Chapter 20
20
JORDAN
I t’s been a strange week.
What started in Chicago with dinner with Paul Monroe and calling a truce with Logan Shock and The Electrics now ends with Criminal Records driving out to the middle of nowhere outside of Toronto, Canada to look at the stars.
And let’s not forgot... everything else I’ve been up to in between.
A lot can happen on tour. A lot can change too, leaving one with the sharpened skills of adaptability. But... shit, man.
It’s rare for me to start the week as one person and end it feeling like someone else entirely.
I don’t break rules. I’m no rule-breaker. In fact, I’m very much the rule- maker around here. But then Bronson happened.
Bronson is still happening.
And I’m... still me? I think?
I’m definitely calmer. Less tightly wound, for sure.
But I’m still me. Still Jordan Peck, manager of Criminal Records. I’ve got a to-do list a mile long. Still miles to go before the end of the tour.
But tonight, I let it all go.
Because tonight, we star bus.
I sit quietly on the short drive out to the campsite, my ankles quivering with anticipation. The others practically bounce off the walls, eager to breathe in the night sky.
Star bussing, as Knox so perfectly coined, is our newest method of relaxation. We don’t do it every night nor after every show, of course. Just the ones where we all feel the need for a good bit of fresh air. And after several days in a foreign land, keeping track of currency exchanges and our passports... yeah, the band unanimously agreed they needed a moment of chill .
I glance at Bronson sitting near the back of the bus. He’s the only one other than me actually sitting down, his feet propped up on the bench in front of him. He smiles at the others, chuckling occasionally.
Classic Bronson.
My belly flutters discreetly.
Our little secret.
Our little lie.
Our little broken rule.
When we arrive at the campsite, Mac drives further in to get as far away from the other campers as possible. We park in the perfect clearing, somewhere with enough trees for privacy while also providing a good view of the star-filled sky. Then we all stuff our arms full of whatever pillows and blankets we have on the bus and make our way outside.
Before I take a step toward the exit, a firm hand grips my arm. I instantly pause, casually finding a reason to stay back while the others rush off excitedly.
Once we’re alone, Bronson shifts closer. I wait with tension, knowing that any of them could hop back on the bus at any moment and witness… whatever is about to happen.
Clearing my throat, I act natural. “What’s up, Bronson?” I ask.
He holds out a keycard. A hotel room keycard.
“What’s that for?” I ask.
“Consider it my signal,” he says, his eyes light, full of humor and fun and sweet promises.
“Oh.” I pocket the card as a half-dozen shoes stomp across the roof above. “I’m sure I’ll make use of it.”
“Tonight,” he says. “I have a surprise for you.”
I frown. “I hate surprises.”
“You’ll like this one.”
A shudder involuntarily. “All right.”
Bronson steps back, the secrets in his eyes gone in a blink. “Star bus!” he shouts.
I chuckle as he rushes off the bus to join the others, prompting several echoes of “Star bus!” as he goes.
I take a moment to myself, enjoying the quiet comfort of the empty bus; a place full of work and fun and, recently, extremely smutty trysts.
I prepare myself for yet another night of work and fun and... surprises .
But deep in my stomach, there’s a subtle shift of unease. Everything is changing. Everything has changed. And will continue to change.
I’m not a huge fan of change. It’s about as appealing to me as surprises are. But this time… I don’t know.
Maybe change is a good thing.
Pushing it aside, I smile and whisper “Star bus” before hurrying to join the others on the roof.
I look both ways down the empty hallway then slide the keycard through the lock.
A deep breath, and I open the door. “Bronson?” I ask as I step inside.
His suite is nearly identical to mine, opening into a large room with forest green walls and a queen-sized bed with bright white linens. There is no Botsford Plaza Hotel in Toronto, but this place is similar enough in style and luxury.
The lights are off, except for a singular lamp sitting by the bed, casting the rest of the space in shadow. The bathroom door is closed, but a slither of light pools out from the bottom.
“Bronson?”
A moment later, the bathroom door slides open. He’s changed out of his clothing from earlier and now wears a pair of grey sweatpants and a white tank that shows off his perfectly toned drummer arms.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I say. “I came up as soon as I could. Chrissy and I had some details to work out with Mac before the drive tomorrow.”
“New York City,” he says, his voice tinged with excitement.
“I know,” I say. “I can’t wait, either.”
“Been too long.”
“Too damn long.”
“Well, that’s enough small talk, I think. Take your panties off.”
I blink, then laugh. “Oh, is that how we do things now?” I tease.
“Sorry,” Bronson says playfully as he walks toward me. “Let me start over.” He stops in front of me. “How are you?”
I smother my grin. “I’m great.”
“Feeling good?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Me, too.”
“Always feel good after a nice, relaxing star bus.”
He chuckles, then shifts to the side, stepping lightly around me. Behind me, I feel his hand come to my shoulder. It slowly crawls toward my neck, softly pushing my hair to the other side as he drifts closer. His front touches my back, his breath warm and tingly on my skin.
I shiver from head-to-toe. “That feels good,” I whisper.
He replies with a gentle kiss on my neck, his hand slowly curling around my hip to rest on my stomach.
