Page 66 of The Keeper

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“Calum.” She says it again. Pleading and desperate now. “Please. Please, Calum.”

I lift her, bracing her back against the tiles, and spread her wide. She’s ready to take my cock, and I’m past ready to give it to her. When I push deep inside her on a rough slide and start to fuck, she cries out my name again, moving her hips to meet every thrust, our bodies in total sync. My mouth on her jaw, her neck, the hollow of her throat, every place my lips can reach.

Her nails digging into my back, urging me along with her.

Our bodies are slick, moving together, water sluicing over us, getting in our eyes, wetting our lips and tongues. Like a hazy, drugged dream I don’t want to ever end, endorphins crash through my system, the tingle of energy rippling through my veins as my release builds.Fuck. I don’t know if it’s okay for me to come—

“Is this okay? No…condom…” I barely get the words out before Billie’s moans grow intense and feral, her cunt tightening around my cock, her orgasms following one after another, a parade of ecstasy that spurs me to go faster, harder until I know I’m hurtling over the edge to join her any second.

“Yes…s’okaaaaay,” she chokes out through the haze of her pleasure.

The sight of her in my arms, my cock pulsing deep inside her, our names on each other’s lips, my forehead against hers, eyes closed, flips my go-switch. I start to come, the experience like nothing I’ve ever felt before, riding out the wave of intense feeling, of emptying myself, my soul…into hers.

It’s so hard for me to express emotion, to show how I feel, and I hope that this shows her that she can feel it.

We stay connected for a long while, catching our breath, holding each other. When I pull away, it’s only to grab the soap. I wash her, her soft, creamy breasts and pebbled nipples. I wash the sensitive space between her legs, and she moans sexily, leaning into me, making my cock hard again.

“How can I want you this much?” I marvel, mostly to myself.

Billie looks up to meet my gaze, her expression open and vulnerable, as if she’s asking me to say it again, to assure her it’s real.

“It is, Billie.”

“What is, Calum?”

“What you said before. That this feels different now between us. You’re right. Itisdifferent now. It’s real. So fucking real.”

She takes my face in her hands and kisses me sweetly while I bring her flush against my body. We stay like that for a long time, holding each other under the falling spray of warm water floating down around us like a cleansing rain.

Moments pass, maybe hours, who knows. But eventually, we turn off the shower. The last drops of water falling onto the tiles below sound garishly loud in the quiet of what we just did together as we pull oversized, purple towels around ourselves.Purple must be her favorite color.She goes to the sink to brush her long hair and I watch her in the mirror. When she turns, her cheeks and chest are flushed with pink.

I hold out my hand, and she takes it, her towel falling to the floor as she steps into me.

Together, we find her bed, and that realism I’ve never felt with anyone else before today…once more.


the beach looked familiar


“Billie, Nikki, and Sven, meet Dan Rosenberg,” my brother Kit says, his wide, movie star smile on full display as he introduces us to the executive producer of his new movie.

We’re in LA to work on the soundtrack for the film. Dan has reservations about bringing an unknown band to the table for a tentpole of a summer film. It’s an action film with lots of explosions and a hot romance, and normally, they’d contract with a hot, current band to tap into that band’s fan base for added support.

“Kit has told me you’re all going to be the next hot thing,” Dan says, his teeth white and straight, his tan golden. He’s in a crisp, white shirt that opens to show a gold cross necklace. He’s one of those slick Hollywood types that I always hated when I was growing up. Smiling widely, ready to devour people like wolves devour prey.

I bristle at it, folding my arms over my chest, my scowl deepening with each word of the lecture he gives us. He loves Kit. Kit’s a rainmaker. He’s got faith in Kit’s taste, and he’s willing to take a listen, but he’s not giving away the farm for free. He needs something real, something that sells. He’s willing to give us a chance, but he’s not making any guarantees.

He stops short of acting like he’s giving us some great gift by deigning to make time to listen to us play, but it’s certainly there, in between the sharky smile and “pep talk.”

By the time we head to the sound booth, where we’ll play two full songs for his oh-so-discerning musical ear, I’m in a rage that roars in my ears and makes me want to break my sticks. I did not want to be here. I did not want this. It feels like a handout, like a nepotistic sleight of hand that puts us in the limelight in the most inauthentic way.

Still, as we start our first song, a rager of a rock song with heavy guitars and a complicated, engaging drumbeat, I can see Kit’s eyes widen with surprise and awe, like he didn’t expect us to sound quite as good as we do.

We play through both songs, and I know we sound good. I know Sven’s gravelly voice will curl toes. I know Nikki and I present the image of two badass women who can hold it down with the best of them. And as we finish, Dan and Kit step into the booth, both smiling, and I know the deal is done. There is no going back.

Dan claps Kit on the shoulder and leaves his hand there. A sign of ownership more than pride, I think, but he says, “Kit, my man, you are a genius. Holy fucking shit, these guys are good.”

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