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He moved like silk and water over me, creating a rhythm, then changing it. I lay there and watched him, marveling at how the fuck it was possible that I was here, right now, in this bed, with this man, when by all rights I should be dead. The gratitude welled up in my chest and I pulled Theo down to me, kissing his mouth desperately.
I flipped us, pressing him to the bed and taking him in long, deep strokes that pounded us together and threatened to throw me into orgasm too soon. Theo’s hands on my thighs grounded me, and his worshipful gaze humbled me again.
“I’m so close,” he said, voice just a rasp. “Make me come?”
At his words, any semblance of control snapped, and I drove into him hard, my ass clenching and my spine turning to liquid heat. I felt the first flickers of it in my balls, and I pressed myself deep into Theo’s gorgeous body. He stroked himself in rhythm with my thrusts, and his moans were the sweetest music.
I came with a shout, burying my face in his neck as I thrust, my orgasm blasting through me, turning my bones to liquid and obliterating the world outside of my pleasure. I came inside Theo in powerful spurts and felt him peak just as I finished, his muscles clamping down on me as he shot between us. He cried out, then bit down on my shoulder as his ass clenched around my cock, pulling the last shuddery tendrils of my orgasm out of me, and leaving me shaking against him.
His hair was a mess and he winced as I pulled out of him, but he looked fucked out and blissful, a soft smile playing on his lips. About the same as I felt.
“Sorry, baby,” I murmured, running my fingers over his hole to soothe the muscle. “Oh my god.” I could feel my come leaking out of Theo, and a fierce possessiveness shot through me. I pulled him to me, wrapping my arms around him tightly, and he made a groaning, purring sound against my neck and wrapped his arms around me. We were locked up tight, clinging together, and there wasn’t a fucking thing in the world that could have made me let him go.
Fuck, was I going to miss him.
Chapter 17
Theo
Washtub Prophecy, our opening act for the second leg of the tour, was everything that I hated about the music industry. They cared more about the show than the music, more about the publicity than the songs, and somehow they still managed to be really good. Which is why I’d agreed to have them open—I’d only heard their album. Ven had no such excuse, since he actually knew Abel Mailer, their lead singer.
It had happened in the usual way—they were a band on our label, the genres were similar, it would be so appreciated if we’d let them open for us as a segue into their headlining tour. Of course, I’d’ve preferred if we could have anyone we wanted as an opener, but Dougal was firm that this was the way the game was played.
I’d really enjoyed having Starkers open for us on the first leg of the tour. They were incredibly talented, and their use of harp and electric fiddle gave their music a soaring, ethereal quality that I loved. Miranda Jenkins, their lead singer and harp player, was awesome, and though I hadn’t gotten to know the rest of the band as well, Mari, Aruna, and Leah had been kind and interesting whenever I’d spent time with them. It had been part of what made the first leg of the tour feel okay.
Now, with the full-on fuckery of Washtub Prophecy, every night was a grueling affair. Abel Mailer had decided that we were destined to be friends from the moment we all met up the night before the first show. At first, I’d thought it was just hero worship or something. Which made me uncomfortable, but at least wasn’t scummy. But, no. Abel would sidle up to me and talk like he thought we were in some kind of secret club and everyone else was outside, looking in. He’d rag on his own band, criticize other musicians he’d toured with, or met, or listened to.
I mostly ignored him or made excuses to leave. But after the third show, when he’d sat down beside me and started in on how Coco wasn’t the best guitarist so it was good she stood out in other ways, and how Ven and Ethan were probably fighting over who got to “get in on that,” I cut him off at the knees. He looked shocked, as if I’d betrayed some relationship we had, and then he got pissed, and I knew I’d made an enemy.
I’d steered clear of him since then, since the last thing I wanted was to go onstage distracted by that asshole. But it made everything a little bit harder to deal with, a little less comfortable.
