Chapter 33
VAN
After a late supper of corn chowder and baked fish, Brodie and I fell asleep on the couch in front of the fireplace.
I woke up early the next morning with a stiff neck and an even stiffer dick.
But my rock star was still sound asleep, and I knew how rare that was. Not wanting to disturb him, I quietly got up and went for a walk on the beach to clear my head.
But not before I left Brodie a note and told him to meet me in the studio when he woke.
Despite the need to unplug from work, I’d received several notifications, so of course, I had to check. Nothing urgent, thank God.
Then, I checked out the daily media clippings from our PR team. One was flagged.
Brodie James, lead singer of Wayward Lane, is rumored to be in a romantic relationship with his manager, Ivan Cross.
Cross joined James on stage for an intimate performance at Halloween in New Orleans.
The singer and his manager were seen at the Nashville Airport a day ago, leaving for parts unknown.
James was also recently pictured with model Colm McDade.
We reached out to Wayward Lane’s PR rep, but they had no comment.
The celebrity gossip mill was churning out full force.
Then I thought back to yesterday morning. That reporter had been lying in wait in Brodie’s neighborhood at the exact time we were leaving for the airport, and I knew it wasn’t a coincidence. Someone had fed them information. And it had to be someone in our inner circle.
I glanced at my social media. I didn’t post much personal stuff, but Bandit did require every team member to have accounts to promote the artists.
There were a ton of comments, mostly from supportive fans who wanted confirmation of my relationship status with Brodie.
Jesus, can we have some time to ourselves to figure it out first?
There was also plenty of hateful bullshit from trolls. The vitriol in some of the comments were something I’d never been subjected to before. How did Brodie deal with this daily? And what would happen when we did finally come out as a couple? How bad was it going to get?
Putting my phone and anxieties aside for the time being, I enjoyed my walk and let nature do its thing.
The white noise of the ocean calmed me, but the gathering clouds in the distance looked like a storm was brewing. The waves were higher today, and they crashed into the rocks at the edge of the beach, the salt spray flying everywhere.
It was peace and chaos all at once.
A half-hour later, I was relaxed and ready to write.
I headed for the studio, and man, what a space.
White-washed walls and two big blue sofas sat under the four skylights in the main space. Brodie was not kidding when he talked about the natural light in here. It was perfect.
There was a booth for recording vocals, an editing panel, a full drum set, a keyboard, and numerous guitars. He’d replicated our studio in Nashville on a smaller scale.
Over to the left, there was a kitchen and a full bathroom.
I headed for the kitchen, popped a pod into the brewing machine, and enjoyed my first cup of coffee while watching the sun break through the thick November clouds.
With caffeinated veins, I grabbed one of the acoustic guitars off the display shelf. Then, I searched the console under the editing board and found several notebooks and pens.
Yeah, I was old-fashioned, writing everything down by hand. It had always been that way, and I didn’t question why. I’m sure I could write a hell of a lot more if I typed on my phone or a tablet, but I had my method, and it worked for me.
I sat on one of the sofas and placed the guitar in my lap.
Every songwriter had their routine, but I always started with the music first. A certain idea, a melody, would reverberate in my brain, and once I began to noodle with that on the guitar, the lyrics would flood the empty spaces.
Time seemed to slow down here, and the melody in my head was the same.
I began to hum as I played out the tune.
But it didn’t sound like I imagined it. It was too fast.
I started again, slower this time, until I got the rhythm just right.
I played it again. Then, I stopped and jotted down notes. Anything that came to mind and reflected my thoughts and feelings.
The lonesome wail of a foghorn in the distance.
The calm before the incoming storm.
Wild, reckless passion. Deep, all-consuming love.
A longing that was never satisfied. A love that defied logic.
It was a jumble at this point, but you had to start somewhere.
I strummed the guitar again, and I liked what I heard.
“It sounds great already.”
Brodie’s voice startled me, and I turned my head.
He looked rested, his eyes glowing, his face flushed. He was dressed in ripped black jeans and my Montreal Canadiens hockey t-shirt.
I found it all kinds of sexy that he was wearing my clothes. He was claiming me, and I fucking loved it.
“I didn’t hear the door open.”
There were so many things I could’ve said at that moment, but that’s what came out of my mouth.
Smooth, Van.
He smiled and sat down beside me. “I tried to be as quiet as I could so I wouldn’t interfere with the muse.”
“You can’t interfere. You’re it.” I smiled back at him, then leaned over for a kiss.
His soft, eager lips met mine, and hell, I could feast on him for days.
Brodie tasted like coffee and mint. I shoved the guitar to the side and took control of the kiss, pushing him down on the sofa and relishing in his husky moan.
“Nice shirt,” I quipped, moving my lips down to tease his neck.
“I figured you wouldn’t mind.”
“Everything I have is yours,” I said as I cupped his face and looked into his luminous eyes.
“That’s a dangerous statement. I might assume that you’re talking about more than clothes.”
“Guess there’s only one way to find out.”
Then, there was no time for talk.
Or music.
Except the pounding rhythm of our heartbeats.
We frantically removed every scrap of material that separated us as fast as we could. Shirts, jeans, and underwear went flying, scattering over the furniture and floor like confetti.
