Ripped

  I undress for him and then quietly ask him, “What do you want to do with me? I’m your prize tonight, so winner’s choice.” Then I stand there, naked except for a little smile.

  “What did I win?” he asks cockily, opening his belt.

  “Me.”

  “Is that so?”

  He drops his pants to the floor, and he’s so beautiful that my mouth waters at the sight of all his tanned skin. All of that for me, to devour like candy.

  With a soft grin he reaches out and briefly brushes his knuckles across my nipples, always so damn pesky and puckered up like pencil erasers. And then he curls his fingers around my breast and leans over.

  He sucks one, latching on to it with a wet sucking sound, like a baby would, then my other nipple receives the same treatment. And my pussy? He slowly starts fingering my pussy. More wet sucking sounds coming from the way my body wants to suck his finger in me. “You’re so beautiful, so gorgeous. My perfect pink wicked little witch. I’m going to make love to you tonight. I’m starting over with you—starting now. Tonight. My plan is to lick my way up those long legs, right up to your pussy, then give a good long suck to your tits. You like?”

  “Oh, please,” I moan, undulating my body as I slide my hands up his muscular arms.

  He grins—no, not grins. It’s that sexier-than-thou smirk on his lips that makes me want to bite his dirty, sexy mouth off. I start nibbling, and the sound he makes drives me mad with lust.

  “Kenna.”

  His hand covers one of my breasts, his breath on my face, his eyes holding mine as he kisses one of my temples. “Feels like the first time, doesn’t it?”

  I nod and exhale, but it’s not him making me nervous.

  It’s me.

  I want to say it. I want him to know it. I gulp back the words I want—need—to say, but he waits for them. Like he’s waited for them in the past.

  I’m ready. I’m so ready and frightened, but it doesn’t matter, because he’s the one, the only one, for me. My hands on his delicious, warm skin say it first. My lips brush his muscles, saying it next.

  “Kenna . . .”

  He groans. He seems to know. “Say it, Pandora. Say it like you mean it.”

  My chest rises and falls as he brushes his thumbs over the crests of my breasts so my nipples poke him. My panting breaths come faster and faster. “If I say it, promise to say it back immediately,” I plead.

  “I make no guarantees,” he teases as he pinches and tweaks my nipples, and the movements cause my pussy to contract with wanton little ripples.

  “Kenna,” I groan, gripping the back of his head, pulling him to me. “I love you.”

  I kiss him, pulling his lips to mine, and suddenly I don’t need him to say it.

  I need for me to say it . . . and say it . . . and say it. Say it until he asks me to shut up.

  I need to say it for all the times I didn’t.

  “I love you.” I slide my hands around his shoulders, up to his head, angling my mouth to take his lips again. A shudder rocks his lean, powerful body. “I love you,” I whisper, both seductively and tenderly, fingers stroking down his back, gripping his ass, then one hand comes around to stroke his erection.

  He groans. God, I love when he groans. The huskiness in his voice. “Yeah, Pink, show me. Show me you want me. Tell me you want me. How you love wanting me.”

  “I love what you do to me, how I want you,” I murmur, rasping my lips against the stubble of his jaw before I nibble his lips again.

  I feel him stiffen when I stroke my fist up his length. “Argh, baby,” he growls, sounding pained and yet instinctively rocking himself deeper into my hand. “You’re a fucking little tease, aren’t you?” He rams a hand between my legs and slides the middle finger between my pussy lips. “A sweet, hot, horny little tease who just wants to be fingered like this.”

  He eases his finger inside me, and whatever I was going to reply comes out as a moan. I part my thighs wider. “Oh, yes, Mackenna, please me. Please me like only you can.”

  His lips curl against my temple, and he presses into me again. “Talk dirty to me,” he whispers. “Tell me what you’re thinking. What you want.”

  “I’m thinking your cock is much thicker. And longer. And . . . better . . . than your finger. Though your finger is nice . . .”

  “Nice?” He rubs it deeper inside me.

  “Oh. Yes. Yes, like that . . . please.”

