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After a quick vocal warm-up, Kieran asks me if I’m ready to play for real, tossing out a few of our favorite songs as bait. My back already hurts like a motherfucker, and it’s all I can do not to double over in pain, but I don’t want them to know. So I excuse myself to the kitchen and toss back a concoction of pills the doctor gave me, hoping to take the edge off for at least an hour. When I return, the guys are hopeful, and I don’t want to let them down.
“My vocal range isn’t a hundred percent after surgery,” I tell them.
“Don’t stress about it,” Kieran says. “It’s something to do to pass the time. Let’s just have fun with it.”
Fun sounds like too ambitious of a goal, but I agree anyway. We begin with “The Sound of Silence” in the style of Disturbed. After choking out the first few lines, I find my rhythm. The edges of my eyes blur as the pain fades away, and I take solace in these moments when I don’t feel anything but the music.
At the end of the song, Ryan and Kieran exchange a quick glance, nodding in silent approval. One song turns into two, and pretty soon, it’s an endless flow as Kieran calls out more titles to fuck around with. Before I know it, two hours have passed. We’ve performed progressively more difficult songs and tested my vocal range and all our current physical capabilities beyond our limits. But by the time we break for lunch, I feel lighter than I have in weeks, and I’m relieved when Kieran and Ryan seem to agree.
“That was pretty solid.” Ryan whistles. “Let’s see about getting your shit moved in tomorrow, then we can jam again.”
“Sure.” I shrug.
“You want to get some grub?” Kieran asks. “I’d like to take a look at some of your songs if you’re up for it.”
“Yes to the grub,” I call out over my shoulder as I hobble toward the door. “Maybe to the songs.”
Chapter 51
Lyric
I wake with Madden’s warm body still wrapped around mine. At first, I think he’s asleep, and as I recall everything that happened between us last night, I consider extricating myself to find a shred of my dignity. But then I glance over my shoulder to look at him, and I know I can’t. I don’t want to. He feels my gaze on his face and opens his eyes to catch me staring.
“Morning.” His arm tightens around me possessively.
“Morning,” I whisper.
Our gazes remain locked, seconds stretching between us as my pulse picks up speed. My body melts against him, obliterating any self-preservation I may have had left. He’s warm, solid, and so handsome it hurts to look at him sometimes. When I feel the heat of his cock pressing against me, it sends a spark straight between my legs, and I rock back into him slightly. Just enough to acknowledge what I can’t admit out loud. I want him, despite knowing what it’ll cost me.
He reaches around me and grabs my jaw, tipping my head back while his other hand snakes down between my thighs.
“Are you wet for me?” He breathes the words into my ear.
“Yes,” I rasp.
A sound of satisfaction rumbles from his chest. “You’re always wet for me.”
His fingers slide over my pussy while he drags his palm over my throat and down to grope my breast. I arch into him at the contact, my nipples so sensitive I would sell my soul to have his mouth on them.
“Madden,” I beg.
His gaze warms the side of my face as he watches me. “Say it again.”
I say his name again, and he shows me how much he likes it by pushing two of his fingers inside me.
“Tell me what you want,” he commands as his lips graze my neck.
I blurt out the first thought that comes to mind. “Pretend I’m yours. Make me believe it.”
He stops, forces me to look at him, and his words set me on fire. “You are mine, baby. Don’t ever doubt that.”
I nod against him, desperate for more of those claims from his lips. I’ve known Madden the tormentor. Madden the punisher. But now, he’s introducing me to sweet, possessive Madden, and I am so hot for him I never want to let him go.
“Say it,” he orders roughly.
“I’m yours.”
He rewards me by fucking me with his fingers while his lips trail over my collarbone, blazing a path to my aching breasts.
“Who owns this?” He licks my nipple, making me arch off the bed.
“You do,” I pant.
“And this?” He punctuates each word with a thrust of his fingers inside me, and it makes me crazy.
“You,” I say louder.
“Who makes you come?”
“You,” I cry out.
He growls his approval against my skin, and I don’t know how it’s possible, but everything he does feels so freaking good. The way he can have me on the edge of the most intense orgasm in two minutes seems wholly unfair because it’s a delicious kind of torture, and I never want it to stop. But inevitably, I reach the point of no return, and Madden sends me into a free fall with one declaration.
