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“Don’t you dare move,” I wheeze. Because I know how this goes; know what I’ll be risking the second we break apart. Second thoughts and regrets and a quiet conversation about how I’m too young for him. About how he should never have done this—should never have lost control.
I can’t hear it. Can’t face that harsh reality. Not yet.
“Touch me,” I beg the rock star, grasping for what might be my only chance. I didn’t fly halfway around the world to be a chicken, did I? “Make me yours, at least for a few moments, Dex. Touch me. Please.”
Eight
Dex
London’s words ricochet around my brain, and I breathe out hard. Can’t believe this is happening. This can’t be real.
How many long nights have I laid awake by now, thrashing and growling, my body feverish in my sheets as I picture a moment just like this? Ruby red lips gasping my name; her tight, curvy body grinding down on the hard line of my cock. Her husky voice begging me, begging me, to take what’s mine.
Touch me.
I shouldn’t.
If I was a better man, I’d put a stop to this right now. I’d take London back to the hotel and deliver her safely to her room, then I’d take my heated body and my grasping hands far, far away from this sweet girl and into an ice cold shower.
Because London is young and smart and funny and clever. She has a whole bright future ahead of her, and I’m already past my prime. I can play guitar, sure, and I can offer her riches—but what about the rest of it? What about the other things she must want from a man?
Someone steady. Someone respectable.
Someone she can take home to her mom.
And I’ll be honest, I don’t remember London’s mom at all from her time with Jefferson, couldn’t even pick her out of a line-up, but I’m confident that whoever she is, she would not be thrilled to see her daughter on my arm.
“Dex,” London whimpers, her body rolling against mine, squishing her perfect tits to my chest. And I know all the reasons not to do this, know that it’s a bad idea, but I can’t refuse this girl. Not with anything, and especially not this.
“Alright.” I jiggle her in my lap as I work a hand between us, flicking the top button of her shorts open. “I’ve got you. I’m here.”
I scowl over London’s shoulder, scanning the room. Making sure no one can see a peep of my girl. But her back is turned and we’re tucked here away together in the shadowy corner. On the fringes of the action: out of sight and out of mind.
“You all worked up, baby girl?”
London nods, her cheeks pink and her eyes hazy as I tug her zipper down in jerky motions. She lifts her ass slightly; helps me to work her shorts down an inch or two. Not enough to give these other assholes a show, but enough that I can get to work.
“I’ll take care of that. I’ll take care of you, London. You won’t ever need another man for this, you hear? Not for this, and not for anything.”
Her breath hitches when my fingertips edge under the blue lace of her panties. Her skin’s hot down here too, overheated and trembling. It’s a tight fit and a weird angle, and I twist my wrist, sliding my fingers down until I meet soft curls and her damp slit.
London moans, her hips bucking into my touch.
I grit my teeth.
Holy shit.
And I thought I could do this. Thought I could get her off, unaffected, keeping a careful distance between my delving fingers and my racing mind. Thought I could scratch this itch for my girl, then leave her happy and satisfied and no longer wanting before going back to my lonely solo existence.
But every gasp, every twitch, each new slick inch of her I touch, and I’m falling deeper. Lost in London Peters. Could I ever stop this, now that I’ve felt her? Could I ever go back?
“Tight,” I grunt, as I push to the second knuckle in her slick channel.
London nods, her eyes hazy, and whispers, “It’s my first time.”
Jesus Christ.
Jesus Christ.
