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He tasted bittersweet, like the songs he wrote. Like coffee and clove and strawberry lollipops all mixed up together. It was a taste she was growing to love, one that was rapidly becoming as addictive to her as Wyatt himself.
The thought of being addicted to Wyatt—of needing him—scared her, had her holding herself back, just a little. As if he sensed her withdrawal, his hand came up, cupped the back of her neck, tilted her head this way and that as he delved deeper, taking more and more and more of what she had to give with each second that passed. But he gave as much as he took. Somehow he gave even more.
She cried out, burrowed even closer, and then Wyatt was backing her into the apartment, his body plastered to hers as he slammed the door behind them.
He didn’t take time to lock it, didn’t take time for anything as he propelled them across the living room until her back was against the nearest wall and her legs were around his waist.
After Quinn’s visit, she’d changed into yoga pants and a tank top, and now Wyatt’s hand was down the stretchy, comfortable pants, his thumb stroking her clit even as he sucked love bites into the curve of her neck.
She tried to reciprocate, tried to slide a hand between them to stroke his very hard cock through his jeans, but he grabbed her hand, pinned it against the wall above her head as he continued to lick and suck and bite his way along her neck and shoulder.
It was a total turn-on that he was strong enough to hold her up with only one hand and the hips that were pressed so intimately against her own. Then again, everything Wyatt had done to her from the moment they’d met had been a turn-on. Everything about him was a turn-on, like the universe had designed him specifically for her.
The thought terrified her, had her squirming against him as she started to throw roadblock after roadblock up in her head. Was she insane? Thinking like that about a guy she’d just met—and not just any guy but Wyatt freaking Jennings? Fucking him was one thing. Worrying about him was her job—and because she was a decent human being. But falling for him, really falling for him? It was a disaster waiting to happen.
She’d spent her whole adult life wanting to prove her father wrong, working her ass off to show him that she could run the label as well as he could. And that she wouldn’t fall for the talent, wouldn’t let her desire to make some rock star happy cloud her vision.
And now, here she was, sleeping with Wyatt. And fighting her father about his place in Shaken Dirty. She was standing up for Wyatt—and standing against Li—because it was the right thing for the band. And, in turn, the right thing for the label. But if she and Wyatt were together, that’s all her father would see. That she was letting her emotions get in the way of the business. That wasn’t good for her aspirations, but it also wasn’t good for Wyatt. For the band.
Not to mention the fact that falling for him was a bad fucking bet. He was an addict, one straight out of rehab who shouldn’t even try to have a relationship until he’d been sober at least six months or a year. It was part of the program and made perfect fucking sense, and yet here she was, building fairy tales about him—about them—in her head. Hadn’t she learned yet that fairy tales didn’t happen? At least not to girls like her, who wanted to run the kingdom and be swept off their feet.
“Hey, you okay?” he demanded as he slid two fingers inside of her, twisting them so that he had immediate access to her G-spot—and her attention.
“I’m fine,” she gasped, her body arching against his as she forced everything but the pleasure to the back of her mind. Pleasure—mind-numbing, body-shattering pleasure—she could do. It was the rest of the stuff she wasn’t so sure about. “Better than fine.”
“Oh, yeah?” He flicked his thumb over her clit even as he continued to stroke her deep inside. “Then let go, sweetheart. I need to feel you come for me. I need—”
He broke off as just that easily, her body followed his command, flyin
g into a thousand different pieces as she came and came and came.
“Fuck, yeah, baby,” he groaned, his eyes gleaming as he avidly watched her fall apart. “I love watching you come.”
“Well, you’ve—” Her voice broke and she took a few seconds to get her breath back before she tried again. “You’ve certainly made sure it happened enough in the last few days.”
His grin was wicked as he twisted his fingers inside her again, sending new tendrils of heat curling through her sex. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m just getting started.”
Because she knew that was true and because she also knew if she gave him just a few more seconds he would have her begging for another orgasm, she squirmed away from him, lowering her legs so that she was once again standing on the floor. Unsteadily, yes, but she was standing so she was totally counting it as a win.
Besides, she wanted to talk to him before things went any further. Wanted to check in with him, to see where his head was at. It was important for him—and the band. And, she admitted a little reluctantly, the label.
“Do you want something to drink?” she asked, putting a little distance between them so she wouldn’t melt back into him at the first touch of his hand. She considered the fact that her knees only wobbled a little another win. “I’ve got coffee, Dr Pepper, water…” Her voice trailed off lamely as he quirked a brow at her.
“Dr Pepper’s not exactly what I came here for.”
“I know what you came here for,” she answered, shooting him a wry grin. “And we will definitely get to that. But don’t you think we should talk first?”
The easy grin slid off his face, as did the remnants of desire. His eyes grew shuttered and only the wild, storm-tossed blue of them let her know that he was in there. And that he was hurting. Everything else about him was blank. Empty.
Wrapping an arm around his waist, she propelled him toward the kitchen and the granite ledge that had two barstools tucked under it. “Sit,” she told him, shoving him gently toward the closest one. “Have you eaten?”
He didn’t answer and she didn’t push. Instead, she walked to the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of eggs, some fruit, and some cheese. “I’m not a very good cook,” she told him as she started rummaging around the cupboards for a bowl. “But even I can make an omelet without too much trouble.”
“You don’t have to cook for me.” His voice sounded rusty, and when she glanced over her shoulder at him, he was watching her with a look so intense it took her breath away.
“I know I don’t have to,” she told him. “I want to. Besides, I’m hungry. An earth-shattering orgasm will do that to a girl.”
“I wouldn’t know,” he answered, sounding glib. “Not having had an earth-shaking orgasm of my own.”