  His lips curl higher against my temple. He inserts a second finger inside me, and it feels just right—just right—as he nibbles my lower lip. “Do you like it when I do that?”

  “I do,” I gasp.

  He groans. “Pandora?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I fucking love you, Pink.” He watches my reaction with a sexy smile, then he brings that sexy mouth to mine. A mere brush sets me off. And then he covers my mouth with his as I feel it. Fireworks. Exploding in my body as his finger eases into me again and his tongue penetrates my mouth. Yes, please. So hungry.

  He knows I’m coming, because he parts my lips with gentle pressure and sinuously slips his tongue inside, still rubbing his finger inside me.

  I twist my head and whimper. “Ahh, Kenna . . . Kenna!”

  His mouth smothers my sounds and he slides two fingers, three, into me, until I feel impaled, possessed, pinned, taken. His mouth is just as fierce over mine. I feel like he is gorging on my soul, and I want him to gorge it even more.

  When the contractions cease, I lie panting on the bed. The moonlight illuminates me head to toe, nothing covering me anymore. I say nothing as I look at him, all glorious and manly; I only chew on my lower lip, anxious to be kissed again as his eyes rove up and down my body.

  “What are you waiting for?” I gasp.

  “What’s the rush?” He smirks. “We have all night.” His hand starts at my ankle, and then he drags it with painstaking slowness and expert precision up the side of my body, up my hips, curving up my waist, my rib cage, to cover one puckered breast.

  “You’re driving me crazy,” I cry out.

  He ignores my cry, still looking at me with a glint that tells me he likes driving me out of my mind. He lowers his face and kisses my nipple. Draws it into his mouth. I cry out softly and arch upward, crippled with pleasure.

  “Oh, God, please . . . again.” I hook my legs at the small of his back, twine my arms around his neck, and catch my breath.

  He pulls back, then pushes inside. I’m trembling the second he’s seated inside me, and he grabs my hair in his fist and starts pumping like mad.

  “You’re so tight.”

  “Ooooh!”

  Cursing, he holds me down and starts thrusting, and I gasp at the intensity of our lovemaking, our breaths, our gasps, his growls, “Say it, gorgeous girl. Say it to me again.” My sex feels greedy and sensitive as he drags in and out, my muscles clenching around him once again. Another orgasm is building. I bite my lip and toss my head, and when he pinches my nipples, I explode, feeling him tense and come so powerfully. I have never, ever seen him come like this before.

  “I love you,” I breathe, panting.

  He groans out, “Love you too.”

  When we nearly pass out on the bed, I keep blinking and staring at the ceiling.

  Fuck. I can’t believe I said that. So easily it came this time. No more fears. No more insecurities. I am in love and I’m owning it like a badass!

  “I love you,” I repeat, rolling to my elbow and kissing his jaw. “I’m in love with you, dick-douche-jerk-fucking-face, I LOVE YOU!” I cry, and start laughing when he rolls over to squish me and yells, “Finally, the woman makes sense!”

  I sigh and hug him to me. “Kenna . . . what are we going to do?”

  He’s holding me as I lie, luxuriating in bed, when he lifts my hand up to his mouth and he kisses the second most precious thing he’s ever given me in my life. His mother’s ring.

  “We’re getting married.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  ENDS A
ND BEGINNINGS

  Mackenna

  Guess there’s something bittersweet about a beginning, because it almost always requires an end. My beginning right now requires I end my stint with Crack Bikini.

  Six years, almost.

  Enough to learn, live, sing my fucking heart out. Hell, enough to realize I don’t want to die a rockstar.

  I want to die a family man . . . who used to sing.

  I told Lionel I needed out way back. Told him I wanted to make music my own way. At my own pace. In my own time. I told him I want to have friends at the bar where I nightly perform, build some roots—somewhere.

  No. Not somewhere.

  I want to build some roots in Seattle with my girl.

  She’s my beginning, the beginning I’ve craved for six years—one I never knew I could have until I saw her again. But saying goodbye to Crack Bikini isn’t without some pain.

  The lyrics I’m recording aren’t without some pain.

