Chapter 2
Warm lips tease the sensitive skin at my nape, the sensation working its way into my dream.
I arch toward the soft caresses and moan as sure hands cup my breasts over my T-shirt. “Mmm.”
Still lost in that place between sleep and consciousness, I grind against the muscled thigh lodged between mine and curse the layers of denim and cotton between me and the pleasure the body hovering over mine brings me.
Deep male laughter vibrates behind me, the tone a combination of smoky and sexy that reminds me of whiskey by a campfire on a summer night. The spice of intoxication as it fizzes through my blood, the warmth on my skin, and the peaceful stillness that surrounds me. I drift through other hazy memories of waking up to this?—
The sting of teeth at the tendon between my neck and shoulder is like a bucket of ice water that has me scrambling from the bed.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I shout the words, frantically scanning the room for Krista.
My breathing is ragged, but my heart settles a fraction when I discover we’re alone. Ryder Powell—recently voted Sexiest Rock Star—lounges on the bed I recently vacated. His T-shirt has ridden up his stomach, displaying a set of abs I’ve traced with my tongue too many times to count. One large, calloused hand drifts to his groin to palm his erection through black denim.
The devil-may-care smirk he gives me has been known to incinerate panties from a mile away. I’ve fallen victim time and time again, but right now, rather than turning into a puddle in his presence, I grind my molars and fight the urge to slap it off his face.
“Why don’t you come back to bed, and I’ll show you, love?”
A lock of caramel-colored hair slithers across his forehead and obscures one of his green eyes. Keeping me locked in his sights, he releases his dick to push the errant piece out of his face.
I don’t watch. Fine, I do. But I try not to watch too closely. It’s hard to ignore the Greek god lounging in my bed. Dammit. Not ignoring him is what got me into this situation in the first place.
The only good defense is offense, Britt.
My brother taught me that years ago when he tried to teach me to play football, but it’s still sage advice.
I snort. “Love? What’s the matter, rock star? Can’t remember my name?”
He tilts his head back and lets out a laugh so loud it echoes through the room. The move leaves the muscles in his neck straining and causes a hint of the ink on his chest to peek from the collar of his faded black T-shirt. It’s not fair for him to look as good as he does lying there. Not when a big part of me wants to forget offense and defense and jump back into bed with him.
My body buzzes with anticipation. It knows what kind of pleasure he can give me.
Stay strong.
When he tilts his head back down, his eyes are banked with a fire that has a direct connection to my pussy.
“I thought you liked when I called you love.” His voice drops an octave on the last word, and my core throbs in response.
How many times has he echoed that term of endearment while pounding into me?
Let’s see. Multiply the number of times you’ve slept with him by the average number of orgasms he gives. Carry the four, and…
I struggle to finish the math. The number isn’t important.
Thousands.
“I have a name. I’m not interested in sharing a moniker with all the groupies you fuck,” I hiss.
One side of his mouth quirks in a smile, and my knees wobble just a little. This smile is one he reserves for few people. His family. His bandmates. Me. It’s the one that melts my insides faster than a snowball in Phoenix in summer. The damn thing has the ability to make me forget why I hate him as much as I do.
“I know your name, Brittany.” His lips caress my name like a lover. He stands from the bed in a graceful movement I’m envious of given the lack of leg room on the plane and the snug fit of my jeans I’m soon going to have to give up.
“Glad we settled that.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Now, what are you doing in my room? Where’s Krista?”
He saunters toward me, like his body is tuned to a rhythm only he can hear. Given that he’s a musician, it’s probably true. Though saunters is the wrong word to describe the way he’s approaching me. His tongue peeks out and slicks along his lips, his eyes glittering as he moves inexorably closer.
Stalks.
That’s more fitting. He stalks like he’s a predator who has spotted his prey.
And by the way his attention stays zeroed in on me, I’m his prey.
Oh, fuck.
My breathing turns shallow.
Walk away. Better yet, run. Bathroom, hallway, any public place where he won’t kiss you brainless.
Despite the commands my brain issues, my body doesn’t move. Instead, I stand still and wait for him to close the distance.
“Nothing is settled yet, Brittany.”
At the sound of my name in that deep, smoky timbre, a shiver works down my spine and desire pools in my belly. “You remembered my name.”
“Of course. But I still need to address the allegations you leveled against me.”
My stomach knots as he takes another step closer. “What allegations?”
“That I call every groupie I fuck ‘love.’”
I shouldn’t love the way his mouth forms the word fuck. My knees shouldn’t turn into quivering masses of Jell-O. Then again, if I’m listing my shouldn’ts, I shouldn’t have slept with him that first time almost nine years ago. Or any time since.
But I did.
When he comes to a stop inches from me, my breathing picks up. With each gulp of air I take in, my breasts brush his chest in a teasing caress that has me biting back a whimper.
I try to laugh off what he says, but it comes out as a strangled breath of sound. “I don’t care what you call other women.”
“There aren’t any other women,” he tells me, his green eyes boring into me as he looms over me.
This time I do manage to laugh in his face. “Yeah, right. I’m not stupid. I’ve seen you?—”
“Not since whatever this is between us really got started.”
“You’re saying I’m the only woman you’ve slept with for nine years?”
If so, he’s been alone in that. I’ve been in relationships off and on for nine years. Though we never hooked up when I was dating someone else.
As far as I know, he hasn’t been in a relationship at all, and we’ve never had any kind of monogamous agreement. This has always been an itch we scratch when I’m single.
Pretty sure you’re always single when you see him.
That little voice inside my head is a pain in the ass sometimes.
Is that a habit? Break up with your boyfriend right before you head out for a girls’ weekend and concert?
What about Joe?
Oh yeah, the guy you broke up with when you came home from a girls’ weekend where you had to turn Ryder down.
God dammit.
I’ll argue with myself later. Right now, I need to focus all my attention on keeping my panties on.
“Nine years? No. But for the last year, you’ve been it, Brittany.” He takes another step closer, backing me against the wall. “Only you.” Dipping close, he teases his nose along my jawline.
It’s hard to keep the anger boiling as his lips trace the same line until his tongue rims my ear.
“Krista told me you’re not seeing anyone,” he murmurs.
“I-I’ll just bet she did.”
I grip his biceps with my nails, holding him in place as he leisurely explores my ear and the sensitive skin of my neck with his mouth.
“She’s with my mom in my parents’ suite. She asked me to come down and get you for dinner.”
He flexes his fingers into the flesh of my hips to pull me forward while he presses his erection between us.
“Are you hungry, Brittany?”
The way his lips tease mine short-circuits my brain and nullifies the rest of the reasons why I shouldn’t indulge this. I’m starving, all right. For him.
I’d like to blame the pregnancy hormones, but this happens every time we’re within ten feet of each other. And it results in the two of us finding a way to be alone as soon as possible.
“Do you want dinner?” He slides his hands back to my ass and squeezes.
I tilt my head back, relishing the feel of his lips tracing the column of my throat down and back up. Threading my hands into the thick strands of his hair, I keep him from repeating the caress.
“I’ve always been more of a dessert first girl,” I tell him. Then I tug his mouth down to mine.