Page 25 of The Comedown

“I can play, I just—”

“He’s a rapper,” Slade snaps. “He doesn’t fucking play guitar.”

A gloomy cloud crosses Julian’s face and it’s like watching him settle under it, using the cold dark coverage it provides to his advantage as he reverts back to the expressionless Julez.

“Maybe you can play for me sometime,” I say, trying to pull him out of it.

“I’m a rapper. I rap.”

Okay, then.

“Can we get back to work here? It’s not like we’re in the middle of a fucking shoot or anything,” the photographer bitches, and I press the tip of my tongue into my cheek to keep from lashing out. I hate these so much.

Turning toward the camera, I drape my left arm across the back of Julian’s neck to hang off one of his shoulders, then bite a pick between my teeth. After several clicks, I take it out using my right hand, and hold it up for Julian. He wastes no time biting it, too, brushing my fingers with his lips in what shouldn’t be a sexual way but because it’s Julian, it’s overly sexual.

Before I can let go, he rips the pick from my grasp and spits it out, sinking his teeth into my thumb instead.

My pussy clenches from the contact and I jerk back automatically. With my arm still around him, the movement pulls Julian closer, then he’s turning himself to step into me, his hands going straight to my hips after letting go of the guitar. The feral look in his gaze has me clearing my suddenly dry throat.

What is happening right now?

Improvising during a photo shoot is one thing, but this is not improvisation. Julian’s not a good model. Looks-wise he’s a beautiful subject, but he hasn’t shown enough skill to be able to pass this off as improv. This is something else entirely.

With the guitar between us, Julian crushes my hips against it, but with the clicks still going, I try to stifle any outward reactions. Inside though, I’m burning the hell up.

Julian’s sole focus on my lips makes me feel that much hotter, so I lick them, hoping the moisture will cool me down.

It doesn’t. I’m inflamed.

“Lick them lips, bet they taste like sweet honey.”

Is he singing one of his songs right now?

“Gimme a minute with you, baby,

and I’ll stretch it to last forever,

tucked right between those hips.”

“Julian,” I warn. He has to stop this. I have to stop this. I shouldn’t be reacting like this to his touch. I should be pissed he’s manhandling me…again.

Much quieter, he starts over.

“Roll my name off them lips,

keep it flowing like Pooh’s sweet honey.

Gimme a minute with you, baby,

and I promise I’ll last forever,

tucked right between your hips.”

His grip on my hips contracts, emphasizing the last word of…whatever this is supposed to be. He’s high. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.

But I do.

Or at least I should.