  Pandora’s tormented. She keeps asking if I’m sure I want to leave the band. She says, “You don’t have to leave it for me.”

  “No, Pink, it’s for me,” I promise her.

  The truth is it’s for me, for my father. But mostly, for us.

  We’re at our headquarters. The place where the guys and I have recorded, nonstop, several songs. Pandora waits outside, chatting with Lionel, while I tape not the one song I promised Lionel but two.

  Through the window, I see her. The smile on her face? Yeah, that shit’s rare and precious. It’s what gives me the strength to go on, get these tapes down, get it over with.

  The guys will get two singles from me for the new album.

  The rest will be instrumental; heavy on the guitars. The boys are excited about mashing those guitar-heavy orchestral songs with a variety of popular songs from different singers. It’ll probably be the perfect music for dancing at any fucking bar.

  “You sure about this, man?” Lex asks when I come out to say goodbye. We do a hand salute we used to do when we were younger, and I slap his back.

  “Yeah, as sure as you are of keeping that ugly dragon up your arm.”

  “Kenna, dude, anytime you feel like stopping by to work on tracks, tour with us . . . ,” Jax begins.

  “I’ll just stop by without warning, catch you two bastards unawares,” I kid, doing our handshakes too.

  Lionel has seen this coming, I know, since my father was released from prison and I mentioned wanting to be closer to him. Have some time to spend with the only family I got.

  “Anything I can do to change your mind?” Lionel asks.

  I reach out for Pandora, who’s been standing a bit to the side, giving us some privacy. I grab her by the back of the neck and pull her close to me. “Won’t ever be ready to leave my vixen again.”

  “Kenna, but your music . . .”

  “My music will always be with me.” I tip her head up, her gaze somehow both dark and playful. “Am I finally going to hear that song you promised to write to me?”

  She flushes beet red. “The first one doesn’t fit anymore.”

  “Write me another one, then. Better yet, would you like to write one with me?”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  SPARKLING SHINY NEW LIFE

  Pandora

  The moment has been testing me to the point that I’m blinking and staring at my nails, my feet. Mackenna Jones leaving Crack Bikini . . .

  All this time, I’ve been watching him inside the recording studio, pouring his heart out into the two singles he wants to leave behind. The prickles in the back of my eyes won’t cease. I tried texting with my friends, letting them know I’m coming back home and that . . .

  . . . I’m moving in with Mackenna Jones.

  Brooke and Melanie nearly burst my cell phone. While Mackenna recorded, the twins hovered by my side. I sensed they were both happy and sad, but mostly sad for themselves, happy for us.

  “Always had a thing for you, that guy did,” Lex promises.

  Jax jabs a thumb toward his brother. “What he said.”

  My smile trembles a little. What can you say? Goodbyes are a bitch, and this is the first time in my life I ever get to have one. No goodbye to Mackenna when he left. None to my father. None to my daughter. This is my first goodbye, and it’s a doozy.

  “So have I. And guys,” I add, my voice cracking as I finally admit, “consider me your number-one fan from now on.”

  “Awww, she likes us, Jax!” Lex shucks before they both lunge at me. We’re hugging, and when they start playfully squeezing my butt, Mackenna promptly comes out to pull them off me.

  “Back off, dweebs.”

  That’s when Lex turns to him. “You sure about this, man . . . ?”

  And I know Mackenna well enough to know that, tough call or not, he’s very sure about this.

  EPILOGUE

  Pandora

  Seattle is wholly different when you change the lens through which you see it. One day, it’s a place where you got your heart broken. A place that feels lonely even with thousands of people driving, walking past you. One day it is the rainiest, most depressing city in the world. And another day, it’s the place where you want to live the rest of your life. Because it’s the place where you have your little cousin, your friends, your job, and your boyfriend.

  Your boyfriend.

  Did I just sigh?

  Me. Sighing.

  Grinning.

  Happy, hopeful, forgiving.

  How can all this happen in a few months?

