my hair, like he’s wild for coconut.
Gah. It’s one thing to fuck like we do, but this . . . oh god, he just groaned into my hair. He’s kissing the top of my ear and groaning like we’re doing something intensely sexual, rather than just sitting together. I hold back a sound as I feel his nose nuzzling my hair.
“Do you really want to know what that tattoo means?” he rasps, his breath shooting shivers from my ear to my shoes. He eases back, and his eyes feel like incoming bullets. “What will you tell me in exchange?”