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“Ah!” He tilts my head muffling my cries with a kiss.
I want more.
I need more.
He pulls out and flips me over. I watch him with rapt eyes as he kneels before me. His eyes are dilated, clearly enjoying this. Everything throbs for him and the anticipation is unbearable as he holds his cock with one hand, stroking it in front of me, teasing me.
I want him too much to wait and so I sit up and claim him with a kiss, sliding onto him. “Fuck,” he rasps holding me to him as I ride his cock. His hips move to meet mine at a delicious pace. I open my eyes to find him watching me.
He pushes me off him and I land on the mattress, but before I can catch my breath, he slams into me. It feels as if the wind has been knocked out of me, but I want more. I want him to fuck this disease out of me.
“Harder,” I beg, wanting to feel his power and his rage.
I reach for him and he grabs my hands, lifting them above my head. He holds each wrist tightly so I can’t touch him as he thrusts harder and deeper inside of me, angling his hips just right to press against my clit with each stroke. I writhe against him, urging him for more, feeling the friction build between us as my clit pulses. Just a little bit more, and I’m there.
“Cash,” I whimper. He runs his fingers down my arms and over my neck. For a moment, he rests the weight of his palm against my neck, wrapping his fingers around me, his grip tightening while the other plucks at my nipple. His eyes roll to the back of his head and my body quakes as I gasp for air. I’ve never felt so fucking high as I do right now. I watch as he succumbs to the pleasure, slamming into me as I come hard. I close my eyes, sinking into the pleasure, feeling it ravage my body like no other orgasm has. I don’t want it to end because that’s the only way I feel alive, when I am closest to the edge.
“Yes!” I manage to say with his fingers still around my neck.
Abruptly, Cash removes his weight from me and I lay on the mattress panting, my sex clenching around nothing. The breath returns to my lungs. When I open my eyes, Cash is looking down at me with concern and anger. He rubs his hand over the back of his neck and closes his eyes, tipping his face to the ceiling. “Fuck, Mia.” He turns away from me, almost as if he can’t look at me.
He seems angry at me and I don’t understand why. I think he’s heading for the bathroom but he turns around. “Is that what you fucking want?” He creases his brows at me in concern, placing his hand over his mouth and then rubbing his chin.
I shrink away from him, suddenly feeling judged, and I grab the throw blanket from the end of the bed, covering myself. “What’s wrong?” I sit up.
“What’s fucking wrong?” he asks, as if I should already know.
“Jesus, fuck.” He runs his hands through his hair, pacing. “You fucking scare me sometimes.” He exits the room and I am left alone, sitting on the bed clutching the blanket to me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Do You Have an Appointment?
THREE YEARS LATER
Greta is subletting my downtown loft. I don’t charge her much because I don’t pay her much, but she doesn’t need to know what a discount she’s getting on this space.
Part of Greta’s job is to drive me around because Cash is not convinced that my seizure medication is working. I’ve had one seizure since the accident but my medication was adjusted and I have been fine for the last three years. I humor him and let Greta drive me around because I know it makes him feel better. I hate that he worries about me when he should be concentrating on his business.
Greta doesn’t know about my medical issue. She thinks I’m a pretentious prima donna who can’t be bothered with traffic.
“Carmen DuBois is coming in today at one O’clock,” Greta chirps as we exit her car and walk into the studio.
I groan. Carmen is a pop star who insisted on working with me on a single she’s putting out. Ever since Peter’s album went platinum, I’ve had to turn people away, but the offers keep coming in. I should be glad that my publishing company is doing so well, but it’s only me and I can’t hide in the studio forever.
“Don’t worry; I’ll pick up a coffee from Busters so you are fully drugged to handle her.” Greta knows how much I like Busters coffee. It’s a new shop that opened up around the corner from the studio. They are Portland-based, and Southern Californians eat it up like it’s gold, including me.
“And a bear claw too,” I wheedle, fluttering my eyelashes at her.
“Ugh, you’re so demanding,” she teases as we enter the building, waving at Betty as we head down the hall towards the studio. “I’ll be out this afternoon to find you some outfits for the AMA’s.” She knows how much I hate shopping for clothes. I think I have the same jeans and shirts I wore when I was in high school.
Several songs I’ve worked on are up for awards, including Peter’s, and in a moment of weakness, I agreed to go to the awards ceremony. Besides, Greta is so excited at being able to go this year and she’s worked really hard, I wanted her to have something nice to look forward to.
“Check out that thrift shop in Santa Monica,” I tell Greta, “the one near the record store.” Angel’s shop is always stocked with interesting items. I don’t question where he finds them though, but I’ve seen on the news a string of robberies in the Hollywood Hills lately, and questionable types are always in and out.
“Oh, the one with the vintage dresses?” she says excitedly. No doubt snatched from some starlet’s closet.
“If I have to dress up, I’d like to look like Rita Hayworth,” I say dramatically.