Then, I remember what he said before, and my chest lurches. “You said something about a surprise?” I ask.
“Later,” he whispers.
“Later?”
“Soon.”
Another kiss and I chuckle. “Eventually?” I ask.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On when you want to come so hard, you see stars for the second time tonight.”
I instantly laugh as his tongue caresses my neck, tickling and teasing me. “What?” I ask.
“Jordan,” he whispers, his kiss deeper, firmer. “I want to kiss you.”
I turn my head, offering my lips. “Go ahead.”
Bronson pinches my chin. “I don’t want to kiss you here,” he says, his other hand moving from my stomach down toward my...
I inhale sharply.
“I want to kiss you here,” he says.
My spine grows taut.
“Please,” he whispers, noticing my tension. He looks me in the eye, my head still tilted toward him, our mouths still touching. “I want to feel your thighs quiver against my ears.” He kisses me, long and lingering. “I need to taste you, Jordan. Please.”
Admittedly, his words send a rush of heat through my core. A light throb grows between my thighs as his hand remains there, his fingertips drawing the line of my lips through my jeans. I lean back against his hard chest, purring beneath another deep kiss, but a spark of fear takes hold in my mind.
“I...” My voice shakes. “I don’t know.”
He pauses, releasing our kiss and moving his lips to my throat. “What are you afraid of, Jordan?” he asks. “The smell? The taste?”
“No,” I say, swallowing hard. “It just…”
“What?” he asks, curious.
My cheeks burn, but I push through to answer. “It takes too long.”
“Says who?”
“Says…” I roll my eyes. “Literally every guy I’ve ever been with.”
Bronson’s stare sharpens.
“Well, the first few, anyway,” I say in his silence. “I didn’t give the others a chance to complain.”
“Jordan.” His other arm curls around my waist and he holds me close. “You don’t have to worry about that with me.”
“I don’t?”
His chuckle is light, yet sinister. “Oh, no,” he whispers. “Doesn’t matter how long it takes.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, my stomach twisting with doubt.
His embrace tightens. “Fuck those other guys, Jordan. Don’t let them live in your head.”
I turn my body in his arms, wanting to look comfortably at him as I say, “Thank you, Bronson.”
“Relax,” he says. “You take care of us all day. Let me take care of you.”
I kiss him, feeling the heat build in my chest.
Bronson stands tall, his smile growing as he looks at me. “Do you trust me?” he asks.
I raise a brow. “I did until you had to ask.”
He chuckles and kisses my forehead. “Turn around.”
A moment’s hesitation, and then I twist forward in his arms.
After a moment, Bronson reaches a hand over my shoulder and he shows me an item curled around his fingers. It’s long and thin. Shiny and black.
“What’s that?” I ask, though I’ve read enough smut to have a pretty good idea.
“A blindfold,” he answers.
“Ah. Yeah, that’s what I thought it was. Why do you have one?”
He snorts. “Who doesn’t nowadays?”
I can’t help but smile at that as he gently pulls it taut in front of me.
“Do you trust me?” he asks again, his voice so playful.
I stare at it for a moment longer, but the answer is already on my tongue. “Yes.”
Bronson wraps the blindfold around my head. He moves slowly and gently, the fabric soft against my skin. The light grows dimmer with each layer that passes over my eyes until I find myself alone in the dark with only Bronson to guide me.
“Too tight?” he asks.
“No,” I answer.
He steps around me and takes my hands. I walk with him, trusting him to lead me without harm. In my head, I follow our trail, knowing it to lead straight toward the bed. When we arrive, Bronson releases my hands, but his touch never leaves me as he steps behind me again. Gently squeezing my shoulders, he kisses my neck. I tremble, feeling his hands slide down my arms, coming to my waist.
Bronson grips the bottom of my shirt. I raise my arms, letting him peel it off, listening to the soft sound of it crumbling onto the floor at our feet. He plucks the button open on my jeans and pushes the zipper down, forcing both hands inside. His fingers slide down my flesh and I shudder wildly in his arms, leaning my head back against him as he sucks hard on my neck.
“Fuck, you feel so good against me,” he says, his teeth etching a line in my shoulder.
My skin burns with heat as he rubs along the front of my underwear. As the cotton shifts, I feel a wet spot down there, along with the constant, slow-burning throb in my clit.
Bronson pushes my jeans down to my ankles. I step out of them, my knees shaking. As he rises, I turn around and reach for his shirt.
Bronson snatches my hands. “No, no.”
“What?”
He cups my face and kisses me. “No,” he whispers again, taking my hands and drawing me closer to him. “Relax, Jordan.” I feel the bed graze the back of my naked thighs. “Sit down.”
I obey, sinking onto the edge of the bed.
“Lay back,” he says softly. “Head on the pillows.”
I move backward, the bedspread soft beneath me. When my back touches the headboard, I lower down, blindly centering my head on a pillow.
Bronson climbs onto the bed, his weight sinking into the mattress near my legs. I feel him crawling over me, his clothing brushing my skin, sparking goosebumps across my flesh. When he reaches my face, he kisses me, his lips soft and pliable.
“Relax,” he says again.