  I know now, from life, that it takes only a second to break you. But with time, with effort, it takes a little longer, but you can make it. There’s something about someone knowing your deepest, darkest secret and still loving you despite what you did that gives you hope. That makes you want to be better. Never disappoint yourself, and them, ever again.

  There’s also something about learning to forgive . . .

  Both others, and yourself.

  I feel different now. I feel it every morning when I wake. The sense of looking forward to your day. Life doesn’t suck anymore. People don’t suck—well, not everyone.

  During our first week back in Seattle, Kenna and I found an apartment close to where we’re opening a rock bar.

  The idiot wants to call it Pink, and all my friends—Mel, Brooke, and Kyle—wholeheartedly approve. I’m decorating in my trademark silver and black, and, now that we’re owners of a future establishment, I decorate by day while Mackenna heads to the studio he bought just three floors above.

  He’s recruited a couple of bands to play at Pink during the week. And, even better, as a special favor, Jax and Lex and Crack Bikini will be performing opening night.

  They call all the time, those two goofballs. Trying to coax Kenna back to the band. He laughs and banters with them, says, “Hell no” and “Fuck off.” He’s currently working on a new album called Bones. I’m crazy about the songs. They’re so bare, different from what he created during his time with Crack Bikini. Edgier. More raw.

  At night, he takes me out, whether I protest that I’m tired or not. He’s a prowler—another wolfish trait.

  On the weekends, we invite Magnolia over. She loves it with us. Even my mother is trying to make amends, so even if she doesn’t like having to let me take Mag some weekends, she lets us have our way. Her way of trying to make peace with Mackenna.

  I still remember the first time they met—Mag and Kenna.

  Mom dropped her off. We’d prearranged the visit, so we were expecting Magnolia. I rang her up from the lobby, and suddenly the door of the apartment swung open and there was Magnolia, her eyes bright with curiosity as she asked, “Pan, Pan, who is he?”

  She curled around my legs like a cat, and I clutched her to me as Kenna set aside the guitar he was fiddling with and headed over with a smile I remember finding heart-meltingly adorable.

  I noticed her study him.

  And I noticed him study her.

  “Aren’t you going to let our guest inside,
Pandora?” he asked me, intrigued.

  “Who are you?” she asked in return, frowning.

  “Who are you?” he shot back, lifting one eyebrow and reaching around me to shut the door behind us.

  “I’m Magdalene,” she said.

  “Magnolia,” I corrected, laughing.

  He smiled down at her while she surveyed him.

  “Magic Mike, say hello to my boyfriend, Mackenna,” I said, giving her a little nudge forward.

  “What does this mean?” she went on to ask of the tattoo on Kenna’s forearm. “Why are you wearing bracelets? You like boys, don’t you?”

  “Mag!” I laughed, ushering her into the kitchen. “Come on, we’re making homemade pizza.”

  Over the mozzarella sprinkling, Mackenna looked at me, as intent as ever. “She’s—?”

  “A little older than our . . . um, yes.”

  We shared a moment of sadness, then he came up behind me, took my hand, and set it over the five Chinese symbols on his forearm as he whispered in my ear, “It means ‘I Live For You.’ ”

  “What?”

  He laughed and moved to help Magnolia add the pepperoni slices. “I’m not repeating it. I was drunk and had one thing on my mind and one thing only.”

  “Me?”

  “Yup. That wasn’t the best tattoo to help me forget you, was it?” he murmured.

  “But you wore it proudly?”

  “Only because it was the truth.”

  A month before the movie premiere, we hear that the movie trailer is becoming famous for showing me charging across the stage to kiss Mackenna, whispering with ferocity, “You’re mine. I claim you. I love you. You’re mine.”

  Surprisingly, this has gotten me an online fan club. So unexpected! I even interact with the fans sometimes. As long as Kenna’s fans don’t lynch me at the premiere, I’m good with anything. He’s promised me, they won’t touch me.

  And I believe him, because, sadly, they’ll probably be too busy trying to reach out over the red cords to touch him.

  Anyway, just a week before the premiere, I find myself calling Melanie with my most excited voice yet. I’m so happy, my voice has a new tone even for me.