Then Brodie was lying naked underneath me, splayed out like the rock god he was. Black hair disheveled, pink lips glistening, a dappled flush running down his face and chest.
He looked at me like I was the only thing he wanted.
“You are.”
The feverish intensity shifted. Much like the melody in my head, I wanted to touch and taste and savor, to take my time undoing him. To show him that what was happening between us wasn’t just a quick fuck but a long, slow dance.
Brodie licked the palm of one hand provocatively and then slipped it around my dick, around both our dicks, rubbing them together.
God, that felt fucking unreal.
He jacked us off in smooth, practiced strokes as I teased his mouth with soft, languid kisses. Our tongues tangled, exploring, tasting.
I was obsessed with his taste, his kisses, and I wondered how I ever survived without them.
His other hand gripped my ass cheek, then gently slid down the crease. When his finger rubbed over my hole, my entire body jolted.
“Does that feel good?”
I nodded because I was too overcome with my emotions to utter a word.
All I wanted was more. More kisses and touches and, fuck yes, I wanted him to rub my hole like that again.
I’d never played with my ass, even though I was curious about things like rimming. And after having Brodie’s tongue in my ass the other night, I knew I wanted his fingers there too. Maybe even his cock.
But one step at a time.
I rolled over to straddle him and slid my larger hand over his as we jerked off together.
“Fuck, just keep touching me, Van. Don’t stop,” Brodie moaned and bit his lower lip.
I was mesmerized by the sight of our hard cocks rubbing together, pre-cum and Brodie’s saliva creating a smooth glide.
The pleasure ignited when he tapped my hole.
I swiveled my hips back and forth, unable to decide which sensation was better—the heated grip on my dick or the tormenting finger teasing the rim of my asshole.
“Table. Lube,” Brodie whispered as his hands suddenly stopped touching me. “Lie down.”
I sat back and did as he ordered, stretching out on the couch, while Brodie reached over to the coffee table beside us. He yanked on the drawer, pulled out a small tube, flicked open the cap, and poured a generous amount into his hand. He rubbed them together, and I caught the scent of vanilla.
Then he was all over me, gripping our dicks in one slick hand while the other slid underneath to torment my ass.
He kept rubbing and circling my hole, but that was it.
I needed more.
“You’re driving me insane; just do it,” I growled as I lifted my hips, encouraging him.
“Patience, honey. I want you to enjoy this. I want to make it good for you.”
A shiver rolled through me when he called me “honey.”
“Every time you touch me, it’s good. And I know what I want. Please.”
I was not above begging if I had to. But Brodie still didn’t do anything but continue to rub my sensitive rim as I panted and writhed.
Tormenting witch.
Two could play this game.
I reached down and cupped his smooth balls and rolled them in my palm, then gave a gentle tug.
This time, he was the one who jolted.
My other hand roamed over his taut stomach until I reached his nipples.
“Jesus, don’t. You know how sensitive I am there,” Brodie panted.
“Then shove your finger in my ass, or I’m going to tease your nipples until you come all over my hand.”
Brodie groaned. “Fuck, Van. You talking to me like that is so goddamn sexy.”
His callused finger pushed gently into my ass, and then I had nothing more to say.
I jolted from the sting of initial pain, but it was followed by awesome pleasure. I shuddered from the intense sensation and the knowledge that this was Brodie inside me.
He was a part of me, just like I was a part of him.
There was no uncertainty. I could ask, and Brodie would answer, and vice versa. We were partners in every sense of the word.
He drilled his finger deeper, and crooked his fingers. A pleasure I’d never felt before had every muscle in my body lighting up.
“Calisse, mon coeur, do that again,” I demanded.
“Welcome to the magic of your prostate.” Brodie chuckled as he began to finger fuck me.
Magic was the least of it.
Every time he hit that spot inside me, I was gripped by a cascade of euphoria that had my dick twitching, my toes curling, and my heart kickstarting.
What the fuck had I been missing out on?
“Maybe next time, it’ll be my cock in your ass. If that’s something you want.”
“You want that?” I panted.
“Do you?” he asked, all the while stroking my cock and fingering my ass.
“I…” I was so caught up in my body’s pleasure that I had a hard time thinking, never mind talking. “Yeah, I think so.”
“I prefer to bottom, but with you, I want to do it all. I want to possess you and, most of all, be possessed by you. I want you in every fucking way.”
The passion in Brodie’s husky voice made me shiver.
He kept up the steady pace in my ass and on my dick, and then I forgot to do anything but ride the wave of pleasure. The heated friction on my cock and the incredible fullness in my hole was suddenly too much.
I ran my hand up his chest and pinched his nipples. Brodie moaned and squirmed and lost his rhythm for a moment.
It didn’t matter. What we were making together wasn’t about perfection. It was raw and honest and real.
I wanted him the same way he wanted me—fully, completely, without question.
He leaned over and we reached for each other, kissing frantically.
I was climbing higher and higher, and I didn’t know if I would survive the implosion.
All it took was one more stroke on my dick and Brodie growling my name.
My orgasm was so intense I screamed his name in return.
I heard him cry out and felt the heat of our combined cum on my dick and my balls.
His body trembled. Or was it me? It was both of us.
This, us, was an unquenchable fire.
And I didn’t care if I got burned.