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I pinned her to the bed, kissing her neck as I slid her panties off between us. I was in control tonight, calling the shots. Brit wasn’t complaining. She was gripping me with her thighs and arching her back as I scraped my teeth over her skin. We’d managed to slide her bra off of one shoulder, but that was all. We were too impatient to unhook it.
Even though I was in a very big fucking hurry, I was still paying attention. This wasn’t some random hookup in my early twenties—this was Brit. She mattered. The rhythm of her breath, the tension of her muscles, all of it told me something. And what it said was that she was all the way into this.
I put a hand to her hip, positioning her the way I wanted her, and slid into her heat. Brit cried out and locked her ankles together behind my back, squeezing me. Heaven—fucking heaven. I pressed deeper, rocking into her as I kissed her, making her crazy.
After a few frantic minutes, I grabbed her calf and pushed it. “Let go,” I said. “I’m going to make you come.”
Brit made a sound of frustration as I pulled out, but I slid down, using my fingers and my tongue on her clit. She went off like a rocket—That’s my girl—and I kissed my way back up her body. She locked her legs around me again, squeezing tight.
“Don’t stop,” she said.
So I selfishly took my turn. Our bodies moved in perfect sync. Was it possible this was getting even better with practice between us? It seemed insane.
But itcouldget even better. After that episode, we behaved in Philly—so well that no one in the band caught on—but in Newark, a movie-watching session in my hotel room ended up with her hand sliding up over my stomach under my shirt, my hand curving over her ass, and then we were at it again. The bed, then the shower. We were getting really, really good.
I wasn’t thinking. I refused to. The Road Kings’ agent, Miller, died suddenly—he was in his seventies, but still it was unexpected—and we didn’t know what would happen next. There was viral publicity from the unauthorized free show, and the crowds got bigger at every gig. Our phones started going off nonstop. Sienna Maplethorpe was trying to find out who our mystery backer was, but she hadn’t cracked it yet. There was no one steering the ship, no one at the rudder, and the ship was moving faster and faster. We just wanted to get through the next show, then the next. We wanted to get through four shows at Madison Square Garden.
I needed Brit in the madness. I needed the woman who refused to take my shit, who showed up when I needed her, who was my battle companion inEmerald Questand who made me laugh. Now I had her in bed, too, and I needed to hear the sounds she made, needed to feel the way she curled against me when she was satisfied. I was on the homestretch of this tour, and I needed all of it—and not just to stay sober, but because of who she was.
After so many years on the fringes, living out of a suitcase in a rock ’n roll band, things were starting to happen for the Road Kings. I felt like I was falling. I wasn’t going to be the same man I’d been when I left for this tour. This was the homestretch, and there was no slowing down.
It was all I could do to hold on.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Brit
In New York, after the first show, Axel and I went skinny-dipping. Because the Road Kings were now a Big Deal who had played the Garden, Axel talked to someone at the hotel, who talked to someone else, and we were given private access to the pool on the top floor at two o’clock in the morning.
We stripped and swam, spending an hour floating, splashing, and making each other laugh in the dim light that spilled from the change rooms. The city sprawled below us through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and there was no sound but our voices. Axel was a graceful and fearless swimmer. He liked to dive silently under the water, grab my ankles, tug them, and let them go.
As it often happened with us these days, I ended up twined around him as he stood chest-deep in the water, my knees over his hips and my arms around his neck. We kissed long and deeply, taking our time, and the only thought in my head was,Nothing can really be this good. It isn’t possible.
Me with this man in a pool in the middle of the night, kissing him as much as I wanted as my heart thrummed in my ribcage. His arms holding me, the taste of water on his skin. I’d been to the show earlier—these were the biggest concerts of Axel’s life, and I wanted to be there, anxiety or no anxiety—and I could still hear the music in my head. It had been incredible, and he was still vibrating with the energy. I kissed him harder.
I didn’t tell him that I’d had a FaceTime call with Aunt Ellen earlier, when I’d floated the idea to her of going after Pierre for what he might owe me. That Ellen—who had a large network of friends, most of them women—knew a high-powered lawyer in L.A. who owed her a favor and would, at the very least, give an opinion on my chances. I didn’t know where that would take me, and right now, I didn’t care.
Axel and I ended up at the edge of the pool, with my hands braced on the edge and his chest against my back. He kissed my neck, and I felt the heat of his skin, the brush of the necklace he wore against the back of my neck. His hands slid down to my hips, and it was so easy to get lost in it, so easy to let go. I let everything slip away, riding the waves of sensation until I came. I had no idea who this woman was, who was so confident that she could have wild sex in a pool with a rock star, but I really liked being her.
Afterward, we soaked in the hot tub. Axel sat across from me, sprawled in the bubbling water, his elbows braced on the edge and his head tilted back, his features relaxed. One of the things I’d discovered about Axel was that sex put him in a very content mood every time. It was sweet and it was flattering, as if I’d made him happy.
I looked at the line of his shoulders, the tattoos on his arms, and anxiety sliced coldly down my spine. This was ending. The tour was ending. We’d be back in real life in a few days.
As if he could sense my mood, Axel lifted his head and looked at me. “What is it?”
I shrugged, as usual unable to pretend with him. “What do we do after the tour is over and we’re home? You and me?”
He frowned. “Well, we’ll still be neighbors. We’ll still hang out. It’ll be the same as before, except we sleep together whenever we feel like it.”
I shook my head. “It isn’t that simple.”
“Why not?”
“Because it can’t be. First of all, you’re my boss.”
He frowned harder. “At The Corner, you mean? So what?”
“What do you mean, so what? So I’m your employee, and I’m also your—what? Your hookup?”
