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…But no. I’m not going there. I won’t beat my chest and holler in triumph; I won’t hold her up for the whole room to see like the spoils of war. This is a gift, a sign of trust and connection, and I will not waste it.
London will have a good memory for her first intimate touch if it’s the last fucking thing I do.
“Gonna take care of you, baby.” It’s awkward with the snarl of her clothes, but I find her clit with my thumb. Stir around the hard little nub, smearing her wetness through her folds. “Gonna make you feel so good. I swear, London.”
“I know.” She’s panting, squeezing fistfuls of my shirt. “I know, Dex. You always do.”
I lean forward and nip at her chin. “You’re so wet and hot, baby girl. Soaking through your panties and slicking up my fingers. You like riding my hand in this crowded room? You like claiming your man?”
She whimpers and nods.
And, yeah. I thought so. We’re cut from the same cloth, London and I—the same darkly patterned cloth, a little frayed at the edges, gone soft from so many washes until it’s comfy and worn.
I know what she likes. Know it as well as the dark longings of my own mind, so my words come hot and fast against her cheek, my thumb swirling slow and steady over her clit while my middle finger rubs inside her pussy.
“Well I’m claiming you right back, baby girl. You want a man’s touch from now on, you come to me. Don’t want to see any roadies sniffing around you. Don’t want ‘em getting any ideas. You’re Dex Kincaid’s girl, and when you need your clit rubbed or your pussy licked, you come and find me and you hop up on the nearest flat surface. Any time, any place.”
London’s breaths are harsh. She’s grinding down harder against my hand, her eyebrows pinched in concentration as her body tightens in my lap, her muscles pulling taut with each muttered word.
“This is mine.” I pinch her clit, lightning fast, and she gasps, hips bucking. “And this is mine, too.” My finger plunges deeper into her channel, stroking along her sensitive walls. “Every inch of you is mine now, London Peters, and I’m gonna worship it all. Gonna make you feel like the fucking goddess you are.”
“Dex.”
Yeah, she’s close. It’s clear from the fluttering of her inner muscles; from the flush crawling up her throat. “Better keep quiet when you come on my fingers. Don’t want these assholes to hear a whisper of it, understand? Your moans are mine, London. Mine alone. Keep silent, baby.”
Her breath seizes. White teeth dig hard into her lip. Those green eyes, the eyes which haunt my dreams, they squeeze shut as London shudders and quakes in my arms, falling apart with the tiniest squeak. She comes and comes, grinding down onto my fingers, the zipper of her shorts scraping against my wrist.
London Peters is a fucking miracle.
So perfect it hollows out my chest and leaves me raw.
And when she inhales sharply and collapses against my shoulder, when she burrows into my throat and lets me stroke a shaking palm over her hair, I leave my fingers buried in her panties, cupping her pussy like a possessive old fool.
She’s mine—for tonight, at least, she’s mine.
And I never want to let go.
Nine
London
Call me naive, but I never thought the press would take much interest in me, especially once Jefferson made it clear he didn’t feel like being a real father. I mean, how many rockers have estranged children out there, waiting half-heartedly for their wild would-be parents to step up?
I am one hundred percent sure I’m not alone. And that’s not much of a news story, is it?
So seeing my photo on a gossip site, the link sent to me in a panicked email from my mom—it takes me by surprise.
“Huh.” I lift my laptop, squinting at the screen like if I tilt it just right, the photo of me will go away.
Me and Dex.
Dex Kincaid. Famous guitarist of Run Along Ruby, and my father’s band mate.
Okay yeah, I’ve been super naive.
The funny thing is, it’s not a grainy, lewd shot of the two of us in the green room last night. Kissing and touching and muttering filthy sweet nothings to each other, wearing our raw hearts on our sleeves. Bet the internet would have a field day over that.
No, it’s from our walk a few days ago, before we passed through Madrid. Dex and I are standing together in the darkness on a rain-slicked city street, the glow of a streetlamp spilling over us like a shaft of golden light from the heavens.
